Tavern Tarts by Patrice Caval - Chapter 01

1964 Genre - Vintage Sleaze / Barfies

He never chased a broad. He didn't have to. He had learned that all he had to do was to hold still, while they fought to see who would be next.

Millie slammed the door in the Amazon's face, then she turned to me. "Fine thing. You sleep around the clock. I have your clothes all cleaned and pressed for you, I bring you a wonderful brunch, and I find you playing house with that man-eating bitch!"

"Don't make me laugh, Millie," I protested. "My ribs hurt."

"I should fracture two more of them for you," she said, but she picked up the tray and brought it to me. A still-warm platter held a thick, juicy steak, shoe- string potatoes, and an ear of corn, all seasoned and buttered. There was a chef's salad in a wooden bowl and a silver pot of hot, black coffee.

As I gulped the last of the coffee, the door opened and Stutters walked into the room.

He glanced at Millie. "I was looking all over for you, chick. You're wanted downstairs on the double. Get going!"

Millie gave me a flirtatious wink. "I'll see you later, lover boy. And remember, no more cheating... I'm next!"

"What in the hell are you trying to pull around here?" Stutters asked, pretending to scowl.

"One of your damned Amazons raped me," I said, in mock complaint.

"I wouldn't put up with that. You better carry a club," Stutters advised, and we both laughed.

Chapter One

THINGS HAD been slow all day, but now the bar was filling up with the usual Saturday night regulars.

It was early, but they were as much a part of Saturday night here as are baked beans and apple pie in parts of New England. Already, the room was noisy with bum jokes and thick with tobacco smoke. I glanced down the length of the bar, absently swiping at spilled beer with my bar towel.

The hillbilly combo was already set to go on a raised dais in the rear where the bar shaped out into a horseshoe. They even had their corny straw hats and patched jeans on and were arranging their music on their stands.

Oh, no, I thought, not, 'Here Comes Papa with the Wrong Kind of Load' AGAIN!

I nodded as Ali-Max, the proprietor, walked by on his way to his office.

"How's tricks, Tom?" he asked, giving me a smile, while his steel-gray eyes swept the room.

Calculating the take, of course, as accurate as a cash register: so many small beers, the boilermaker devotees, the winos, here and there a Scotch and water or a bourbon with mix. Ours wasn't the Manhattan and Martini trade. Not that they didn't like the stuff ... most of them would drink anything from shoe polish on up, but a fifteen-cent beer or a thirty-cent shot was more their speed.

"Same as usual, boss," I replied.

Sully, an old sot who was an everyday regular, banged loudly on the counter with his just-emptied beer bottle.

"Hey, Tomi" he yelled. "How about a full one, old buddy?"

I reached into the cooler for a bottle of Budweiser and walked over to him. I set the bottle down, holding onto it so he wouldn't knock it over, as he sometimes did, in his haste to grab it.

"Not so loud, old-timer," I cautioned. "I'd rather not have to shut you off so early."

Peering at me, he put one withered skin-and-bone finger to his lips. "S-s-sh! Did I never tell you about the time I fought Dempsey?"

He put a thumb next to his nose, bobbing and weaving, as though he were shadow-boxing with some fierce opponent. Poor Sully! Off again.

I smiled, half sadly. No need to answer ... he was lost in a world all his own.

A well-dressed stranger walked up and straddled a bar stool. "Give me an Ancient Age and soda, Mac."

I perked up my ears. A live one, I thought. Asking for good whiskey, by name, yet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Daisy, a freelance B-girl, unobtrusively slip her shoulder straps down as far as they would go, to advertise the outsize boobs that were her biggest asset.

I put a shot glass in front of the joe, poured whiskey almost to the rim so he wouldn't figure us for a clip joint, then set soda and ice beside it. He threw a twenty on the bar. I rang up the sixty-cent tab and give him his change in a ten and a five, with the rest ones, a little insurance against someone getting grabby.

Another broad, in a low-cut, emerald-green sheath, sitting a few stools away, also eyed the newcomer.

Her red hair was swirled high in a French twist, and she was a very well-built tomato. If Mr. Big didn't tumble or possibly didn't score, I decided to try for a date myself, at the first opportunity.

My gaze again swept the room. Although Maxie's was widely advertised as the longest bar in Detroit, it was a dump, and the fact that I was head bartender in this gin mill, depressed me. What a letdown for a college graduate who had started out with big ideas.

The hillbilly music began, and I groaned inwardly as Slim Davis's nasal twang echoed even over the din. This time the first number was their second choice, 'The Man Comes Around When Papa Goes Away'.

The other two musicians ... and any orchestra leader should please excuse the term ... one at the piano, the other on the drums ... half-heartedly attempted to follow him. Slim twisted and jerked in the best Elvis tradition.

