Spending V in the Neighborhood of G

"Want another drink, doll?"

"I can hardly walk now, buster." She chuckled. "Not that I'm walking anywhere soon, I guess. Sure Jimmy, get me another drink. Might as well get smashed."

"Gin?"

"Anything wet that's not water will work."

The walk to the bar was plagued by a series of small earthquakes that made me stumble but I persevered. A half full bottle of Gordon's Gin had been left by the side of the now empty register. I had to wonder if Sam had left it for the two of us, somehow knowing me and the lady would be here for the night? Probably. After so many years tossing drinks that old colored man could read people like a bookie's odds sheet. I grabbed the bottle and two clean glasses, sure why not.

I poured her two fingers and myself a bit closer to three and, as I poured, she startled me with a sudden question.

"So tell me, Jimmy, how does this end? Me bare assed on one of these tables? Violated nine ways to Sunday?"

"I'm considering that." I poured just a drop more into her glass.

She took the glass, shot it back, and then held it out for a refill. "Well, don't think on it too hard, you'll strain something."

"How do you want it to end, doll?"

"Honestly Jimmy I can't say I care. I've been handed around by men for half my life. Shuffled like cards. I thought for a while that I had been part of a winning hand, but I was wrong. So, if I'm doomed to play the losing card, I might as well go out in style. Taken by a two bit piano player while I'm drunk seems about par for me. Right?"

"Can't say I know. I don't know too much about you doll face."

"That's because there's not much to tell." She looked over the top of the second glass of gin. "How about this? How about I stand up, unzip my dress and leave my clothes on the floor? Or maybe I need to be on my knees and show you just how raunchy a woman I can be. Would that be enough to entice you to go ahead and get this over with? We both know how this night is going to end. I knew it when I walked out the door tonight."

"I'm not sure you could even stand up to do that, doll." I tossed back my gin. "Either way, hold that thought for a sec. I've got to go to the john."

She laughed and stuck her cigar back between her teeth. "How terribly romantic, Jimmy."

"Romance is for poets, doll face." I stubbed out my cigarette. "And I do good to rhyme a dirty limerick now and again. Don't let anyone steal my seat while I'm gone."

The flat eyes of all those famous people that have pissed her looked out at me from their fake gold framed pictures as I walked past. Accusingly. Challenging me to be more than I am, to do better than my nature. I looked back out at the empty bar and saw her pouring herself another drink. She was soused already. Not only drunk and willing but all but begging me to take her and walk away. And I was certainly in the mood to do just that, so why was I hesitating? Some fragment of a moral code I'd gathered up at some point in my life? Some worthless desire to be a better man than I was? Or perhaps I was worried about consequences? She was someone of note, some mob widow; who knew what a simple night with her could lead me to?

Did I care anymore?

Surrounded by decades of pissed out alcohol and a shipping barge full of pomade grease I can't say that I do. The world took it's mickey out on me years ago and the laughter is long stale. Maybe that was it? Maybe in her, I was seeing some reflection of myself?

I stopped and looked at my red eyes in the mirror. My face was bristled. I was a mess. Every part of me looked like crap. No wonder this dame was expecting to be manhandled and roughed, I looked like just the man to do that.

With the slow movements brought on by far too much drink, I tried to erase some of the self-inflicted damage I have done over the years. Cold water and a comb can accomplish a lot, but miracles they are not. As I fingered my chin I wonder if she would loan me her razor?

Walking back out, I stopped. She was head down and asleep on the small round table.

The bottle of gin was empty.

** ** ** ** ** ** **

The snow outside had not slacked up in the hours I had played. I was not surprised to see that the streets had shut down. Not even the tire tracks of the last cab remained to mark where it had been.

It was when I went to get a clean rag to wipe the pretty lady's pale, clammy face that I finally got a few answers. Not from her, of course, she was in dreamland, and well on her way to a case of the DT's. Nope, it came from that damn wall of famous people. She was standing in the background of a photo of Glenn Miller. She looked younger by a few years, and the guy next to her looked more alive than I know him to be now.

Tommy "The Fallen Angel" Aguilera.

I knew him. Knew him back before, when he was a coin-flipping, want to be, trying to make it in the dives as a crooner. When that didn't make the bread he wanted, he ran numbers, did odd jobs. Tommy was the type the mob bosses loved. Not Italian enough to be with those guys and not Irish enough to run the other side. A poor nobody that wouldn't be missed when they dropped him. And about this time last year, Tommy got dropped.

Looking at his widow, head down, drunk off her tits, begging life to finish her off like it had her husband; I felt my physical desires slink away, ashamed of themselves. Oh, don't get me wrong there was certainly a part of me that wanted to give this amateur gun moll exactly what she was asking for. Why not, right? Who would care? No one. She was no longer under the watchful eyes of anyone that cared. Oh, she could still get a table in a place like this and a washed-up piano player like me to play for her till she got tired of listening. Yeah, she could still do that much. But for how much longer?

