More Than Shady

So, what's the catch? Let me say this right up front, I ain’t no saint. And my morals run in the grey area. But I’ve never killed anyone, and I’ve been off the police blotter since I was a teenager. I own a nice little bar in the East End and have no intentions of losing my license to operate.

Sure, some pretty shady characters come in, but I serve them drinks, that’s all. I keep my nose out of their business and keep my ears shut. That way, if the cops ask, I can tell them nothing because I know nothing. It’s better for me, it’s better for them, and it’s better for business.

As I said, it’s a nice bar. In the old days, it was a gentlemen’s-only place. Boy, that wouldn’t fly today, uh? This joint is beautiful! It has the original oak paneling with some of the old sporting prints still on the wall! You know, like Babe Ruth and Seabiscuit, stuff like that. It also has a big cut-glass and frosted mirror. On each side of the mirror are staggered shelves for bottles of booze. The high-priced stuff is on the top shelve, and the cheap stuff is on the lower shelves. Most customers order drinks from the middle two shelves, and I have plenty of beer. The bar itself is made from fine mahogany with a brass footrail.  The ceiling is tin with a couple of fans hanging down, and the lights on the walls all have little green lampshades that make the lighting subdued. In the back is an old kitchen but I don’t use it. Though someday, I might buy some panini toasters and offer warm sandwiches. I don’t know, I’ll see.

So, tonight is just your average night—a bunch of the usuals sitting around chatting and drinking before going home. I’m behind the bar filling orders for my waitress, Alice, and tending to the bar customers. Behind me, the radio is playing just loud enough to be heard. It’s seventies music because that’s what I like.  

Everything is going smoothly until I look up and see trouble waltzing through the door. It’s Nick Grim. I’ve known him since grade school and never could stand his guts. He’s a swindler, cheat, a liar— an all-out weasel. The last time I spoke to him, he was trying to get me to invest in a scheme to do “slant drilling” under the U.S. border into Mexico for oil! I mean, come on! I told him to get lost and not to come around here with that kind of shit anymore. But here he is, big as life and acting like we’re old friends.

“Hey, Ralphie! How ya doin’, my friend? Long time no see, uh?”

“Yeah. That’s because I threw you out of here. And don’t call me Ralphie. My name is Buddy, just like the sign over the door,” Buddy’s Bar.” “

“Ah, come on, will ya? Are you still mad about that Mexico thing? I’m sorry, alright, I’m just here for a drink and to see how your doin’, that’s all.”

“To see how I’m doing? Look, you’re always up to something, you sleazeball. And it’s not just Mexico. How about the time you tried to get me involved in buying mini cars from China for resale here in the U.S.? You didn’t even have a foreign buyer’s license, tax code, or anything! So what’s the catch this time, to import monkeys to wash cars? Never mind, I don’t even want to know!”

“Hey, that monkey idea is cool. I might look into that. Just kidding. Come on, will ya Ral-Buddy? I stopped in just to say hi and have a drink. That’s all, honest.”

I stare at him for a second wondering how he can even pronounce the word honest before saying, “ Okay. One drink, and you’re gone, got it?”

“Sure, sure, anything you say, my friend.” I slam down the shot glass in front of him and, in a firm tone, say, “I’M NOT YOUR FRIEND!” and pour him a shot of Maker’s Mark. I see a glint in his eye as he smiles.

“If I’m not your friend, then how is it you remember my favorite drink?”

“Because I’m a good bartender, that’s why. I remember everybody’s favorite drink. That’s what keeps them coming back. Now drink yours.”

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He’s sitting there all casual-like, sipping his drink and looking around. Man, he even looks like a weasel. He’s tall, about six-four, and really thin. He has a hatch face with small little beady eyes and a sharp nose, and when he smiles, it looks like he is definitely up to no good, and he is smiling now.

“This is a really nice place you got here, Buddy. Real nice.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. Then, after a brief pause, he says, “Do you know that almost all the cell phones in the world come from India?”

“Don’t start! I don’t want to hear no bullshit about cell phones!” Grim leans back, throwing his hands out to the sides.

“What? I’m just trying to have a conversation, that’s all.” He turns to the man beside him and asks, “Ain’t that what people do, a little talk, a little chit chat?”

“Don’t talk to Mr. Blake. He doesn’t like talking.” Grim looks at Blake like I’m lying and asks Blake, “Is that true?”