Evelyn, one of our best waitresses ... that is, one who didn't try to drink up the profits ... sauntered up, her slim, dark good looks enhanced by her tight white uniform.

"Two rum and cokes, a draft, a whiskey sour," she sang out.

Business was looking up. This week everyone must have worked, or worked someone who did.

Leaning over, Evelyn whispered in my ear, nervously fingering the silver dollar she wore on a chain around her neck. "You know that old bag, Cherry, who's been sitting with a soldier at the dark corner table way in the back? Well ... well ... "

She paused, unable to stammer out the rest of what she had wanted to say. Her face was red with embarrassment.

"Well, what?" I asked, impatiently. "For cripes sake—you've been around, Ev. Tell me what's going on.

One of my many jobs was to keep the entertainment moving, but clean.

Evelyn pointed, speechless.

I looked. All I could see was the head of the soldier, apparently looking for something he might have dropped on the floor ... something real valuable like a nickel. Then I noticed that the floor-length red-checked tablecloth was moving suspiciously, and it dawned on me! Cherry must be under the table with him, and I do mean with!

"Oh, brother!" I said. "Get Harry, the bouncer, fast! Before anyone else notices. All we need is to have somebody on the Vice Squad spot that. We'd be done for. We could lose our license for a lot less than that."

Evelyn darted off and I busied myself filling her order, at the same time keeping my eye on what showed of the glassy-eyed soldier. I heaved a sigh of relief as Harry none too gently escorted Cherry and her protesting companion out the back door.

Barney, the assistant bartender who worked with me, stepped to my side and laughed.

"Never a dull moment, eh, pal?" he kidded. "That old broad has been run out of more bars than any dame on record, but she keeps coming back for more.

Cherry ... somebody sure as hell stuck the wrong label on that old pot!"

Before I could reply, the redhead in green caught my eye, holding up her empty cocktail glass.

I put my all into a fresh Manhattan and set it before her with a flourish. I leaned on the bar, the better to stare down the front of her low-cut bodice.

"Like what you see, Curly?" she asked, with a wise look.

"You know it, baby, and the name's Tom."

I gave her my best toothpaste-ad type smile, along with my best sales pitch. "How about sticking around until I get off work? I'll buy you a steak, then we'll get our heads together and try to think of something else to do."

Our heads were far from all we would get together, if I had my way, and I had already thought of what I would like for us to do. She fished out her liquor-soaked cherry, nibbled on it with obvious relish, then looked at me over the rim of the glass, her eyes teasing through her thick lashes.

"You're on, lover," she murmured. ''I'll take a chance on you unless I get busy, otherwise."

I'd take a chance on her any old time.

The seemingly well-heeled stranger motioned to me, interrupting our cozy little chat. Just as I was warming up to my subject, too ... namely, the broad.

I gave her a wink and reached for the Ancient Age bottle which still was almost full. I think it had been here since the joint opened. I replenished his ice and soda and fingered the change out of the pile of silver in front of him.

Everything went smoothly until three punks walked in. Each of them had a cocky swagger, and I knew they were trouble as soon as the first of them pushed the door open. They were as alike as three crows on a telephone wire from their duck-tail haircuts to their black leather jackets, tight pants, and loafers.

They stopped at Barney's station and mounted bar-stools like they were getting ready to gallop.

I watched out of the corner of my eye. Evidently Barney asked to see their I.D. cards, for suddenly one of the punks grabbed an empty beer bottle, and in one deft motion, slammed it down on the edge of the bar, breaking it at the neck. He reached across the bar and grabbed Barney by his tie, pulling him halfway over the bar, the bottle aimed menacingly at Barney's throat.

I leaped into action, scaling the bar, and in two strides, I had tackled the bottle-wielding punk from behind. I snatched the bottle away, slamming the punk back against the bar.

He gave a nasty, jeering laugh. ''You're real tough, huh, daddy-o?"

"If you so much as look sideways, punk, you'll be getting impressions made for new front teeth," I grated.

"Go ahead," he whined. "Hit me. You said yourself I'm a juvenile."

Some juvenile, the kind who looks for a sucker, then tries to lick him.

Harry, our ex-pug bouncer, had grabbed the other two punks by the scruffs of their necks, and was holding them tight.

"What should we do with them, Tom?" he asked.

He eyed the wicked-looking broken bottle. "That's attempted assault."

"I should call the fuzz and let them spend the night in the cooler, but we'll just throw them out," I said.

I shook the one I was holding. "We don't want to see any of you in here again, punk. Remember that.

The next time you won't get off so cotton-picking easy. Get it?"

There was rage in the punk's face, but there was fear, too. He tried to sneer. "Okay, tough guy. You win ... for now, but I'll see you again."

I could hardly wait.

