– Naw, not yet. He'll be in later.
– You see him first, don't tell him I'm looking.
Billy nods his head.
– Sure thing. He owe ya money, something?
– Something.
– Well look, guy owes
– I ain't got a tab here, I pay for my drinks.
– That's right. Get my cash an I'll see ya ain't got no tab the next month or so. Everythin' onna house. Even the top shelf, you start ta feelin' fancy.
– I'll see what I can do.
Billy puts out his hand to shake, then slides back down the bar to work on a little number sporting the inevitable Betty Page cut and fishnets. I check her out. Nice package, round ass peeking over the edge of the stool, low-cut vintage dress with pale white cleavage pushed up out of a red lace bra. Billy makes out well with that kind of action. Hell, Billy makes out well with most kinds of action. Just one of those guys. Me, I haven't had a woman in over twenty-five years. Fooled around some, sure, but the whole deal I haven't had in about a quarter of a century. Long story. I look at the number's ass again then look away. I don't need to do that. I want to torture myself I can call Evie later.
I sip my cheap booze and smoke Luckys and watch the crowd build. Around ten they open the back room and I move there. All the time I'm thinking I should be out looking for the carrier. Instead I'm here in greaser heaven watching all the wannabes compare their latest Sailor Jerry knockoff tattoos while they try to hook up with chicks in vintage dresses and sling-back pumps. I'm here because the only damn lead I maybe have on the carrier is Philip. The toad knows something and I'm gonna get it out of him.
Just before eleven the cocktail waitress drifts over and tries to hand me a fresh drink. I look at the glass she's holding and shake my head.
– I didn't order anything.
– Yeah, I know.
She puts the glass in my hands.
– It's from Billy.
She nods at the little napkin under the glass.
– I think he likes you.
I look at the napkin. It has a note written on it:
– What?
– You know, you should put something on your face for that burn.
– Great, thanks for the tip.
She snorts.
– Yeah, thank you for the tip, too.
She starts to walk away and I put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off.
– Easy, bruiser.
– Yeah easy. Wait a sec.
I dig in my pocket and come up with a few twenties and put one on her tray.
– That's for the delivery service. You know a tall skinny guy named Philip, hangs out here?
– Sure.
– He just came in, right?
– Yeah, he's in the crowd up by the door.
I drop another twenty on her tray.
– Do me a favor; take the guy a drink, one of those fancy Scotches is what he likes. Tell him it's from a chick back here, she wants him to come say hi.
She looks at the money.
– What do I tell him if he asks who she is?
– Tell him she's the one with the Betty Page haircut.
She heads over to the bar. I peek over the crowd and see Philip's pomp towering over the crowd. His hair is bleach blond, piled about ten inches high into a cliff that sticks out half a foot beyond his forehead. I see the cocktail waitress walk away from the bar with a McSomethingorother on her tray. She maneuvers through the press of bodies till she reaches Philip. His pompadour dips as he listens to what she has to say. She points in the direction of the back room and he starts to pick his way over. Someone steps out of the bathroom. I quickly pop in and stand just inside, the door half-open. A guy tries to crowd in.
– Occupied.
He looks at me standing there clearly not using the can for its intended purpose.
– C'mon, man, I got to take a leak.
– Go piss in your shoe, Jack.
He opens his mouth to say something else and I take a step toward him. I stand six three and go two hundred and change. He lines up for the ladies' room. Just then Philip sashays by looking around for whatever kind of chick would be buying him a drink. I grab a fistful of his pink Rayon shirt with a black cat motif, drag him into the John and kick the door closed. He spills his Scotch and stares at it on the floor.
– What the fuck!
Then he looks up and sees that it's me.
– Oh, Joe. Jesus, Joe, what happened to your face, man?
And I start twisting his neck, trying to decide if I should pop his head off.
The thing is, it's not as easy to pop off someone's head as you might think. I settle for forcing his face into the toilet bowl and flushing it a couple times. He comes up gasping.
– The hair, man, the hair!
I slam him against the wall.
– That the only thing on your mind, Phil, your hair?
– Why would I have anything on my mind, Joe? You know me, I don't like to think, it just gets me in trouble.
– You got that right, buddy. Hey, I ever thank you for that call this morning?
He looks a little confused at my change in tone.
– Uh, no, no you didn't.
– Well, hell, that was sure inconsiderate of me.
I reach in my pocket, grab a few bills and tuck them into the breast pocket of his shirt.
– Well thanks, Joe, but you don't gotta do that.
Automatically, he has pulled a comb out of the back pocket of his painted-on black jeans and started to poke at his hair, trying to resculpt it.
– No, I do. I owe you one there. That was good looking out, letting me know the heat was on like that. Too bad I got a call from uptown just about a second later.
His hands are on automatic pilot, crawling over the gooey mound on top of his head.
– Yeah? Sorry I couldn't give you more of a lead there.
– Ya know the real drag about all this, Phil?
– Aw, man, don't call me Phil, ya know I hate it.
– You're right. Philip. I'm sorry. Ya know the real drag about this, Philip?
He's got one hand above his head holding the pomp in place while his Other hand digs in his back pocket for his can of pomade. He's staring straight up so he can keep an eye on the overhang while the restoration continues.
– Naw, man, what's the real drag?
I grab a huge greasy handful of his hair and jerk him up onto his tiptoes.
– It's the way they made me crawl up there in the middle of the day. The way Dexter Predo knew all about the carrier when I hadn't told anyone but you. The way you called me first thing when you heard about the mess, like
