hours.
“You hear, Rico got his shield?” Larry asked.
“I heard.”
“What’s with you and Curly, anyway? You used to be like—”
“Used to be, Larry, used to be. He paid a big price for a few those few ounces of gold plating and blue enamel. I hope it was worth it.”
“Yeah, Moe,” Larry said suspiciously, but knew better than to ask, “whatever you say.”
I gave him my phone number at the Swan Song.
“They got a fax machine there?” he wondered.
I wondered what he was talking about. “What the fuck is a fax?”
“They’re like Xerox machines attached to the phone. You know, like those old gizmos that spun around we used to send pictures over to other departments with, but these are much faster. You can get two or three pages a minute.”
“The next Edsel,” I predicted. “I’ll check and get back to you.”
At least Sam knew what a fax machine was. He didn’t have one, but said that the stationery store in town had one. He got me the number and I passed it on to Larry Mac.
“When your stuff comes in, they’ll call, and I’ll have somebody pick it up for you,” Sam offered generously. “I got to offer something special to my only full-paying guest.”
Now there really was nothing to do until I could arrange a meeting with Hammerling or until the info came in from the city. I considered Mr. Roth’s invitation to share a drink and some stories of the good old days, but I wasn’t up for it. I watched the snowfall on my TV for an hour or so. I think there was a college football game going on underneath it. The announcers said there was, so I suppose I had to believe them. I slept for a few hours, forced down the enormous amount of bad food on the plate the Swan Song served up for my dinner, and walked the grounds to try and burn some of it off.
Back from my constitutional, I found Sam and asked him if he knew how I could get in touch with Molly Treat. He asked if I’d ever heard of this thing called a phone book, but suggested I just go down to Hanrahan’s Pub in town. Molly was always there on Saturday night, he pronounced with great authority. So I was off to Hanrahan’s. I invited the old comedian along. He politely declined. It was the only polite thing the man had done in two days.
Located at the corners of Monticello Avenue and Loch Sheldrake Street, Hanrahan’s was as predictable as another losing season for the Jets. The pub occupied the first floor of a two-story red clapboard walk-up. Even if I hadn’t gotten directions, I would have been able to spot it by the cigarette smoke pouring out its front doors. When I got within earshot, I could hear the jukebox blasting the Four Seasons. I’m talking Frankie Valli here, not Vivaldi. Big girls, Frankie explained, don’t cry. I’d have to ask Molly Treat about that.
And that wouldn’t be hard to do, for, as Sam Gutterman predicted, Molly was seated right square in front of the beer pulls. A cigarette dangled perilously off her bottom lip as she exchanged a few words with the girl behind the bar. Both the barmaid and Molly turned their eyes to ogle a burly twenty-something in a flannel shirt playing eight ball at the table near the juke. Maybe he was worth their attention. Frankly, it was hard to see through the tar-and-nicotine fog. After my first ten breaths in that place, I felt confident I was well on my way to emphysema.
“Hey, Molly.” I took her by surprise, appearing out of the smoky darkness. “Remember me?”
“Mr. Prager.”
“Moe, that’s right. What are you drinking?”
“Bud,” she said.
“Give the lady a Bud.” I winked at the barmaid, an old cop habit, and laid a twenty on the bar. “I’ll have a double Dewar’s rocks, and buy yourself something on me.”
The barmaid winked back, much to Molly’s dismay. “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, putting a beer, my scotch, and her shot of Jack Daniel’s on the bar top.
“To new friends,” I toasted. We clinked glasses. Molly took half the
“You hear, Rico got his shield?” Larry asked.
“I heard.”
“What’s with you and Curly, anyway? You used to be like—”
“Used to be, Larry, used to be. He paid a big price for a few those few ounces of gold plating and blue enamel. I hope it was worth it.”
“Yeah, Moe,” Larry said suspiciously, but knew better than to ask, “whatever you say.”
I gave him my phone number at the Swan Song.
“They got a fax machine there?” he wondered.
I wondered what he was talking about. “What the fuck is a fax?”
“They’re like Xerox machines attached to the phone. You know, like those old gizmos that spun around we used to send pictures over to other departments with, but these are much faster. You can get two or three pages a minute.”
“The next Edsel,” I predicted. “I’ll check and get back to you.”
At least Sam knew what a fax machine was. He didn’t have one, but said that the stationery store in town had one. He got me the number and I passed it on to Larry Mac.
“When your stuff comes in, they’ll call, and I’ll have somebody pick it up for you,” Sam offered generously. “I got to offer something special to my only full-paying guest.”
Now there really was nothing to do until I could arrange a meeting with Hammerling or until the info came in from the city. I considered Mr. Roth’s invitation to share a drink and some stories of the good old days, but I wasn’t up for it. I watched the snowfall on my TV for an hour or so. I think there was a college football game going on underneath it. The announcers said there was, so I suppose I had to believe them. I slept for a few hours, forced down the enormous amount of bad food on the plate the Swan Song served up for my dinner, and walked the grounds to try and burn some of it off.
Back from my constitutional, I found Sam and asked him if he knew how I could get in touch with Molly Treat. He asked if I’d ever heard of this thing called a phone book, but suggested I just go down to Hanrahan’s Pub in town. Molly was always there on Saturday night, he pronounced with great authority. So I was off to Hanrahan’s. I invited the old comedian along. He politely declined. It was the only polite thing the man had done in two days.
Located at the corners of Monticello Avenue and Loch Sheldrake Street, Hanrahan’s was as predictable as another losing season for the Jets. The pub occupied the first floor of a two-story red clapboard walk-up. Even if I hadn’t gotten directions, I would have been able to spot it by the cigarette smoke pouring out its front doors. When I got within earshot, I could hear the jukebox blasting the Four Seasons. I’m talking Frankie Valli here, not Vivaldi. Big girls, Frankie explained, don’t cry. I’d have to ask Molly Treat about that.
And that wouldn’t be hard to do, for, as Sam Gutterman predicted, Molly was seated right square in front of the beer pulls. A cigarette dangled perilously off her bottom lip as she exchanged a few words with the girl behind the bar. Both the barmaid and Molly turned their eyes to ogle a burly twenty-something in a flannel shirt playing eight ball at the table near the juke. Maybe he was worth their attention. Frankly, it was hard to see through the tar-and-nicotine fog. After my first ten breaths in that place, I felt confident I was well on my way to emphysema.
“Hey, Molly.” I took her by surprise, appearing out of the smoky darkness. “Remember me?”
“Mr. Prager.”
“Moe, that’s right. What are you drinking?”
“Bud,” she said.
“Give the lady a Bud.” I winked at the barmaid, an old cop habit, and laid a twenty on the bar. “I’ll have a double Dewar’s rocks, and buy yourself something on me.”
The barmaid winked back, much to Molly’s dismay. “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, putting a beer, my scotch, and her shot of Jack Daniel’s on the bar top.
“To new friends,” I toasted. We clinked glasses. Molly took half the
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