So here she was.

Looking for me to help her find rock bottom.

Nowhere to go from rock bottom, I've been there enough times to know that for sure. It was the part of why she had chosen me that set the bad parts of my brain to thinking wicked thoughts. She said it herself, she left the house looking to have this be her worst night and here she was, with me. This dame chose me1 Was I such a lowlife that she took one look at me and decide I was the type that would do her wrong? I was almost mad enough over that to do exactly that to her. Almost. But then I got to thinking, if I was so far gone down the road towards rock bottom myself that she could see it in me, could others? Was that why it was getting harder and harder to get a gig. Hell, I was playing for pennies a night most nights. If not for tips I wouldn't be able to eat. And it's not like I was getting three squares a day now anyway. Greasy food from greasy dinners served by greasy cooks. All washed down with a steady river of cheap booze and cigarettes, that was my life. Perhaps I was just a has-been ... or even a never-was, but damn it I wasn't a louse. Was I? What did it matter if I slaked my primitive needs on this dame?

By the front door were two padded benches, places for the swells to cool their heels while waiting to get in on a busy night. Of course, it's far too cold there by all that glass, but those padded seats lift out, and the two put together make a fair bed. More comfortable than a few I've spent the night on in fact. I grabbed these and moved them to the side of the room where the steam registers were busy pumping out what little heat they gave. Going back to my mystery lady I picked her up with, if not ease, at least not difficulty. Then I went to get something to cover her up with. One thing a place like Black Louise's has is a ton of left-behind coats and jackets.

Jacky the Pinto would take all the good ones and sell to his mother, but that left more than a few in a pile in a back room.

Arms full, I made my way back. She was of course still out. If she woke up before tomorrow it would be a surprise to me. A last glance out the door when I locked up told me that we wouldn't be disturbed. The snow had moved towards blizzard levels and was going to go a long way towards shutting things down tomorrow.

Covering her, I sat down in a nearby chair and kicked off my shoes. That was when it hit me, I was about to be sleeping next to a woman I had not ... slept with, as it were. Have I ever done that? Hell, how often have I even slept next to a woman? Most dames I've known I've called a cab for and left waiting in a cold hallway while I go to sleep off the drunk I had.

Loosening my tie, I fished loose the top button of my shirt and un-tucked it. My undershirt was hardly enough to sleep in, but it would have to work. It was too cold to be shirtless. Lying down next to her, I propped my head on my hand and looked at her pretty face. In sleep there, a girl-next-door kind of innocence to her looks. The hard case vamp act was just that. An act.

As my eyes got heavy, I pondered what this woman must have been like before she met Tommy and walked that road? Had she been some sweet country flower drawn to the big city lights? Hell, she could have been a nun for all that I know.

Or maybe she had never been innocent.

** ** ** ** ** ** **

It must be morning.

I never feel this shitty during any other part of the day. Opening my eyes, I found another set of eyes looking back at me. They held a puzzlement.

"I'm not sure if I should feel insulted or relieved that you didn't take advantage of me?"

Coughing my lungs up, I sat up, pulling a discarded coat about myself with a shiver. "Well, I'm not sure if I should be insulted by that, doll."

"It Claire. Claire Agu--"

"Aguilera. You're the widow of Tommy Aguilera, the Fallen Angel of Harlem."

"How?'

Smiling, I fished for my cigarettes. "I saw your picture on the wall over there. Glenn Miller."

She glanced at the wall then got a sad thoughtful look. "I had almost forgotten that night. We were both so young then; Tommy was still trying to be a singer. He wanted to ask Mr. Miller for advice." She gave a little shrug. "He didn't like what he heard, my Angel."

I offered her a smoke and lit it for her when she took one.

After the first puff, she looked at me through the smoke. "So why didn't you ... you know?"

My jaw felt like sandpaper when I rubbed a hand across it. "Can't say I know beyond the fact it didn't feel right to do that."

There was no appeasement in her; she gave me a hard stare. "You had to play the shining knight, huh? Don't make a drunk woman a sex toy?'

"No, I could do that. I simply couldn't do that to you, doll." I shrugged.

"Why not?" She gave a terribly unfeminine snort. "Oh, don't tell me you respected me too much, Jimmy. I'm not going to buy that bunk story, fella."

"Buy it or not, I'm not trying to sell anything. I simply didn't do it."

I watched her get to her feet in a huff and stalk off to the women's toilet. With a shrug I sat waiting, pondering a dozen things that had nothing to do with anything. When she came back out I saw that she had put herself to right. Makeup touched up, hair fixed, dress straightened. She walked with a stalking strut, every click of her heels telling me of her anger. I hid my smile when she went to leave and saw the snow.

"Damn it," she muttered.

