In the back of the room sat Gilmore. All by his lonesome self, nursing a glass of beer. On his right leg was a cast. Scratch found that very funny. So, Scratch thought, Gilmore was the Klansman I hit with my car. That makes sense. Gilmore kept looking around nervously.
Betty and Scratch sat at the bar. The bartender asked if he could help them and Betty spoke up first.
“Rum and Coke,” she said.
The bartender did a double-take, and smiled at her. “I almost didn't recognize you,” he said. “Then you ordered rum and Coke. New look?”
Betty was embarrassed. She smiled uneasily, fluttering her eyes. “Maybe. You like it?”
“Yeah,” the bartender replied with a laugh. “Looks good on you.”
“Thanks.” Betty giggled and glanced at Scratch, who was showing slight signs of jealousy.
“You going to ask me what I want?” Scratch asked.
“Oh.” The bartender gave Scratch a sour look. “What'll you have?”
“Just a Coke.”
“A Coke? That's all?” The bartender laughed. “You know we sell alcohol here, bud?”
Scratch removed the small plastic bottle from his trench coat pocket. Popped the top off, threw his head back and swallowed five pills. He chewed each pill carefully and, the more he chewed, the wider, the crazier, his eyes got.
“Do you really think I should drink alcohol with these?” Scratch asked and laughed manically.
The bartender swallowed hard. Distress crossed his face. His eyes switched back and forth between Betty and Scratch.
“Yeah.” the bartender nodded. “I'll get that Coke and rum and Coke.”
“Are you OK?” Betty asked.
“I wasn't,” Scratch said. His wild, frantic eyes met hers. “Now I am.”
The bartender brought the drinks. He waited for payment. Scratch glared at the man.
“These are free.” Scratch was telling the bartender, not asking.
Took a second for it to register, but the bartender went with it. “Oh.” The man smiled, his jagged teeth looking like a child's drawing. “Sure, sure. Because I know Betty.”
“You don't know her,” Scratch said. “She wasn't in here today and I wasn't either. The drinks are free because you're a nice guy.”
The bartender got even more nervous. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “That's right. Good to see you, Betty.”
He left them to take care of a soldier standing at the end of the counter. The soldier ordered two beers and the bartender handed him two bottles of the Blue Ribbon.
“Go ahead and talk to Gilmore,” Scratch ordered Betty.
“Allan, maybe we should wait…”
“I said go talk to him,” Scratch said more forcefully.
Betty gave him a worried eye. She sighed and sashayed off.
The soldier started off for his table where another soldier was waiting on him.
“Hey,” Scratch called to the soldier.
“What?” The soldier asked.
“Come here,” Scratch smiled motioned with a hand.
“What do you want?” The soldier turned to Scratch. He waited for a smart comment, an insult, or an indecent proposal. He was tall and lean but with a barrel chest. His face seemed to be out of alignment, his ears didn't match, his left eye was higher than his right, and even his nostrils were disproportioned. It was as if he'd been drawn by the worst caricaturist ever to have picked up a pencil.
“Come on,” Scratch said, laughing. “Have a seat, friend. Look, I want to ask a favor that will benefit you. Monetary.”
“Speak English, mister,” the soldier said. His attitude was exactly what Scratch hoped it would be. This guy needed some relief in one form or another. More than likely his friend came to the Blue Room to pay for female companionship or start a fight.
“I've 10 bucks for you and your friend to help me out with something,” Scratch said.
“We ain't into weird shit,” the soldier returned, angrily.
“Nothing like that.” Scratch chuckled. He opened his wallet, threw a 20-dollar bill on the counter, followed by a five.
“OK, buster,” the soldier shuffled over, sat the beers on the counter and took a stool beside Scratch. “I'll listen, then decide.”
“All I'm asking is you open your ears, friend,” Scratch said.
“I hardly recognize you,” Gilmore said, grinning.
Betty giggled. “I am… sort of going through a bit of change.”
“I like it,” Gilmore said and they both chuckled. “Instead of taking those pictures, maybe you should get in front of the camera.”
Betty giggled, waved a hand. “Oh, no. Not me,” she shook her head. “I would be the worst model in the world.”
“You wouldn't be modeling anything.” Gilmore stared lecherously. He took Betty's hand in his, rubbed his thumb seductively across her fingers. “Just your body. Maybe we could go to your place and pretend – I'll be the cameraman and you be one of those models you photograph…”
“What do you think you're doing, Betty?” the soldier said.
She turned to him, then looked towards Scratch, who was hunched over at the bar, nursing a beer. He'd made sure his fedora was pulled down over his face.
“What?” Betty asked.
“The hell do you think you're doin'?” the soldier said. His buddy, a much larger, taller soldier, ambled over.
“Betty,” the soldier's buddy said in a sorrowful voice. “Why do you do this to Joe? He's been good to you.”
“I don't know either of you,” Betty said.
“My parents are expecting us for dinner and you go out lookin' for company?” The soldier raised his voice.
Gilmore stood as best he could, the cast on his leg pulling him off balance. He placed two hands on the thin, flimsy table.
“You boys heard her,” Gilmore said, sticking out his chest. “She said she doesn't know you. So if this some sort of gag, ha ha, the joke was told, nobody laughed. Shove off!”
“The only one shovin' off,” the soldier said as he and his buddy moved closer to Gilmore, dwarfing him, “is your faggot ass.”
“Is that the way they teach you fellas how to talk in the army?” Gilmore said, reaching in the right pocket of his jeans. “And in front of a lady, too!”
Betty
