“You wrote ninety-two hundred, Andre. And Johnny did just over ten thousand.”
“Got damn,” Malone said, jumping up and half-spinning. “That last motherfucker was the only customer I had all day that walked on my ass. I would’ve had you too.”
“You had a day, Andre,” McGinnes said, and slapped Malone’s hand. Malonehanhad you tYou too, Nick. We all did.”
Lloyd, wearing a nylon windbreaker and galoshes, waved good-bye to us, and left the store with Louie, who locked the door behind him. Minutes later he was back from Mr. Liquor and marching down the aisle with a case of Tuborg cradled in his arms.
“Here,” he said, breaking the cans off the plastic rings and passing them around. “I don’t care who the top man was today. Everybody smoked.”
For the next hour we sat there, our ties loose at the collar, and killed the case of beer. Malone’s cigarette smoke hovered around us as we told war stories of the day that became increasingly more dramatic with every beer. When the last empty hit the trash can, McGinnes suggested we shut down and walk up the Avenue to La Fortresse, a bar that he childishly insisted on calling “La FurPiece.”
The wind and rain were against us as we crossed the street and headed up the east side of the block. Louie and Malone were ahead, trying to keep up with McGinnes as he motored up the slight incline. Lee huddled in as I turned up the collar of my jacket and put my arm around her shoulder.
La Fortresse was an alky bar with a French name and medieval decor that was owned and run by a Turk. It was one of the few bars in town that served a rocks glass full with liquor with a miniature mixer on the side. There was only one reason to come here, and that was to crawl deep into the bag.
A few old heads turned when Lee and I walked in, then returned to their drinks and the welterweight bout on the tube. We walked along the bar to the back room, which housed a piano, and where McGinnes, Malone, and Louie were already seated. The antique farm implements that hung on the wall resembled torture devices circa the Inquisition.
An easel holding an art card stood at the entranceway to the room, announcing the “Piano Interpretations of the Fabulous Buddy Floyd.” Around Mr. Floyd’s name were glitter drawings of a champagne bottle, bow tie, and several musical notes. We entered and sat with the others at a large corner table with a curved leatherette seat molded into the wall.
Presently a woman with an intoxicatingly crooked smile arrived to take our order. She had beautifully textured dark skin and spoke with a Caribbean accent.
Lee ordered an Absolut and tonic with a twist; I had an Old Grand-Dad, Malone took Courvoisier with a side of coke, and McGinnes asked for rail scotch with water. Louie ordered a draught.
“Make mine a double, honey,” McGinnes said to the waitress as she began to walk away.
“They’re all doubles,” she said patiently.
“I know that, sweetheart. Just joking.”
The drinks came and we toasted the day. The liquor was filled to the top of the heavy tumblers. I took a deep pull off the bourbon, one that ironed the dampness from my shirt.
McGinnes and Malone were building something with matches and straws on the table. Louie sat to my right and we listened to Lee tell us about the courses she was taking at A as nes aU and her plans for after college. Her arm was through mine, and she was refreshingly unconcerned about Louie’s awareness of our relationship.
The waitress returned and we all ordered another round. McGinnes had not used any of his water to cut the scotch. Lee excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
“She’s all right, you know?” Louie said, leaning in towards me as if we were conspirators.
“Yeah, I know. She’s cool.”
“Don’t mess her up, man. When you have a young lady like that,” he said, his hand cupped as if he were holding her in his palm, “you don’t mess with it.”
“Shit, Louie, give me more credit than that. Anyway, she already told me what was what.”
“I bet she did,” he said, smiling. “Her shit is more together than yours, man. And she’s ten years younger.”
The waitress brought our round. I took a sip and watched Louie down half his mug in one gulp.
“I’m a product of my generation, Louie. I guess it was all those Thoreau posters my junior-high hippie English teachers used to hang on the wall. ‘March to a different drummer,’ and all that. How many guys my age you read about, they’re making a shitload of money, they decide to quit because they’re not ‘happy.’”
“I don’t know whose product it is,” Louie said, “but you’re right. Now the kids coming up, Lee’s age, they know what they want.”
“Like Ric Brandon?”
“Brandon’s an asshole,” he said, waving his hand. “You know what I mean. For instance, man, you don’t mind my saying so, I been knowing you a long time. And you did a helluva job today. But, Nick, you fuckin’ up.”
“How so?”
“You sweat your ass off moving stock, you come up through the ranks in sales, you put yourself through college to get to that management position you’re in, now you act like it don’t mean nuthin’.” He got right up in my face. “What’s goin’ on with you, man?”
“I don’t know, Louie. I just can’t convince myself anymore that what I do is important.”
“Important? Come on, man, wake up. Where in the world did you get the idea that the work you do in life has to be important?” He took a swig of beer. “Let me tell you something, man. When I was young-you don’t even remember the D.C. I’m talkin’ about-this town was split black and white for real. I couldn’t sit with you like this in a bar and have a beer. In the early sixties I went to work in the old Kann’s department store downtown, and when the riots went down, they had no choice but to make me department manager.”
Lee came back and sat next to me. We all had some of our drinks, and Louie continued.
“Well, you know they went out of business like everybody else down there. But I got hired as agotfont manager at Moe’s on New York Avenue. A couple of years later Moe died, his kids took over the business, and they went belly-up too. Then Nathan’s put me on as assistant manager over in Arlington. It was rough for a while, but I hung with it and eventually they give me this store.” He finished his draught and put it loudly on the table. “So I come a long way from the Colored Only section of this town to where I’m at. I don’t just work here. I’m the manager of a store on Connecticut Avenue, understand what I’m sayin’? I own a house and every three years I buy a new ride. I got me a kid at Maryland, one at UDC.” He paused and stared me down. “You want to know what’s important.”
A small man with a heavily veined nose wearing a tuxedo that fit like an afterthought walked into the room. He sat at the piano and placed his highball glass filled with straight liquor on a coaster.
“Welcome,” he said into the mike, “to La Fortresse.”
“It’s La FurPiece,” McGinnes shouted, and Lee jabbed me in the ribs.
“My name is Buddy Floyd,” the man said, and began indelicately playing the piano intro to “Tie a Yellow Ribbon.” With each chorus he turned his head in our direction and nodded in encouragement for us to sing along.
Mercifully, others began filing into the room, older couples overdressed for this joint and out for their idea of a night on the town. Most of them were half-lit, and some of the women were elderly enough to be losing their hair, their pink scalps visible through their bouffants. For some reason I felt a tinge of sadness and kissed Lee on the cheek. Buddy Floyd was singing “They Call the Wind Maria.”
“I’m pretty buzzed,” Lee admitted, finishing her second vodka.
“So am I. You want to go?”
“Yes,” she said. “Can we stay together tonight?”
“Sure. But let’s go to my crib, okay?”
“Okay,” she laughed. “But aren’t you a little big for a crib?”
We settled up by leaving a twenty on the table. Lee kissed Louie good-bye. Malone, who was whispering something to our waitress, looked up long enough to give us a wink.
McGinnes was behind the piano, one arm around an older woman with raven black hair in the shape of a football helmet, his other hand clutching a precariously tilted tumbler of scotch. He and the others grouped around the piano were laughing and singing along loudly to the Fabulous Buddy Floyd’s interpretation of “Hello, Dolly.”
At the district line I stopped for a bottle of red wine, then headed towards my apartment. We sat in the car in