I was kept hopping for the next two hours. The bar was lined up now, three deep, and between taking care of my section and filling orders for Evelyn, the waitress, I was as busy as a horse on the track at Saratoga.

At twelve-thirty, I really had to shut Sully's drinks off and he left, mumbling. At five minutes of two, we gave the last call for drinks. Evelyn finished her rounds and came up to the bar.

She gave me a tired smile. “I'm cutting out now, Tom."

"Sure, doll. Get a good night's rest. You look beat."

I walked down the bar to the redhead. She could have been picked up a dozen or more times during the evening, so I figured I must be in like Flynn. I handed my car keys to her.

"Here's the keys to my heap," I said. "It's the red and white Chrysler at the far side of the parking lot.

Just go out the back door. You couldn't possibly miss it, unless your colorblind."

"I'll wait, lover," she murmured. "Don't be too long. I'm looking forward to that . . . steak."

Her hand touched mine as she took the keys, and she gave it a little squeeze. With that slight contact, the heat was on!

Barney and Lenny, the other two bartenders, emptied their tills, counted up their cash, and put it in sacks along with their tapes, as they always did.

Barney carried both cloth sacks over to me.

"Man, what a night," he sighed. "Sure glad it's not just beginning. How about joining me for a platter of fried rice or something over at the Chink's?"

"Not tonight, Barn," I said. "Thanks for asking, but I'm all tied up."

"The redhead?"

I nodded.

"For a dish like that, I'd pass up fried rice, too,"

he said, with a chuckle.

The bar was deserted now, except for Alki-Max and me. I turned out the outside neon sign and switched off the front lights. Picking up the three sacks of cash, I walked back to Maxie's office. The door was open, so I went right in.

Maxie sat behind his big desk, looking through some bills. Hearing my footsteps, he glanced up.

"Sounded like a good night," he commented.

"About the same as any busy Saturday," I said.

"Maybe a little heavier on the hard stuff."

I set the money sacks on the desk. He always put them into the safe himself.

He leaned back. "Sit down and talk a while, Tom."

"Unless it's important, Maxie, I'd rather put it off. I've got a nice ripe tomato waiting for me. A little stewed, but full of juice!"

"Okay, comedian, take off. Never let it be said that I ever interfered with anyone's love life."

"Thanks, Maxie. Tomorrow is my day off, so I'll see you Monday."

"Have fun, Tom. Good night."

I tossed an answering goodnight over my shoulder as I made a beeline for the door. A bee heading for his honey.

All I could think of was that redheaded hunk of sweetness waiting for me in my car. I was so full of plans for the hours ahead, so wrapped up in thoughts of what that lush-looking body would be like, that what was waiting for me took me completely by surprise.

Out of the heavy darkness where our building adjoined with the next, two figures leaped out at me, one pinning my arms behind my back. A third leaped after the first two, lashing out at me too hard and too fast for me to duck the slamming punch to my face. I had just enough time to glimpse the shine of leather jackets which told me it was my punk friends, the kooky trio I had helped toss out of the bar earlier in the evening.

Another fast blow to my jaw made me feel as though my head were about to come off. One of the punks kept jabbing at me with terrific lightning jabs to my mouth and to my stomach. All of his stored-up hate, not only at me and at the bouncer, but probably at the world, went into every punch.

He gave me a murderous right straight into my quailing guts.

"Not so tough now, friend, are you?" he jeered.

I blinked through glazed eyes, almost choking on my own blood that was filling my mouth. Still I had to answer, "Not with heroes like you, punk."

He swung another anger-impelled right to my head, but this time he missed. It didn't matter. I was so staggered by the previous blows that I sank to the ground. My assailants took off down the alley, bathed in the glow of approaching headlights.

I opened my eyes and stared up at what looked to me like an angel. The gorgeous redhead was holding my head in her lap, wiping at my face with her now bloodstained handkerchief.

"Are you all right, Tom?" she asked, anxiously, her eyes as big as saucers. "Shall I call an ambulance ... or the cops?"

I managed a crooked grin, grimacing with pain.

''I'll be okay. Only who turned out the lights?"

She helped me to my feet. I tried not to lean too heavily on her slight frame, but I still was groggy.

Weaving and lurching like a couple of drunks, we made it, between parked cars, to my Chrysler.

I almost jumped out of what was left of my skin as the redhead suddenly let go of me, stiffened, then began screaming loudly.

In seconds, I spotted what had set off the screams.

It was a girl's body, sprawled on the ground, half under one of the cars.

We both stopped in our tracks, then cautiously approached the body and looked down at it. The clothing was disarranged, and the eyes bugged out, unnaturally, from a face that had already turned purple. A necktie was knotted so tightly around the throat that it cut into the flesh.

I felt sick. I knew the poor broad. It was Evelyn, the waitress I had worked with for over two years.

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