Chuck Freadhoff - Free Booze Tonight Read online

  Grassman turned back to me. “This is a bar, not a Fellini movie. Close it up.”

  Then the band started up, and Delilah launched into a sultry version of “I Fall to Pieces” that would have made Patsy Cline weep with envy.

  Grassman grinned suddenly. I exhaled. Agent Viola walked in. Delilah stopped singing. The place fell silent. I waved at Viola. She smiled. Delilah stared. I realized my mistake.

  I quickly hustled to the other end of the bar, the one closest to the band, shifted my smile to Delilah and pretended Viola didn’t exist. It was useless, like trying to convince Shaq that Dimples the elephant didn’t exist. Delilah stepped past the mike and headed toward the bar, her eyes on Agent Viola who was gliding toward me. Delilah got to the bar first.

  “I see your friend is back,” Delilah said. “Can’t stay away from you?”

  My eyes shifted from Delilah to Grassman at the far end of the bar, to Agent Viola and back to Grassman. I really wanted to reassure Delilah – after all it was her father who owned the wood chipper - but at that moment I needed Grassman to agree to keep the bar open the next night more than anything.

  “She’s the IRS agent I was telling you about,” I said to Delilah and switched my gaze to Grassman whose eyes were riveted on Agent Viola.

  “IRS agent?” Delilah said. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “It’s true.”

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “She’s here to save Grassman’s soul,” I said.

  “Her? Save Grassman’s soul? What’s next Hugh Heffner baptizing babies?”

  “Strange but true.”

  “Okay, this I’ve got to see.” Delilah stepped around the beer cooler and stood next to me behind the bar. Best seat in the house.

  That night Agent Viola had chosen a conservative outfit, dark slacks and a white blouse. But the first three buttons on the blouse were undone and the slacks were tight enough to make you wonder if Saran Wrap had started a clothing line.

  Agent Viola leaned on the bar and drummed her long, red, fingernails.

  “Well?” she said.

  I glanced down the bar at Grassman. I think he was holding his breath. That would explain his bulging eyes and his sudden lack of vocal ability.

  “I spoke with Mr. Guzman,” I said. “He told me that he’d really like to go straight if he just had a sympathetic guide. Someone who’s willing to see the truth.”

  “The truth?” Agent Viola said.

  “The truth is this bar is a real money maker. Tomorrow night this place will be standing room only. It’s the beginning of a new era here.”

  “And Mr. Guzman is willing to shut down his other fronts, to go legit?”

  “He just needs a sympathetic ear, that’s all. Someone’s shoulder to lean on. A guide to the path of legal enterprise.”

  Agent Viola smiled and her eyes seemed to mist up and lose focus. “Oh, that’s my life’s dream, you know. I just want to help someone.”

  “He knows that. He’s willing to let you be his guide to a better life.”

  She nodded. “Okay. On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “That you’re telling the truth. That the bar really is profitable. Do we have a deal?”

  Grassman seemed to come out of his trance. He sucked in his stomach and came off the stool and hustled toward Agent Viola.

  “Don’t worry, Agent Viola, I’ll vouch for everything Joey told you,” Grassman said.

  Agent Viola scowled. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Señor Guzman. I own this fine establishment. And everything he said is true. I want to lead a better life, a life free of crime. All I need is the help and guidance of a woman of your kindness and stature.”

  Delilah rolled her eyes, leaned against the bar, and looked at me. “Is there even one man in the whole universe who thinks above the waist?”

  “No.”

  Delilah shook her head, looked at Grassman and sighed.

  “Well, okay,” Agent Viola said to Grassman. “As long as this bar is a real business, we’ll do great things together.” She smiled coyly at him then turned to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow night for a full house, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Agent Viola sauntered out of the bar again with Grassman’s eyes glued to her swaying hips, like a hypnotized man in front of a metronome. When the door banged shut behind her, he turned to me.

  “Joey, if this place isn’t packed to the rafters tomorrow night. I’ll kill you myself.”

