Zelda vowed to stay late one night and carve up all the shoes she could find in Boar Face’s office.
“They are pretty crappy words,” she said.
“You admit that?” Boar Face pawed the ground, already tasting Zelda’s flesh.
“Well sure. Those idiots around here have never done anything creative. The whole campaign is off.”
Boar Face lowered her ridiculous shoes and walked around the front of the desk, fussing with her short blonde hair. “My campaign?”
She’d be cleaning fish by the end of the day. “It should be more personal. I wanted to give the salmon personality.”
“Personality? Like a person?”
“Except like a fish. But Mr. Pietro said no.”
“Pietro,” Boar Face nearly spat the name. Pietro, the boss. Pietro, a simpleton. Pietro, who made four times her salary when she went to the University of Pennsylvania. “What did he say, exactly?”
“I don’t know, exactly.”
“You don’t remember what your bosses say?”
“I don’t pay that close attention.”
Boar Face snorted. “Try to remember.”
“I had sketches of salmon as kind of people, so we could show an organic community. Mr. Pietro didn’t want happy salmon in evening clothes dancing. Something like that.”
Boar Face perked up. “Do you still have those sketches?”
“I save everything.”
“But you don’t pay attention to your bosses.”
“Well no.” Zelda frowned, puzzled by the repeated question. “I would if they said something interesting.”
• • • •
MOOSHIE POPPED SOME nuts onto her curled tongue, avoiding her reflection in the glistening mirror behind the bar. Her purple eyeliner was set off by rouge cheekbones and bold red lipstick suggesting her mouth would leap off at any minute. The official honeymoon night kits still used the whore makeup, she thought, rolling her eyes. All girls at fifteen got one; boys at the same age, along with shaving and grooming needs. Nice of Zelda to lend me hers along with the cheap-ass jewelry and sweater three sizes too big. Maybe two, Mooshie grunted unhappily. Gotta find some real clothes. I am Mooshie Lopez.
“What can I get you, ma’am?” Jimmy leaned on his elbows.
“Schaeffer Ale.”
Monroe frowned. “Ma’am?”
“You don’t serve that anymore?”
“For like thirty years.”
Next time just order what’s on tap. Mooshie selected an IPA from Jersey City. Jimmy poured and wandered away down the bar.
“Excuse me, bartender.”
Monroe came back, wiping the counter, which couldn’t gleam any brighter.
“You still got live entertainment?”
He gestured at the large black speakers hanging from the four corners of the ceiling. “Just the tapes and if there’s ever something on the musicvid. With the new crap they play, mainly the tapes. Can’t beat real rock and roll.” Jimmy thoughtfully wiped away the circle near her glass. “But you’re right. They used to, long before I bought the place.”
“When was that?”
His eyes retreated suspiciously.
“I’m not a cop.” Mooshie tapped her eyes and pointed at his. Monroe kept his cold stare. “I’m a singer prowling the neighborhood to see who might want a hot crooner. You interested?”
“No thanks.”
“Brings in business.”
“I make enough.” Jimmy caught her glance around the nearly empty bar. “It’s early.” Grumbling, Jimmy left to serve a forlorn old man. Mooshie slid onto the adjoining stool.
“How are you, sir?” she asked the wizened old guy, who muttered into his shot glass. “Bet you remember when Monroe’s had live music?”
“Don’t remember nothing.” He downed the drink, smacking his lips. Mooshie gestured for Jimmy to refill; the man smiled gratefully.
“My mother told me there was a small stage over there.” She pointed near the foosball table. “They had great acts, top names would pop in suddenly and gig it up. Nellie Charles, Monte D’Ang, Big Bob Button, John Griebel, The Seafarers.”
The old-timer took his whiskey to a table.
Jimmy smirked. “That one of your fans?”
“I’m more charming with a microphone.”
Jimmy yanked the plug on the music, muted the vidnews about the upcoming National Spelling Bee in Des Moines and reached behind the cash register, handing her the microphone. “Charm me.”
“Any requests?” she asked.
Jimmy folded his arms skeptically.
Mooshie balanced on her left hand and hopped easily onto the bar. Jimmy stepped back, surprised by her agility.
“Thank you everyone.” Mooshie reclined on one hip, draping her legs over the bar. “Good to be back at Monroe’s. This hunky behind the bar asked me to sing a song for the late morning crowd. Here’s one from that great singer, Mooshie Lopez. One of her best. Love Her or Love Me.”
She took a deep breath and sang softly:
“When the heart goes still
All’s I have is my will
Don’t give me your shit, man
Love her or love me.”
The old man’s eyes lit up, slowly standing as if strings were attached to his ears.
Mooshie picked up the tempo:
“You went down on your knees
And bled your palms into peas
Don’t give me your shit, man
Love her or love me.”
The old man started tapping his feet and clapping his hands. Mooshie hopped off the bar, blasting it out.
“You lied and you lied
For the love you revived
Don’t give me your shit, man
Love her or love me.”
Mooshie ran her hand along the old-timer’s bald head, her voice dipping seductively.
“Cause I can love for a day
Or a lifetime, just say okay
Just don’t give me your shit, man
Love her or love me.”
The old man applauded wildly, whistling so hard he nearly shot his teeth across the bar.
Mooshie returned the microphone. “I’ll work for vodka until you’re sure.”
Jimmy searched her. “Law says I gotta give you something.”
“If you insist. One more thing. You let my friends Ty and Mick back in.”
The bartender’s wisps of hair swayed. “Damn bums nearly wrecked the joint fighting.”
“Because they were bored by the music, hot buns.” Mooshie smiled. “I promise they’ll be chaperoned.”
Jimmy reluctantly nodded. Mooshie glanced out the window.
“Last request. Got any idea where I can get a Lifecard? I lost mine.”
• • • •
DIEGO ACTED VERY professionally as he helped Zelda up
