at least return his money, at which point he would receive a warning, if he was lucky, or be ejected, if he was unluckier. If he was very unlucky, and had been acting the asshole prior to taking on the jukebox, he would be ejected via the back door, and he might stumble along the way, and thus bang his head and hurt himself, which would occasion no great sense of regret on the part of anyone except himself.
Rarely were such actions necessary, though. For the most part, locals understood the nature of the bar, and non-locals rarely frequented it. Its name was not inapt, as it had no fixed identity of its own and attracted those with no particular national, sporting, or racial allegiances about which to get excited. It was owned by a Pole, managed by an Italian, and its bartenders were all mongrels, their only common denominator being their whiteness, for Woburn, Massachusetts, was ninety percent white, five percent Asian, and five percent whatever was left, and the non-white ten percent tended to give the Wanderer a wide berth. That was just the way things were, and nobody bothered to comment on it.
The Wanderer’s decor was neutral, mainly because it didn’t really have any decor, unless you counted a single cracked Budweiser mirror. Its chairs were mismatched and rested unevenly on the floor. Its tables were black and red, with faux-marble surfaces. The stools along the bar were dull steel with black vinyl seats that were last upholstered when John McNamara was still managing the Red Sox and they were bumbling along at.500, right before Joe Morgan replaced him and the team went on to win nineteen of twenty to take the AL East title, an achievement that went relatively un noticed in the Wanderer, as it didn’t have a television at the time, and still didn’t have one now. The Wanderer took no more interest in sports than it did in politics, art, culture, movies, or any other facet of existence unrelated to the act of pouring booze and receiving money for it in return. It had regulars, but beyond greeting them by name when they were so inclined none of the bartenders cared to investigate further the circumstances of their lives. For the most part, those who frequented the Wanderer came to be left alone. They didn’t care much for other people, but then they didn’t care much for themselves either, so at least they were consistent.
But it was still in business after more than forty years, because it knew its market. That market was drunks and wife-beaters. It was women a step above whoredom who’d been selling themselves for so long in return for drinks, company, and a different bed that they’d somehow managed to convince themselves that such short-term arrangements qualified as actual relationships. It was new arrivals with a one-name contact who were looking for work, and weren’t particular about the work in question, or whether a Social Security number was required, or whether or not it was entirely legal. It was workers in worn boots and checked shirts who left messages behind the bar for other men, and businessmen in cheap suits and tieless shirts who stopped by on their way to Someplace Else, or To Meet A Guy, or for some similarly vague reason that justified a temporary halt at the Wanderer.
And it was individuals like the two men who sat at the bar close to the jukebox, their jackets zipped even though it was warm inside and they were on their second beers, their backs to the barred window that looked out on Winn Street. There was a
His companion was stockier, with long black hair greased back from his forehead but cut short at the sides and back, giving him a vaguely tribal aspect. He sported a two-day growth of beard, and his right hand repetitively twisted a pack of Camels: top, side, base, side, top, side, base, side. There were two gold rings on his right hand, and one on the little finger of his left. A thick gold chain looped around his right wrist, and another around his neck, a gold cross dangling from it. There were tattoos on both of his arms, mostly hidden by the sleeves of his black leather jacket, but the dark edges of the artwork on his back were visible at the base of his neck. He wore Timberland boots, heavily scuffed, and dark blue Levis. There was scarring around the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It looked like an old burn.
His second beer was almost gone, and he was debating whether it was worth his while to order another. His name was Martin Dempsey, and his accent betrayed a life of wandering. In Irish bars, surrounded by immigrants, his many years on that side of the Atlantic found expression in his voice. Here it was less obvious, though still present in the rhythms of his speech. The other man was named Francis Ryan, and his accent was Boston Irish, with only the faintest hint of something else beneath it.
They were not regulars at the Wanderer, and nobody of their acquaintance frequented it. All Dempsey knew was that the Irish were not among its ethnic regulars, which was enough for him. It was out of town, off the beaten track. It was Elsewhere. That was precisely why they had chosen it, for there were now few places where it was truly safe for them to show their faces. The tiredness around their eyes, the strain lines around their mouths, were recent additions. These were hunted men.
‘You want another?’ said Dempsey.
‘Nah, I don’t think I’ll be able to finish this one.’
‘Why did you order it, then?’
‘Politeness. I didn’t want to see you drinking alone.’
‘But I am drinking alone, ’cause you’re not drinking at all. What’s wrong with you?’
‘I don’t like drinking too much before a job.’
‘From what I can see, you don’t like drinking after a job either. You don’t like drinking, period.’
‘I can’t handle it the way you can. Never could. The hangovers kill me.’
‘You can’t get a hangover on two beers. A child couldn’t get a hangover on two beers.’
‘Still, we have a job.’
‘A job? We don’t have a job. We’re errand boys delivering a message. A job is different. A job has purpose, and a quantifiable outcome. A job has a reward at the end of it. This is a waste of my talents.’ He corrected himself. ‘Sorry, “our” talents.’
‘Go have a smoke. It’ll kill some time.’
‘I’m trying to quit.’
‘Then why are you carrying around a pack of Camels?’
‘I said I was trying to quit. I didn’t say that I had. Anyway, do you see me smoking? No. I’m not smoking. I’m just toying with a box.’
‘It’s a thing, a, you know, a displacement activity.’
‘Where the fuck did you learn words like “displacement activity”?’
‘I’m trying to improve myself.’
‘The only way is up.’
‘Just have one, will you? Stop playing with them.’
‘Sorry,’ said Dempsey, and he meant it, but still he kept moving the pack.
Ryan looked at the clock above the bar.
‘You think that clock is right?’
‘If it is, it’s the only thing in here that’s right. Even the jukebox is crooked, and there isn’t a straight edge in the place. Fucking disgrace, is what it is.’
‘It’s old.’
‘It’s not old. Castles are old. France is old. This place isn’t old. It’s just badly built. It’s a hole. It’s worse than a hole. A hole is just empty. This is a hole with junk piled up inside it and deadbeats propping up the walls.’
‘It’s old for around here,’ said Ryan.
‘You have shares in it?’
‘No.’
‘Does your old man own it?’
‘No.’
‘Your mom turn tricks in the men’s room?’
‘No. She couldn’t make enough here to cover the cab fare.’
‘Then what’s it to you if I criticize it, especially if it’s true?’
‘It’s nothing to me.’
A couple in their late twenties at the table behind them laughed loudly and made a joke about Harvard and
