“Make sure you stop by table
twenty-four,” Gus advised her. “A couple just grabbed it.”
“Worst table in the room,” Tricia muttered
with a sigh. “People who sit too close to the restroom always wind
up leaving lousy tips.”
“Deal with it,” Gus said, smiling to soften
the words. Everyone on the wait staff got burned by tips sometimes,
and it had nothing to do with which tables they were serving, and
everything to do with the people seated at those tables.
“Dirty Water” ended, but most of the dancers
remained standing on the scuffed plank floor at the center of the
room, waiting to hear what the next song would be before they
returned to their seats. Elvis. “Blue Suede Shoes.” No one would
sing along with that song, but most of the people on the dance
floor resumed dancing. It was a happy, boisterous crowd. Tricia
would do fine in the tips department tonight.
Gus and Manny had their own choreography
behind the bar. They filled clean glasses, hooked dirty glasses
onto the dishwasher trays, filled orders, printed out tabs. Manny
apparently didn’t think “Blue Suede Shoes” was worth dancing to,
but he moved fluidly, shooting Gus a grin whenever they sidled past
each other in the aisle between the bar and the back wall, which
was stacked with bottles of whisky, rum, vodka, bourbon, assorted
liqueurs, and all the red wines that didn’t require chilling.
She tuned out the din of voices and the
rumble of Elvis’s voice as she worked. She’d learned how to mix
drinks at her husband’s side. She’d been a kid with a freshly
minted college degree and no job prospects, and she’d moved back
home to Brogan’s Point and wandered from joint to joint, hoping to
land a waitressing job until she figured out what she wanted to be
when she grew up. Tom Naukonen, the owner of the Faulk Street
Tavern, had hired her. She already knew how to wait tables—she’d
worked at a local pizza place while attending college—and he’d
taught her how to mix drinks, how to manage a bar, how to run a
business. Then he’d married her and produced a couple of sons with
her. Then he’d died. But sometimes she felt his hands on hers,
urging her to go a little heavier on the vodka, a little lighter on
the vermouth. He was still here, his spirit hovering above the bar,
floating around the tables, hanging out near the jukebox. He
would’ve been singing along with everyone else when “Dirty Water”
played. He probably would have been singing along with Elvis,
too.
Tricia jogged back to the bar just as “Blue
Suede Shoes” ended. “A Sam and a Pinot Grigio,” she said, angling
her head toward Solomon and his lady friend. “Not exactly big
drinkers. They’re gonna stiff me.”
Gus only chuckled. Tricia would pocket a
huge tip from them. Eleven dollars’ worth of drinks, and they’d
probably hand over fifteen bucks and tell Tricia to keep the
change. Gus filled the order, placed the drinks on the tray and
glanced at table twenty four, where the lawyer and the woman were
still talking intently, seemingly oblivious to all the dancing and
carousing.
Frank Olveida’s third song burst through the
woven speakers of the jukebox. “Heat Wave.” Another song that had
at least a third of the tavern’s patrons cheering and launching
into a dance.
Gus’s gaze cut straight across the room to
the tiny table near the bathroom hall. Solomon and his companion
both seemed stunned. The woman’s eyes grew round. Solomon’s sharp
jaw jutted at an angle as he tilted his head and frowned. Gus
continued to watch them as Tricia circled the dance floor to
deliver their drinks.
And then Gus laughed again. This was their
song, she remembered. The last time they’d been here together,
“Heat Wave” had played. Gus hadn’t realized it then, but she
realized it now: that song had cast a spell on them.
If Ed were here, he’d roll his eyes if she
mentioned her suspicion that Solomon and the woman had been
bewitched by the song.
twenty-four,” Gus advised her. “A couple just grabbed it.”
“Worst table in the room,” Tricia muttered
with a sigh. “People who sit too close to the restroom always wind
up leaving lousy tips.”
“Deal with it,” Gus said, smiling to soften
the words. Everyone on the wait staff got burned by tips sometimes,
and it had nothing to do with which tables they were serving, and
everything to do with the people seated at those tables.
“Dirty Water” ended, but most of the dancers
remained standing on the scuffed plank floor at the center of the
room, waiting to hear what the next song would be before they
returned to their seats. Elvis. “Blue Suede Shoes.” No one would
sing along with that song, but most of the people on the dance
floor resumed dancing. It was a happy, boisterous crowd. Tricia
would do fine in the tips department tonight.
Gus and Manny had their own choreography
behind the bar. They filled clean glasses, hooked dirty glasses
onto the dishwasher trays, filled orders, printed out tabs. Manny
apparently didn’t think “Blue Suede Shoes” was worth dancing to,
but he moved fluidly, shooting Gus a grin whenever they sidled past
each other in the aisle between the bar and the back wall, which
was stacked with bottles of whisky, rum, vodka, bourbon, assorted
liqueurs, and all the red wines that didn’t require chilling.
She tuned out the din of voices and the
rumble of Elvis’s voice as she worked. She’d learned how to mix
drinks at her husband’s side. She’d been a kid with a freshly
minted college degree and no job prospects, and she’d moved back
home to Brogan’s Point and wandered from joint to joint, hoping to
land a waitressing job until she figured out what she wanted to be
when she grew up. Tom Naukonen, the owner of the Faulk Street
Tavern, had hired her. She already knew how to wait tables—she’d
worked at a local pizza place while attending college—and he’d
taught her how to mix drinks, how to manage a bar, how to run a
business. Then he’d married her and produced a couple of sons with
her. Then he’d died. But sometimes she felt his hands on hers,
urging her to go a little heavier on the vodka, a little lighter on
the vermouth. He was still here, his spirit hovering above the bar,
floating around the tables, hanging out near the jukebox. He
would’ve been singing along with everyone else when “Dirty Water”
played. He probably would have been singing along with Elvis,
too.
Tricia jogged back to the bar just as “Blue
Suede Shoes” ended. “A Sam and a Pinot Grigio,” she said, angling
her head toward Solomon and his lady friend. “Not exactly big
drinkers. They’re gonna stiff me.”
Gus only chuckled. Tricia would pocket a
huge tip from them. Eleven dollars’ worth of drinks, and they’d
probably hand over fifteen bucks and tell Tricia to keep the
change. Gus filled the order, placed the drinks on the tray and
glanced at table twenty four, where the lawyer and the woman were
still talking intently, seemingly oblivious to all the dancing and
carousing.
Frank Olveida’s third song burst through the
woven speakers of the jukebox. “Heat Wave.” Another song that had
at least a third of the tavern’s patrons cheering and launching
into a dance.
Gus’s gaze cut straight across the room to
the tiny table near the bathroom hall. Solomon and his companion
both seemed stunned. The woman’s eyes grew round. Solomon’s sharp
jaw jutted at an angle as he tilted his head and frowned. Gus
continued to watch them as Tricia circled the dance floor to
deliver their drinks.
And then Gus laughed again. This was their
song, she remembered. The last time they’d been here together,
“Heat Wave” had played. Gus hadn’t realized it then, but she
realized it now: that song had cast a spell on them.
If Ed were here, he’d roll his eyes if she
mentioned her suspicion that Solomon and the woman had been
bewitched by the song.
Similar Books