  “Not a problem” I said, full of confidence. After all, I had a band. I had a great singer. I had a great PR/Ad man ready to drum up a crowd. What could possibly go wrong? That’s when Irving the ink-stained wretch came in with news that was worse than learning wood chippers were on sale at Home Depot.

  Chapter 60

  “I can’t draw a crowd,” Irving the ink-stained wretch told me. He shrugged and shook his head with sadness in his eyes. “I’m afraid the bar’s going to be empty tomorrow night,”

  “Why?”

  “Because this place has a worse reputation than Chernobyl. It’s been closed half a dozen times by the health department.”

  Irving and Ken from Kinkos had wandered in together to deliver the bad news. They’d arrived a couple of minutes after Grassman left. Irving had taken Grassman’s stool next to Toughie and Ralph at the far end of the bar, and ordered beers for everyone.

  Ken mounted the stool beside Irving, and glanced around, sniffing the air like a Labrador checking a hydrant for a clue to whether he’d been there before.

  “But all that health department stuff is ancient history,” I said. “Besides, I have to have a crowd in here tomorrow.”

  “Well, you’ve got a real problem then,” Irving said. “I did a little market research – nothing serious mind you, just asked around a little bit. But everyone I talked to would rather go to a Bar Mitzvah in Bagdad or barbeque at Three Mile Island than set foot in this place.”

  “But … .” I gestured to Delilah and the others. The band was really hitting it, solid and tight and Delilah’s voice was perfect. She was halfway through a cover of Peggy Lee’s Fever and I thought it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. “But the band is fantastic,” I said.

  I glanced at the musicians. They’d stopped playing and the Sikh was swearing in Hindi at the drummer, who shrugged, shot him the bone and winked at Hakim’s little sister. The stock broker shook his fist at Hakim and pulled back ready to throw a punch, but Hakim’s sister stepped in the way.

  I looked back at Irving who was shaking his head.

  “Joey, the health department found rats the size of Greyhounds in here.”

  The bus or the dog, I wondered but didn’t’ ask. Instead I smiled and nodded. “Ah, maybe some fliers with a great slogan would help. You know, something catchy.”

  “Catchy?” Irving replied. “You mean something like ‘no ptomaine today’?”

  “There are worse things than ptomaine,” I said, thinking of rolled up carpets, wood chippers, and pissed off Mexican-American pot dealers.

  “You give any more thought to the name of the band?” Irving asked. “You said you were going to get right on it.”

  Name of the band? I’d been a little busy getting a pole-dancing ex-hooker to help me blackmail a high school principal, and then praying Grassman wouldn’t shut me down before Agent Viola arrived. Besides, I was kind of hoping Irving could help me out a bit on that end. After all, he was the guy who dreamed up pygmy hit men.

  “Delilah and the Samsons doesn’t work?” I said.

  “With a name like that, they couldn’t open for Tiny Tim,” Irving said.

  “Tiny Tim’s dead.”

  “Joey, in this bar, Tiny Tim could come back from the dead and no one would come in to see it. Besides, you told me yourself that Delilah and the Samsons didn’t work.”

  It was time to change the subject. I popped two more long necks and put them on the counter in front of Irving a
nd Ken.

  “How about the video guy?” I asked.

  “He said he’d rather film the next war in Bosnia, but he owes me big time so he’ll be here. I’m telling you, though, he’s going to be shooting an empty room.”

  Toughie slid off her stool and Ralph trailed after her like he was on a leash. She leaned on the bar and looked around Ken to Irving. She gestured to the band.

  “Let’s call ’em, Delilah and the Ayatollahs.”

  Irving grimaced.

  “Okay,” Toughie said, “How about Delilah and the Doorknobs?”

  Ken groaned. Irving sighed. Toughie shrugged and nodded in agreement. Ralph bounced on his toes looking over Toughie’s shoulder.

  “I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” Ralph said. “I’ll promise everyone a brownie as a door prize.”

  “Brownie?” Ken said and his eyes lit up, like a wolf who’d just heard the words lamb chop.

  “Forget the brownie,” Irving said and turned to me. “You could go with The Free Ptomaine Band.” He chuckled, then pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

  “I’m not having Vincent the Hammer’s daughter front a band called ‘ptomaine,’” I said and glanced at the band. The lead guitar player touched his turban, said something, and Delilah nodded. A moment later they kicked off a cover of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s That Smell.

