“They always say that. He could of had a wad of bubble gum, they’d swear it was a hand grenade.”
“I still say he shoulda kept his mouth shut,” said Freddie.
“You should keep yours shut,” Guitar told him.
“Hey, man!” Again Freddie felt the threat.
“South’s bad,” Porter said. “Bad. Don’t nothing change in the good old U.S. of A. Bet his daddy got his balls busted off in the Pacific somewhere.”
“If they ain’t busted already, them crackers will see to it. Remember them soldiers in 1918?”
“Ooooo. Don’t bring all that up….”
The men began to trade tales of atrocities, first stories they had heard, then those they’d witnessed, and finally the things that had happened to themselves. A litany of personal humiliation, outrage, and anger turned sicklelike back to themselves as humor. They laughed then, uproariously, about the speed with which they had run, the pose they had assumed, the ruse they had invented to escape or decrease some threat to their manliness, their humanness. All but Empire State, who stood, broom in hand and drop-lipped, with the expression of a very intelligent ten-year-old.
And Guitar. His animation had died down, leaving its traces in his eyes.
Milkman waited until he could get his attention. Then they both left, walking silently down the street.
“What is it? You looked pissed when you came in.”
“Nothing,” said Milkman. “Where can we get a drink?”
“Mary’s?”
“Naw. Too many broads hasslin you.”
“It’s just eight-thirty. Cedar Lounge don’t open till nine.”
“Shit.
“I got a taste at the pad,” Guitar offered.
“Solid. Your box working?”
“Uh uh. Still broke.”
“I need some music. Music and a taste.”
“Then it’ll have to be Miss Mary. I’ll keep the ladies working elsewhere.”
“Yeah? I want to see you tell those ladies what to do.”
“Come on, Milk. This ain’t New York; choices are limited.”
“Okay. Mary’s.”
They walked a few blocks to the corner of Rye and Tenth streets. When they passed a tiny bakery, Guitar swallowed hard and quickened his steps. Mary’s was the bar/lounge that did the best business in the Blood Bank— although each of the three other corners had a similar place—because of Mary herself, a pretty but overpainted barmaid/part-owner, who was sassy, funny, and good company for the customers. Whores worked her bar in safety; lonely drunks could drink there in peace; cruisers found chickens or hawks—whichever they preferred, even jailbait; restless housewives were flattered there and danced their heels off; teen-agers learned “life rules” there; and everybody found excitement there. For in Mary’s the lights made everybody beautiful, or if not beautiful, then fascinating. The music gave tone and texture to conversations that would put you to sleep anywhere else. And the food and drink provoked people into behavior that resembled nothing less than high drama.
But all that began around eleven o’clock. It was practically empty at eight-thirty in the evening, when Guitar and Milkman arrived. They slid into a booth and ordered Scotch and Milkman drank his up quickly and ordered another before asking Guitar, “How come they call me Milkman?”
“How the fuck would I know? That’s your name, ain’t it?”
“My name is Macon Dead.”
“You drag me all the way over here to tell me your name?”
“I need to know it.”
“Aw, drink up, man.”
“You know your name, don’t you?”
“Cut the shit. What’s on your mind?”
“I decked my old man.”
“Decked?”
“Yeah. Hit him. Knocked him into the fuckin radiator.”
“What’d he do to you?”
“Nothin.”
“Nothin? You just up and popped him?”
“Yeah.”
“For no reason?”
