- be nice, and make conversation - echoed inside my skull. "I trust you have had an enjoyable evening?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah. Not bad. Just a couple cocktails. Been going to theParadise near a quarter century. Used to go there after work when I worked at Rennie's. Remember Rennie's?"
"No, I am new to town."
"Oh. Rennebohm's used to have drug stores all over town. Now they're all Walgreen's. That statue on top of the Capitol? Joke used to be that was Mrs. Rennebohm pointing to where the next store would be. Had one right on the Square, at the top ofState Street . Me and the other girls, we'd work the lunch counter, knock off about three or four, then go to theParadise for cocktails. They closed the last Rennies 'bout five years ago."
"Did you seek employment elsewhere?"
"Naw, I was already over sixty. Figured I'd retire. It's okay, but I miss the girls, and I miss theParadise . Don't get downtown much, living on theEast Side , 'sides, can't afford going out for cocktails any more than one or two times a month."
The numbered streets marked our penetration intoMadison 'sEast Side . First, Second and so on, until the sign with the left turn arrow with a line through it markedSixth Street . I cursed in a long dead language, then at the last moment saw the fine print, "4PM to 6PM ," and Granny was absolutely correct: it was after six.
"That is three dollars and fifty cents," I said, once parked in Granny's driveway.
She handed me a five-dollar bill. I laid the crumpled note on my thigh, then handed her a dollar, but she stopped me before I could dig out the remaining 50 cents change.
"You're a very nice young man," she said, handing me back the dollar, reaching for the door handle.
I jumped out of the cab and opened the door for her and watched her until she was safely inside her house, then turned the volume up on the radio and listened.
Feel free to work at your own pace, at least in the beginning.
In order to pay Granny the proper attention, I had lowered the radio's volume, relegating the dispatcher's crackling transmissions to mere background noise.
"West near the U Hospital. West on the Lakeshore.Frances and U. Friendly Corners. Union Corners."
When in doubt, bid.
"Shifty," the dispatcher said. "Shifty, your bid." His voice had grown quite impatient. "Mister Farkus, do you care to bid, or are you just hitting your bid button to exercise your index finger?"
Shifty - he was using slang of an unfamiliar nature and then berating me for not understanding. What a disagreeable fellow! I looked up at the street signs. "Johnson and North."
"Anybody beat North and John for the Town Dump?" A moment later, "Fifty, get the Town Dump for Evan."
"Excuse me?" I asked, feeling puzzled. The Town Dump? Who would be there at this time of night? A city sanitation specialist?
"The Town Pump, Mister Farkus. It's a bar. At Union Corners."
"Where exactly?"
The dispatcher sighed. "Union Corners is the intersection of East Wash,Milwaukee and North, so called because it's one block west ofUnion Street and because the Union House bar is right there. The Town Pump is at the northeast corner. Do you copy, Mister Farkus?"
"Ten-four." I opened the map to determine the precise location.
"Update your radio, Mister Farkus," the dispatcher said, moments after his previous transmission. Hastily, I punched the acknowledge button, then consulted the radio zone map, just to make sure to update into the proper geographic zone. That completed, I proceeded onward to my next call and proudly managed to find the Town Pump on the first attempt.
The sight of a large yellow vehicle with a light on top prompted no movement from the patrons of this particular establishment. After the requisite minute, I went inside, only to quickly discover why the dispatcher had called this charming little bistro "the Town Dump."
The white walls had long gone yellow from the cigarette smoke and were dotted with the crushed remains of insects. The stench of stale and fresh vomit hung luridly in the air. The barrel-chested bartender wore a large, black patch that covered nearly half of his pockmarked face.
"Somebody call for a cab," I said, lowering my tone a couple octaves and adding a pinch of gravel to my voice. The patrons, an odoriferous collection of scraggly beards and unwashed clothes, turned and stared. My nostrils pinched shut, trying to beat back the assault of unappetizing throats covered with sour-tasting flesh, yet this