South Street by David Bradley

Seven-and-Seven,” Charlene said. “She always drinks Seven-and-Seven, don’t you, Les? Seven-and-Seven?”
    “I got him,” Leslie said. “You wants him, an’ I got him.”
    “Bring her a Seven-and-Seven. An’ another one a them things for ’Nessa, a whatchemacallit. Put it on Leroy’s tab.”
    “You can have him,” said Vanessa.
    “I got him.”
    “Oh, Jesus, will you stop it,” said Charlene.
    “He’s gonna kick your ass.”
    “He kicked your ass. It don’t have nothin’ to do with mine.”
    The bartender arrived with the drinks, plopped them down on the table. “No, no, Nemo,” said Charlene, “I get the beer. She gets the Seven-and-Seven. An’ she gets that other thing. Leroy’s payin’ for it.”
    “Leroy ain’t payin’ for me,” snapped Vanessa, whipping a dollar bill out of her purse. “I buy ma own drinks.”
    The whisk broom made staccato rustlings on the leather couch. Rayburn carefully brushed out the accumulation of dust and dirt, bending to the floor to scoop up a few pieces of change that had fallen from some businessman’s pocket into the crack behind the cushions. He carefully scraped chewing gum from a quarter, dipping the coin for an instant in the bucket of green chemical-smelling water beside him to loosen the gum and then rubbing it until only a few sticky vestiges remained at the nape of George Washington’s neck, under his nose, and around his eyes. Dropping the quarter into his pocket he glanced around the reception area approvingly. The carpet still had to be vacuumed, but he would do that on the way out. Rayburn turned, accidentally kicking the bucket. A drop of cleaning fluid spattered onto the carpet. Rayburn cursed softly. He bent quickly, searching for a rag, but, finding none that was dry enough to suit him, he pulled off one of his gloves and rummaged in the pocket of his baggy green trousers for his own handkerchief. He wiped up the stuff, smiling when he saw that it had not had time to stain the carpet. He got to his feet, reached for the keys hanging at his side, found the right one by feel, opened the door to the private secretary’s office, turned to get his bucket.
    There was a cart for the bucket and brooms and vacuum cleaner, but Rayburn never brought the cart into the executive suite; it made marks on the carpet that he could never get out. Instead he lugged the bucket around and carried the big canister vacuum cleaner so he would not have to roll it on its casters, and kept the whisk broom and rags and furniture polish in his pockets. He hauled the bucket into the secretary’s office and began to wipe down the furniture, working clockwise around the room, wiping everything that could take the strength of the cleaner without corroding. After he had wiped the desk and carefully replaced everything in the same position, he went around again with the dry rag, dusting the lampshades and the magazines on the table next to the soft chair where the VIPs got to wait, the metal file cabinet, and even the framed picture of the secretary’s husband? son? boyfriend? on top of it. Rayburn had often wondered about that picture of a young white boy in an Army uniform, his head shaved clean so that his ears seemed to stick out, a broad smile on his face. Rayburn wondered where the soldier was now, what he was doing. The uniform was the same style as the one Rayburn had worn in the Korean war. Maybe they had been in the same company, he and the soldier. They might have fought in the same battles, perhaps saved each other’s life. The secretary, Rayburn decided, was the soldier’s mother, and she would have white hair, be plump and jolly, still wear seamed stockings. The soldier would be married now. Rayburn wondered where he would live. Maybe he had moved to California. Or maybe he would live in the city somewhere. Maybe in the rowhouses in South Philly, maybe on Christian Street, near the Italian market, just a few blocks from South Street. He’d work in a