Mr. Blake sighs heavily and takes out his wallet. He pulls out a five and places it on the bar saying, “See you tomorrow, Buddy,” as he shoots Grim a look and leaves.

“Now look what you’ve done! You just don’t know how to keep your big mouth shut!” I see Grim eyeing the fin, and I snatch it up fast.

“Buddy, come on. I just wanted to tell you a story. I met this guy from India, a brilliant guy with a master’s from MIT in engineering. He works for one of these cell phone assembly places. He tells me how he would like to start a place like that but doesn’t have the cash.”

I lean on the bar and ask, “First, how does someone like you even meet a person from MIT? Second, if he’s so damn brilliant, why doesn’t he go to the bank and take out a loan?” Grim looks at me like I’m stupid or something.

“It ain’t that easy. The bank wants to be sure you’re a good investment for them and wants collateral to back up the loan. So my friend needs to buy a building before they give him the loan, ya see?”

I lean a little closer. “So, what’s the catch? Is it that I’m supposed to give you x number of dollars, and you give them to the Indian guy who, in turn, buys a plant and starts making cell phones, and we all get rich? Is that the catch? Because if it is, it ain’t going to happen.” Grim’s breaking out in a sweat.

“Buddy, please!” he begs. “ It’s one hundred and fifty g’s. You owe me that. You know you do!”

I snarl, “I owe you shit!”  Just then, two goons wearing Robert Hall suits enter the bar. Watching the two, I notice the short one tap the goon in front of him on his shoulder and gesture with his chin toward Grim. Then, when the big guy spots Grim, he smiles and shifts the toothpick he’s chewing to the side of his mouth. The two walk up to Grim’s stool and stand one on each side.

“Well, hello there, Mr. Grim. We finally meet. You know we’ve been looking all over the city for you, right?” Grim is staring straight ahead, shaking like a leaf in the wind, as they talk to him in the mirror.  I secretly slip my hand under the bar and take hold of my 38.

“Look, you two,” I say, “ I don’t appreciate you guys coming here and stirring up trouble.” The big guy smiles as he says, “Oh, we’re not here to stir up trouble, Sir. Trouble has already been stirred up by Mr. Grim here. He owes us money, and my boss sent us to get it back or the equivalent, if you know what I mean.” 

Grim starts to crack under all the pressure and begins yelling, “You guys got the wrong man! It ain’t me you want! It’s him!” Grim says, pointing the finger at me. “He told me he needed some dough to buy this dump and asked if I could get it for him. He promised to pay it right back, but he never did. So believe me, it’s Ralphie you want. He’s got your money!”  The big guy continues grinning.

“Is that true? You’re the one who got our money like he says?”

“Nah. I tell you, I worked my ass off for ten years, living on ramen noodles and tap water so I could save every penny to buy this place. I never asked him to get me a loan. Why would I? Now, let me ask you something. Where are you guys out of, the Hartford district?”

“Yeah, what’s it to ya?” He seems a little threatening. So I scratch my face by my eye and pout a little.

“Well, it doesn’t matter to me at all, but I think it might to the man in the last booth down there. Am I right, Mr. Accardi?” The smile falls from the big guy’s face, and I think he’s gonna swallow his toothpick. His partner turns a sickly shade of gray as both men slowly turn to look at the last booth. Mr. Accardi leans forward so his face can be seen under the small wall lamp.

“Look, I get it,” Accardi says. “Business is business. But it would be best if you had asked first. I don’t appreciate people coming to my turf and thinking they can do whatever they want. It ain’t right! It’s like breaking into my house, you know? Now grab that piece of crap and get out of here and tell your boss this had better never happen again, Capisci?”

Both men start apologizing, their heads bobbing up and down as they drag Nick screaming and yelling out the door. “Ralphie! You son of a bitch, I’m gonna kill ya! Ya hear me? Kill ya!”

“Yeah, you have a good night too.” I let go of the 38 I was squeezing under the bar. I look down and see Mr. Accardi say something to his boys, and two of them get up and follow the trio out the door.

To tell you the truth, I feel kind of sorry for Nick because I got him to float that loan; I just never paid it back. So, what’s the catch, you may ask? I said I’m no saint and never killed anybody, and I haven’t. At least not personally, Capisci?”