He looked very young right then, the curly head of hair and eyebrows and mustache pasted on, like a kid dressing up like an adult for Halloween.
I said, “Let me tell you something, Boyd.”
“What?”
“Something’s changed with you. I don’t know what it is. Your personal life maybe. I don’t know. But unless you get back to normal.. by which I mean your normal efficient self… you and I, Boyd, we’re getting a divorce.”
Boyd sat up. Even in the dark I could see his face had gone white.
“We been together a long time, Quarry.”
“I know,” I said. “Maybe too long.”
12
Bunny’s was a bar and restaurant on the outskirts of South End, with a pizza place on one side and a Laundromat on the other, neighbors distant as well as disparate, as between them the three took up land enough for a block and a half of town. The businesses down there on the fringes of Port City were clean and mostly recent- built, and Bunny’s was no exception: a handsome darkwood single- story building, perched on a little hilly lawn with an almost absurdly large parking lot surrounding it. Long smoke- color windows fronted the street with not a solitary plastic beer sign in sight, and on both sides of the building, spotlight-lit and painted in big blue block letters, was the word Bunny’s.
It was approaching eleven-thirty when I pulled into the lot which had seemed oversize to me when I drove by that afternoon but right now was jampacked. I had no easy time finding a parking place and settled for one a good walk from the door and counted myself lucky. As I neared the building I heard rock music faintly and then the door opened and as some people came out so did the music, loud but not too loud and well-played by a live combo of drum-bass-guitar.
I was relieved to hear rock rather than country western, and not from my being a supporter or detractor of either cause, but because my experience has been that rock bars run to fewer fights than country western. I don’t really know why. It almost seems the more violent the music, the less violent the crowd. And with the rock bar’s younger patrons you’ll sometimes find a moderate amount of parking lot pot-smoking going on which can make for a scattering of sleepy happy people who seem to spread gentle, passive vibrations through a crowd; in a country bar a similar scattering of drunken unhappy people can send a wave of irritation through a crowd that can result in anything from a scuffle to a brawl.
Which was why when I’d driven around town this afternoon, I kept my eyes open for a place like Bunny’s. A place where I could sit and drink and get quietly drunk and maybe pick up some broad who didn’t have hair sprayed into a style that died in 1961 everywhere else but Iowa.
Wouldn’t have done to choose too high class a bar, either, like the hotel cocktail lounge or something of that sort. Too much chance I could get cornered by some Port City V.I.P. who might get friendly about why-ya-in-town and what-business-ya-in, or worse yet, some Chamber of Commerce smiler full of talk/shit. None of that would do. I wanted to be invisible.
Like my mark was invisible. Like Albert Leroy. That was his name, the mark. Albert Leroy. The man who wore a gray sweater in the summer and got his rocks off watching a Little League ballgame at the park and drinking a soda at the drugstore.
It didn’t make sense, it didn’t make fucking sense. Invisible people nobody wants to kill. Sometimes-like in my case-you get invisible because you want nobody to notice you. But other guys are born that way. Other guys the doctors yank from the womb and can’t see an ass to slap.
This was working on my mind as I walked into Bunny’s. This and the way Boyd was acting, the little things out on the edges of the way Boyd was behaving, the little things out on the borders of the job that made no logical sense.
But sometimes there isn’t anything you can do about a situation. Except forget about it. And go out and get drunk. Or laid. Or both. And hopefully that was what I’d get done at Bunny’s.
Bunny’s was two establishments masquerading as one. Two very different dens of iniquity shared a common roof and served two crowds who peacefully coexisted, thanks to having the bar half in the front of the building, where everything was smoky windows and rock music and laughter and noise, and the quiet cocktail lounge- restaurant area in the back half, separated by a little anteroom that housed joint toilet facilities for both worlds and kept the loudness of the bar out of the lounge and included a side entry for those who wished to totally avoid exposure to the rougher element.
But my first impression was of the bar section, which served that younger, wilder set, with the rock band playing against the wall to my left on a postage-stamp platform in front of a postage-stamp dance floor that was full of moving bodies, with chairs and tiny tables and people all bunched close in listening to the combo and swilling down beer. Everyone was dressed casually, almost sloppy in a careless, campus sort of way, blue jeans everywhere you looked, and the only person in the room who didn’t fit the college-age, college-look was the blonde.
The blonde was sitting in the corner, with a table to herself next to the stage, her eyes on the drummer of the rock combo. She’d been given more breathing room than anyone else around, perhaps out of respect to her beauty. Turned-up nose, flashing white teeth, long-lashed big blue eyes. Hair white blond and patently unreal but beautiful in a plastic sort of way. Stacked but petite. The best overall-one-word description for her was “cute,” but she bore her cuteness in an aloof, almost disdainful way. She was smoking and wearing a dark blue pants suit, the top half of which was folded across her lap and a fuzzy baby blue short-sleeve sweater caressed her bosom; that she wasn’t wearing a bra was obvious, as her nipples were showing through and it was like her breasts were thumbing their noses at all the men in the room. She had a worldliness about her; a subtle hardness in the unlined face that let you know she was older than she at first appeared, that she was a broad over thirty stuck with a lovely but incongruous sixteen-year-old Lolita of a face.
I wanted her.
But then so did every other man in the place, and some of the women too, I supposed. I shrugged to myself and looked around and saw the sign over the double push doors to the left of the bar saying, “To Bunny’s Lounge.” I walked through the doors and into the anteroom and on to the lounge, and it was like walking into another dimension.
The lounge was all reds and browns, the lights low and red-tinted, the walls brown-paneled wood, the carpet a lush, soft red, soft to look at, soft to walk on. The tables in here were just as small but far more spread out, and set mostly for two, occasionally for four. An intimate room, for couples who wanted to be by themselves, maybe eat a quiet meal, sip a few drinks before slinking off to bed somewhere. There were a couple of couples going through such preliminaries right now. Otherwise I had the place to myself.
The kitchen was off to the back, and was probably nothing lavish. Anyway the menu wasn’t, just a modest assortment of steaks, a few seafoods, a few sandwiches, all priced medium to medium high. The hostess, a pretty brunette in a dark pants suit, informed me when she seated me that it was too late in the evening to get a dinner, and nothing was now being served but sandwiches and of course cocktails. I ordered an open face steak sandwich that came with french fries and iced tea and also ordered a gimlet.
I took my time with the food, enjoying the music that was being piped in, Ramsey Lewis-type low-key jazzy Muzak, and only faintly could I hear the pulse of the rock going on in the other room. I sipped my gimlet and then sipped three more and I was feeling good when I left.
Back in the anteroom I stood in my happy glow and happened to notice the wall facing me. I hadn’t seen it when I first came through, as it had been to my back, but the wall was covered by framed pictures. I studied them and realized why the place was called Bunny’s. The pictures were of a pretty, well-built blonde greeting people at the door of one of the Playboy Clubs, with one double-frame showing off two pages from an old Playboy, from one of their “Bunnies of Chicago” spreads. The pretty blonde was in two pictures at the bottom of the double-page spread, one of them in her Bunny threads greeting, another a discreet nude pose, with the girl in bed, mostly covered and wrapped in pink sheets, though one exposed breast, also pink, peeked out at the side. The write-up between the pictures described the blonde as “Pert Peg Baker, cornfed gal from Port City, a dot on the Iowa map,” and went on to say the twenty-year-old girl had gone to high school and junior college in her home town, then trekked to the big