  I’ve never really believed in karma, but I was starting to think that the last couple of weeks were cosmic payback for a major mistake in a past life, like maybe starting the Irish potato famine, or misplacing Atlantis.

  Irving slid off his bar stool, looked at me, and shrugged. “Sorry,” he said then headed for the exit with Ken in tow.

  My eyes shifted from Irving to Ralph. The Free Ptomaine Band? Brownies? My life’s on the line and that’s the best they could do? With friends like these it was a miracle I wasn’t already an addition to Vincent the Hammer’s own personal mulch pile.

  And that’s when it hit me.

  “Wait!” I shouted. Ken and Irving looked back. “I’ve got it,” I yelled and motioned them to the bar.

  I grabbed a soggy napkin, found a pen under the bar, and scribbled quickly. I turned it around so Irving could read it when he was close.

  “Print this on as many fliers as you can and get ’em out tomorrow,” I said. “That’ll be enough time.”

  Irving smiled and nodded. “Just five words and better than a million dollars in publicity.”

  I tapped the napkin. “Just make sure Delilah’s name is the right size. The smaller the better.”

  Chapter 61

  My first mistake was sending Ralph to bail out Ethel. But things were going so well that when Ethel called to tell me Hector the bondsman had to have an emergency colonoscopy, I wasn’t really thinking ahead. Like the guy I read about who stuck his head in an elevator shaft to see if the elevator was coming. It was.

  So, oblivious to future dangers, I stood on the sidewalk and waved to Ralph as the van rattled down the street away from the bar. I smiled and took in a deep breath of late-afternoon, smog-laden air tinged with a hint of exhaust from the van, almost feeling smug.

  It was getting close to show time and already more than a hundred people were milling around the sidewalk. I gave them a quick once over. It looked like the WWF meets the Village People with a couple of Mormon missionaries thrown in. Piercings, tattoos, and Mohawks were rubbing against short-sleeved white shirts with narrow ties. A couple of kids well below the drinking age cruised back and forth on skateboards annoying folks old enough to remember the Beatles and maybe even Ed Sullivan. Here and there in the crowd people were clutching the fliers Ken from Kinkos had printed on chartreuse paper.

  I reassured the early arrivals that we’d be opening soon and moved past Irving the ink-stained wretch, whom I’d drafted as a doorman. He’d dressed the part with a blue blazer, dark slacks, and Converse high tops. Ken from Kinkos, who was backing him up, had gone a little grungier with torn jeans and a Bob Marley T-shirt. Irving gave me a thumbs up and a nod.

  “The fliers worked,” he said and nodded to the gathering crowd. I glanced. It looked like another fifty people had shown up.

  “Thanks,” I said. I stepped close. “You take care of the other thing?”

  “Sure. We’re not shooting that commercial for a couple of days, so she’s all yours.”

  “Great,” I said and ducked inside.

  Toughie was behind the bar stocking the cooler with beers and rearranging the liquor bottles on the mirrored shelves. She had wanted to go with Ralph, but she had strict orders from Vincent the Hammer to make sure I stayed put until the show or my life was over, whichever came first.

  I glanced at Davey passed out at his usual table, courtesy of the two valiums that Toughie had slipped into his beer.

  Hakim and the band were tuning up and Federico, the video guy that Irving had brought along, was already filming. Federico wore loafers with no socks, loose cotton trousers, a shirt open to the navel and a multicolored scarf around his neck. He carried a small hand-held camera that I figured would be just perfect for the job.

  Irving had told me Federico’s real name was Frank Finkelstine and that he was from Fontana. I motioned Fed to the bar and he skipped over, beaming.

  “Ahh, this is such a magnificent challenge, to bring beauty and understanding to this dim place,” he said. His fake Italian accent made me think his Jockey shorts must be super-tight.

  “Listen, Fed. Forget beauty and understanding. Just make Delilah look good,” I said. “That’s all you’ve got to do. Got it?”

