CHAPTER 15

The Nextime Bar

The humidity was stifling. Santo looked at the clear sky for relief among the stars and the moon. “Hot night.”

“Yeah,” Paisley said. “Hope it doesn't get hotter.”

They stepped off the curb, crossed the street, and jumped into Paisley's Volkswagen Bug.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Nextime Bar. Ever been there?”

“No.”

“It's a dive. But the people are friendly, the talk is cheap, and the beers are a quarter.”

The Volkswagen jerked out of its parking spot and chugged to its destination. Santo always felt like he was in a coffee percolator every time he rode in one.

Paisley parked in a shabby, irregularly shaped lot behind the bar. They got out of the vehicle and crunched through the broken glass and pavement as they weaved around the back of the building through a narrow alleyway, which led to a busy thoroughfare in front. They hung a right at the sidewalk and proceeded toward the main entrance of the bar.

The sidewalk felt too narrow beside the threatening four-lane traffic on Tennessee Street. Santo felt the drag of each passing automobile on the nearest lane and became a little apprehensive about their proximity and speed. Paisley opened a glass door leading into the bar and invited him to enter first.

The cool darkness and the relative quiet of the place made them feel as if they had walked into a comfortable vacuum. Paisley pointed at two empty bar stools.

“Over there, Rick.”

They sat down at the horseshoe bar and ordered a couple of drafts. Then they sipped their beers slowly while becoming acclimated to their surroundings.

The most distinctive feature of the place was the friendly vocal chatter devoid of background music. Santo liked the subdued quality of the establishment: the sound of billiards balls clicking and banking off the sides of the pool tables in back, and the low murmur of a television above the cigarette smoke.

“Who are we looking for?” Santo said, as he lit a cigarette.

“For that man right there.”

Paisley indicated the direction with a glance.

Standing within the frame of a half-door that led into the pool hall was a dark man with two distorted arms sticking out of a plaid short-sleeved shirt. He waited patiently with a cue stick held vertically beside him until a barmaid set a draft on the narrow ledge of the half-door. Then he paid for the draft, gulped it straight down, and left about an inch of beer on the bottom before thumping the glass back on the ledge. He turned his head slightly in Paisley's direction and passively blinked his eyes.

“Let's go,” Paisley whispered.

They walked into the pool hall where the billiard balls were heard slamming into the pockets more clearly. Smoke hung thickly below the low-level lights that illuminated each table. And cigarettes dangled from mouths taut with eight-ball concentration.

Paisley remained a respectable distance away from the man, waiting to see what his next move should be; the man was still involved in a snooker game. Paisley leaned against an unoccupied table as Santo stepped beside him. From there, they watched the progress of the game.

Santo made an uneasy observation about the man they were supposed to meet: he looked sleazy.

“What's the story, Pais?”

“It would look suspicious if he walked away from a money game. That would be a forfeit on his bet.”

“Understand.”

“You see that door over there?”

“Yeah.”

“That's his office. As soon as the game is over, that's where we're going.”

“What's his name?”

“Mr. Manford…and, don't forget the mister. He's funny that way.”

“Okay. But I still don't understand why you wanted me to come along with you.”

“Hell, look at him,” Paisley said. “Would you trust that snake alone? Besides, I wanted someone along with a little common sense, just in case…you know, in case I went down on a bust or something. This way you'd know what's going on: where the money came from and where the drugs go. Believe me, you don't want to piss these people off. And don't ask me who these people are, Rick. You really don't want to know.”

“Why do I have to talk to him at all?”

“Because if you have to come back here without me, he won't acknowledge your existence otherwise.”

“What if you and I don't come back?”

“Don't even think that, man. Once we walk out of here with the other half of the money, one of us better come back with his merchandise. And just in case you're wondering, it's already too late for you: he knows your face; now he knows who you are.”

“Thanks. Buddy.”

But before Santo could elaborate on his displeasure, Paisley alerted him with a nudge. “Let's go.”

They walked toward an office at the back of the pool hall with Mr. Manford following in their wake. Then he unlocked the door and led them into his tiny office.

They spoke carefully.

“Who's this?” Manford said, referring to Santo.

“A friend.”

“I don't trust friends.”

“Then don't make him one,” Paisley said.

Manford didn't like Paisley's curt statement. But before he was able to respond, Paisley softened his remark with: “Mr. Manford.”

The glare in theman's eyes changed from lukewarm to cold. He reached into his desk, pulled out a tightly rolled wad of bills bound by a thick rubber band, and handed it to Paisley.

The amount of money made Santo feel uneasy. But he remained expressionless even against Manford's hard scrutiny.

Paisley snapped the wad's rubber band to attract Manford's attention.

“Don't you trust me?” Manford wheezed.

Paisley smiled incredulously. “In this business?” He began counting the money.

“It's all there.” Manfold pursed his lips. “Carol is expecting you at the Down Under.”

“I know,” Paisley said, as he continued his tally, making Manford wait beyond his patience.

“Okay, Mr. Manford. Same time, same station tomorrow?”

“Correct.”

Paisley led the way out of the office and through the back door into the shabby parking lot where the Volkswagen was parked. They both lit a cigarette.

“You can't take any shit from those guys,” Paisley said, as he exhaled the first drag of his smoke. “If they think you're afraid, they'll consider you weak…then eat you alive.”

“I know. So, why do you deal with…with that kind of element?”

Paisley was amused by Santo's choice of words. “Element?” He searched for the proper answer. “It's exciting. I like being on the edge.”

“But if you fell off the edge, he would kick you while you were down.”

“Then I have to make sure he knows that I would take him down with me if he tried.”

“Theory doesn't always work, you know.”

“I never theorize, Rick. I always live as if I'm going to die tomorrow. I just don't give a damn…and, I make sure they know it.

“Are you a veteran?”

“Hell no,” Paisley said. “But it's okay if you are.”

Santo was amused by Paisley's indifference. Then he wondered how he understood dying tomorrow without the experience of war.

“Come on. This place gives me the creeps.”

They crossed the parking lot and got into the Volkswagen.

“What now, Paisley?”

“We get high, of course.”

“Of course.”

Paisley started the percolator and began driving back to Six-thirteen to prepare for tonight's undertaking. Santo sat quietly, spinning with dissociated thoughts about the war and the risks of this evening's adventure. Then he shifted his attention upward and discovered the moon floating peacefully in the dark sky. A wave of tranquillity invaded his senses and dissolved his inner turmoil; the decision to participate in this scheme had been made.

He shifted his gaze and greeted the stars, their presence a reminder of the randomness to all things. He settled into the noise of the automobile's engine and let it drown out his thoughts into the comfort of thoughtlessness.