Fordham Road in the Bronx. His billed cap advertised Old Milwaukee beer.
To me he said, 'Game of darts? Not for money, I'm too strong a player, but just to pass the time.'
'I don't even know how to play.'
'You try to get the pointed end into the board.'
'I'd probably hit the fish.' There was a fish mounted on the wall above the dart board, and a deer's head off to one side. Another larger fish was mounted above the back bar, it was a sailfish or marlin, one of the ones with a long bill.
'Just to pass the time,' he said.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd thrown a dart, and I hadn't been good at it then. Time had by no means improved my skills. We played a game, and as hard as he worked to look bad, I still didn't come out looking good. When he won the game in spite of himself, he said,
'You're pretty good, you know.'
'Oh, come on.'
'You've got the touch. You haven't played and your aim's not sharp, but you've got a nice light wrist. Let me buy you a beer.'
'I'm drinking Coca-Cola.'
'That there is why your aim's off. The beer relaxes you, lets you just think the dart into the board. The black stuff's the best, the Guinness.
It works on your mind like polish on silver. Takes the tarnish right off.
That do you, or would you rather have a bottle of Harp?'
'Thanks, but I'll stay with Coke.'
He bought me a refill, and another black pint for himself. He told me his name was Andy Buckley. I gave him my name, and we played another game of darts. He foot-faulted a couple of times, showing a clumsiness he hadn't revealed when he was practicing. When he did it a second time I gave him a look and he had to laugh. 'I know I can't hustle you, Matt,' he said. 'You know what it is? It's force of habit.'
He won the game quickly and didn't coax when I said no to another. It was my turn to buy a round. I didn't want another Coke. I bought him a Guinness, and had a club soda for myself. The bartender rang
the 'No Sale' key and took money from my stack of change.
Buckley took the stool next to mine. On the television screen, Errol Flynn was winning De Havilland's heart and Reagan was being gracious in defeat. 'He was a handsome bastard,' Buckley said.
'Reagan?'
'Flynn. In like Flynn, all he had to do was look at them and they wet their pants. I don't think I've seen you here before, Matt.'
'I don't come around very often.'
'You live around here?'
'Not too far. You?'
'Not far. It's quiet, you know? And the beer's good, and I like the darts.'
After a few minutes he went back to the dart board. I stayed where I was. A little later the bartender, Tom, glided over and topped up my glass of soda water without asking. He didn't take any money from me.
A couple of men left. One came in, conferred with Tom in an undertone, and went out again. A man in a suit and tie came in, had a double vodka, drank it right down, ordered another, drank that right down, put a ten-dollar bill on the bar, and walked out. This entire exchange was carried out without a word from him or the bartender.
On the television set, Flynn and Reagan went up against Raymond Massey's version of John Brown at Harper's Ferry. Van Heflin, rotten little opportunist that he was, got what was coming to him.
I got out of there while the credits were rolling. I scooped up my change, put a couple of bucks back on the bar for Tom, and left.
Outside, I asked myself what the hell I'd thought I was doing there.
Earlier I'd been thinking of Eddie, and then I'd looked up and found myself in front of the place he'd been afraid to get near. Maybe I went in myself in order to get a sense of who he'd been before I knew him.
Maybe I was hoping for a peek at the Butcher Boy himself, the notorious Mickey Ballou.
What I'd found was a ginmill, and what I'd done was hang out in it.
Strange.
I called Willa from my room. 'I was just looking at your flowers,'
she said.
'They're your flowers,' I said. 'I gave them to you.'
'No strings attached, huh?'
'No strings. I was wondering if you felt like a movie.'
'What movie?'