That unladylike curse did bring out a smile. Getting to my feet I walked over and stood behind her looking out. "They will clear that out the way soon enough. Give it an hour and you can get a cab here, sure enough."

"An hour more of your company, Jimmy might be more than a scorned woman can stand without murdering a piano player."

"Hardly scorned. In honestly, I was too smashed to do more than think of ravaging you. And, as of right now, my head hurts too much for even a thought." I looked her up and down. "You're a hot enough dame to pull any man to you, so don't fret your head on that score."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere. Last night was your chance, piano man."

I nodded and watched her go to use the old pay phone by the end of the bar and try to get her a cab on the way. Walking to the door I opened it enough to look at the place next door. I was not surprised to see that the lights were on there. I would certainly walk a mile in the snow for their breakfast fry-up. That the locals felt the same was understandable.

"Were you born in a barn, Jimmy? You're letting the cold in; put some glass in that pneumonia hole."

Turning I looked back at her. "You want to get your coat and we'll go have some breakfast, doll? Hell, I'll even make it my treat."

"What are we going to eat? Snow?"

I shook my head. "Doll, we're only a few cold steps away from what is possibly the best hash joint in the state. Come on, Claire you're cabs not going to be here till the roads are cleared, am I right?" I shrugged. "You're not going to find much in here but peanuts and lemon slices."

"I guess, after last night, the least you can do is buy me breakfast."

Holding out her coat for her, I then caught the door and walked with my hand at her elbow in case the sidewalk was slippery. She gave that hand an eye but made no comment. Not that any ice had a chance of making such a hoofer as her slip. I could tell she was a light on her feet dancer just from the way she moved.

The cook was happy to see us. We gave him something to do to break the typical boredom. While a few others had braved the snowy streets and icy sidewalks they were mostly, at this hour, half-awake laborers, construction workers, street cleaners, and city workers. Most wore clothes wet from melted snow and expressions of hopeless resignation about the weather. Claire and myself--walking in with a laugh at the sudden collapse of snow off the canopy, covering our heads and shoulders in white--we were like sunshine arriving on a gloomy day.

A bloody Mary, two sunny-side-up eggs, and enough hash to sink a garbage barge later and my belt needed to be loosened and hangover were a bad memory. I shared another of my cigarettes and watched her face as she enjoyed it.

"I hate hangovers," she muttered.

"Still?" At her nod, I shrugged. "Well, look on the bright side. If you didn't drink ... you would wake up knowing that was how good you were going to feel all day."

"Oh, so you're a comedian now as well. Singer, piano player, and comedian? What are you trying to do Jimmy, be famous or something? That can be dangerous."

"You forgot dancer and accordion player." I smiled through a mouth of smoke. "I can play one hell of a polka."

She smiled and shook her head. Sensing movement, I glanced to the right and saw a yellow checker pull up outside of Black Louise's

"Looks like your chariot has arrived, doll."

She glanced over her shoulder and for a half a second there was a sad expression that just touched her eyes. Then Claire was on her feet putting her coat back on, I jumped up to help, but she had it settled by the time I could be of assistance.

"Goodbye, Jimmy." Her hand was on my chest stopping me before I could follow. "Just remember piano player, I was yours for the taking last night and you sat in a hash house and watched me walk away ... untried."

I chuckled, nodded and sat back down. I followed her with my eyes till the cab pulled away. The cold air coming off the glass window seemed to suddenly flood the table. The greasy remains of breakfast and the sad stick of celery in my drink were poor company against that chill. Getting to my feet I dropped a tip on the table; then toss a salute to the cook. He grinned and nodded back at me. The cool morning air was bracing as I minced my way through the wet slush back to the club.

The place was still empty of course.

Somehow the wander past the bar towards my piano supplied me with a bit of piano key oil to help me loosen up my fingers. After a sip or two, I set the glass of gin next to me and began to play.

"She gets too hungry for dinner at eight--"

Hell of a way to have spent Valentine's day, Jimmy. I clanked at the empty table where my kid brother's wife had sat for so many hours, wishing she was back. She was too young to be a widow, by then Tommy had been too young to die. My eyes drifted to an empty spot on the stage, and I knew that if I looked with a certain squint to my eyes--or maybe with enough of this rotgut gin--I would see a young Tommy Aguilera with a mic standing there. He would be sweating with nerves, but crooning out the most beautiful songs while I, his older brother, played the tunes.

"Won't dish the dirt with the rest of the girls--"

Almost hearing that golden throat, which had made my kid brother be known as the Angel of Harlem, I imagined Claire watching him sing. Beautiful, sexy Claire. Suck a looker of a dame that even drunk I hadn't considered myself worthy of her.

"She'd never bother with people she'd hate--"

Or maybe, just maybe washed up old piano player that I was I had been afraid that she might fall for me ... and maybe I for her. That she would kill me just as she had Tommy. In bed, with a smile on my face. Hell of a way to go.

"That's why the lady is a tramp."