  “But I am an arteeest!” Fed protested. “You cannot order me to make art. I must have freedom and find my muse, my inspiration!”

  Toughie leaned closer, her thick forearm on the bar.

  “Fed, if you don’t make Delilah a star and right now, I’ll adopt you as my personal love toy. How’s that for inspiration?”

  Fed swallowed and nodded. “Delilah. Star. I got it,” he said and slithered back toward the band.

  Ralph had banged together a small stage — now Delilah at the mike up front, the drummer a couple of feet behind her, and Hakim to her left and the Sikh to her right. Hakim’s little sister, who was way too young to be in the bar, lingered in the shadows back by the drummer, the band tuning up.

  There were still a few details that needed attending before we opened the doors, but I took a moment and approached the band. Fed saw me coming and scurried off to the side.

  Delilah, though, smiled, apparently happy to see me. “Thanks for getting such a good backup group,” she said.

  “They’re good because they’re backing you up.”

  “You know, Spare Parts, you’re getting to be a better liar.”

  “I wasn’t lying.”

  “I know,” she said softly and smiled. Her eyes held mine, and she cocked her head slightly to the side. I hadn’t planned to kiss her, not at that moment, not right there in front of everyone, but somehow I knew the time was right. I put my hand on her shoulder and started closing my eyes, ready for the greatest kiss of my life. Delilah leaned forward, her full weight against my hand. I turned my head to meet her.

  That’s when I learned why that guy stuck his head in the elevator shaft. Sometimes, it really is a good idea to know what’s coming.

  The front door banged open and Vincent the Hammer swept into the bar, Jimmy and James Roo a step behind him. I jerked my hand back, and Delilah pitched forward into my arms. I caught her just before she hit the floor.

  “Hey, get your filthy hands off my daughter!” Vincent the Hammer yelled. Veins bulged in his neck like bridge cables. Jimmy and James, looking like Dumpsters in Blues Brothers’ suits, lumbered around him and came toward me.

  Delilah got her footing, freed herself from my arms, and glared at her father. “Daddy, just sit down and listen,” she said.

  The Roo brothers skidded to a stop. Vincent the Hammer started to protest, but Delilah was having none of it. “You
’re only here because you promised to behave,” she said. “Now no shooting, stabbing, or poisoning anyone while I’m singing. You promise?”

  Vincent the Hammer nodded and sat at a table near the front of the room just a few feet from Delilah and the band. He glowered at me until Delilah started humming and he looked away.

  I glanced at my watch then at the band. “You guys ready?”

  “Ready,” Hakim said.

  I paused for a second to take in the bar – an archipelago of small square tables stretched across a rectangular sea of cement in front of me to the door at the far end and cracked red vinyl booths along the wall to my right. The crowd outside was already noisy and restless. I guessed there were a couple of hundred out there and I knew the place would be standing room only the second Irving and Ken opened the door.

  Before I could tell Irving to open up, though, Grassman Guzman waltzed in smiling like Teddy Roosevelt doing a toothpaste commercial, Agent Viola on his arm. She’d dressed for the evening in stiletto heels, a skirt shorter than a heartbeat, and low top with straps thinner than dental floss. They grabbed a table and Toughie took them a couple of beers. I nodded to Hakim.

  The band started with a couple of bass riffs, the drummer came in a couple of beats later and the Sikh and the violin joined and Delilah stepped to the mike.

  Irving threw the door open and the crowd rushed in. A minute later every booth was packed, ever table and chair was filled, and customers were three deep at the bar. Toughie was popping beer caps faster than a fleet of sailors on shore leave. I was pouring drinks and shoving them across the bar and the cash register was ringing with the ferocity of a coked-out mob of Salvation Army Santas trying to fill their kettles.

  A couple of times I managed to steal a glance at Delilah as she performed. Her eyes were closed and she was leaning forward inches from the mike lost in song. They did a sexy version of You Are My Sunshine and slid right into Take Me To The River.

  The place was full. The crowd was clapping, hollering, and singing along. The noise was pushing the decibel meter way past the red line, like a locomotive blasting through a hurricane. Irving was having trouble keeping more people from crowding through the front door.