backs of their chairs, matching potbellies pushed at their shirts, and matching befuddled smiles spread across their faces as they took in Life in the Alaskan Bush, a point-and-shoot camera at the ready on the table in front of them, right next to a dog-eared copy of the Milepost, Everytourist's all-purpose, super-duper utility guide to Alaska. In spite of herself Kate thought they looked kind of cute.
The air smelled of stale beer, roll-your-owns of old tobacco and older marijuana, and wet wool. Eau de breakup.
Kate broke trail to the bar, where Bernie was pouring out drinks with all eight hands. He was a long, gaunt man with a receding hairline in front and a ponytail that reached to his waist in back to make up for it. He looked like an aging hippie only because he was one.
Bernie Koslowski was Chicago-born and Midwest-bred and all flower child. He had been mugged by Daley's finest at the 1968 Democratic convention, had danced in the mud at Woodstock in 1969 and had merrily burned his draft card on the steps of the Capitol in Washington, D.C., in 1970, whereupon Attorney General John Mitchell, unamused, had had Bernie and three thousand other demonstrators thrown behind a chicken-wire fence on the Mall, in direct violation of their Fourth Amendment rights. Bernie took it personally. Upon release, he walked by the White House to flip Nixon the bird and hauled ass for Canada, eventually migrating into Alaska through the Yukon Territories, working construction on the TransAlaska Pipeline. He retired from the pipeline to buy the Roadhouse in 1975. If the Roadhouse wasn't connected by road to the TransAlaska Pipeline's right-of-way, there were other means of transportation an ingenious and thirsty pipeliner could and did promote, including, one glorious day two years before, a D-9 Caterpillar tractor. Business boomed.
Bemie's father, who never let anyone forget he had gone ashore with the first wave at Anzio, had struck Bemie's name from the family Bible and forbidden mention of it in his presence. His mother and sisters sent him surreptitious care packages every yea r at Christmas, filled with water filters, Swiss Army knives and waterproof compasses ordered from the REI catalog. From time to time they would inquire solicitously as to the state of his health, since blubber couldn't be all that nutritious as a dietary staple, and did his Eskimo friends live in igloos? Bernie had never met an Eskimo in his life, or seen an igloo, and since whales had been put on the endangered species list, muktuk was in short supply, and Aleuts ate seal muktuk anyway. Or the ones he knew did.
One of his Aleut friends who ate seal muktuk jerked her head toward the other end of the bar, where Bobby Clark was, as usual, sitting at the center of a lot of laughter and rude comment. "Life of the party," Bernie said. "How you been, Kate?"
"Don't ask."
"All right," Bernie said agreeably, and poured Kate a Coke without waiting for an order. "Where's Mutt?"
"Guarding the homestead from the federal government."
"What?" There was restive movement behind Kate, and Bernie said, "May I help you"
"Bernie, this is Mr. and Mrs. Baker. Mandy's parents."
Bernie broke into a smile that lit the deceptively mournful lines of his face with warmth and humor. "Of course. Mr. and Mrs. Baker. I've heard Mandy talk about you." With the diplomatic dexterity of a career bartender, he refrained from repeating precisely what he'd heard Mandy say. "It's nice to meet you. May I pour you a drink?"
"I wish you would," said Mrs. Baker with feeling.
"You certainly may," said Mr. Baker at the same time, with even more feeling.
Bernie glanced at Kate, and was intrigued by the suddenly wooden expression on her face, although true to form he made no comment. "Fine. What would you like?"
The Bakers eyed the assortment of bottles crammed into the shelves on the wall behind the bar. Mr. Baker spotted a tall green bottle and pointed. "Is that Glenlivet?"
"It certainly
The air smelled of stale beer, roll-your-owns of old tobacco and older marijuana, and wet wool. Eau de breakup.
Kate broke trail to the bar, where Bernie was pouring out drinks with all eight hands. He was a long, gaunt man with a receding hairline in front and a ponytail that reached to his waist in back to make up for it. He looked like an aging hippie only because he was one.
Bernie Koslowski was Chicago-born and Midwest-bred and all flower child. He had been mugged by Daley's finest at the 1968 Democratic convention, had danced in the mud at Woodstock in 1969 and had merrily burned his draft card on the steps of the Capitol in Washington, D.C., in 1970, whereupon Attorney General John Mitchell, unamused, had had Bernie and three thousand other demonstrators thrown behind a chicken-wire fence on the Mall, in direct violation of their Fourth Amendment rights. Bernie took it personally. Upon release, he walked by the White House to flip Nixon the bird and hauled ass for Canada, eventually migrating into Alaska through the Yukon Territories, working construction on the TransAlaska Pipeline. He retired from the pipeline to buy the Roadhouse in 1975. If the Roadhouse wasn't connected by road to the TransAlaska Pipeline's right-of-way, there were other means of transportation an ingenious and thirsty pipeliner could and did promote, including, one glorious day two years before, a D-9 Caterpillar tractor. Business boomed.
Bemie's father, who never let anyone forget he had gone ashore with the first wave at Anzio, had struck Bemie's name from the family Bible and forbidden mention of it in his presence. His mother and sisters sent him surreptitious care packages every yea r at Christmas, filled with water filters, Swiss Army knives and waterproof compasses ordered from the REI catalog. From time to time they would inquire solicitously as to the state of his health, since blubber couldn't be all that nutritious as a dietary staple, and did his Eskimo friends live in igloos? Bernie had never met an Eskimo in his life, or seen an igloo, and since whales had been put on the endangered species list, muktuk was in short supply, and Aleuts ate seal muktuk anyway. Or the ones he knew did.
One of his Aleut friends who ate seal muktuk jerked her head toward the other end of the bar, where Bobby Clark was, as usual, sitting at the center of a lot of laughter and rude comment. "Life of the party," Bernie said. "How you been, Kate?"
"Don't ask."
"All right," Bernie said agreeably, and poured Kate a Coke without waiting for an order. "Where's Mutt?"
"Guarding the homestead from the federal government."
"What?" There was restive movement behind Kate, and Bernie said, "May I help you"
"Bernie, this is Mr. and Mrs. Baker. Mandy's parents."
Bernie broke into a smile that lit the deceptively mournful lines of his face with warmth and humor. "Of course. Mr. and Mrs. Baker. I've heard Mandy talk about you." With the diplomatic dexterity of a career bartender, he refrained from repeating precisely what he'd heard Mandy say. "It's nice to meet you. May I pour you a drink?"
"I wish you would," said Mrs. Baker with feeling.
"You certainly may," said Mr. Baker at the same time, with even more feeling.
Bernie glanced at Kate, and was intrigued by the suddenly wooden expression on her face, although true to form he made no comment. "Fine. What would you like?"
The Bakers eyed the assortment of bottles crammed into the shelves on the wall behind the bar. Mr. Baker spotted a tall green bottle and pointed. "Is that Glenlivet?"
"It certainly
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