attire, a brief smiled curled the corners of her mouth. Perhaps this group had actually heard of a tip before. She'd give it her best shot. "Afternoon special is on," she added politely. "Draft beer's sixty cents."
"Is there a minimum?" Auntie Lil inquired politely.
"Yeah. Two drinks per floor show. And here comes the first show." The bartender's right foot darted out and she crushed a large roach firmly beneath her plastic shoe. It crunched and she whooped at her own joke. When no one else laughed, she coughed, straightened up, and added in a get-tough-quick voice, "People don't get to sit here who don't buy nuthin', if that's what you mean, honey."
"My nephew and I will have the special," Auntie Lil quickly decided. The bartender stared at T.S. like she'd never run across the concept of a nephew before.
Herbert Wong politely ordered a glass of water. The bartender shifted her stare to him, then ambled behind the bar, busied herself over an unseen sink and returned carrying a tray that held three small smudged glasses. Herbert's water was tepid and slightly brownish. In fact, it looked a whole lot like the beer.
"One water for Mr. Rockefeller here," she said, plunking the glass on the table. "And here's a couple of brews for you two mad, mad party people."
"We're looking for a Detective George Santos," Auntie Lil said.
"Yeah? You family? Or planning to confess?" The bartender eyed the pocketbooks again and cackled loudly. "Well, Georgie don't usually come in until five." She snapped her gum and squinted at them to get a better view. "Say, what do folks like you want with a guy named 'Santos'? You don't look like no Spaniards to me." Herbert Wong received a particularly thorough once-over.
"We're friends," T.S. said.
"Georgie's got no friends. Just an ex-wife, a couple of suspects and a lot of acquaintances." The bartender followed this gloomy pronouncement by marching back to the bar and pouring herself a healthy shot of vodka. She slammed it back in one gulp and banged the glass down on the bar.
T.S. watched the bartender's gesture with envy. Such blatant uncouthness! Such freedom! An irresistible urge overcame him. "Allow me," T.S. yelled to her from across the room. He peeled off a few bills from the small wad in his pocket and threw them on the table for effect. "Have another on us. And what the heck—buy the house a round of drinks!" He returned Auntie Lil's stare and confessed in a low whisper, "Sorry. But I've always wanted to do that."
The house—which consisted entirely of the toothless old man— cackled its gleeful approval. He pounded the bar, hooting and grunting with an enthusiasm far surpassing his demonstrated zeal for wrestling.
"You for real?" The bartender eyed the bills as if they might be counterfeit, then shrugged and poured herself another. "Sure you won't join me?"
"No, thank you, madam. This will do us just nicely." T.S. raised his beer glass in salute and nudged Auntie Lil until she did the same.
"Have you lost your mind?" she whispered to her nephew.
"Not at all. You're always telling me to loosen up." T.S. took a deep breath, followed by a tiny sip, which ended up in a fine spray over the pocketbooks. "This beer tastes like it should be tested for steroids," he said, swabbing his mouth out with his handkerchief.
Auntie Lil took his word for it. "Let's come back later," she decided. "I can think of better places to kill a few hours."
"A good idea," Herbert said. "Perhaps by then the rust will have settled to the bottom of my glass of water. I have no doubt it will still be on this table." He led the retreat by hopping up and waving to the bartender. "We shall return," he promised as he bowed his head at her. She bowed hers back, the chain on her cat-eye glasses jingling as she did so.
"We'd like to surprise Detective Santos," T.S. added, throwing a few more bills onto the pile.
"Sure you would. Wouldn't we all?" She slammed back her second shot of vodka as her cat-eyes followed them out the door.
"I could hardly breathe in there!" Auntie Lil gasped as she gulped in bursts of air that, while not exactly fresh given they were standing by a major highway, were at least foul in a more familiar way.
"They ought to mop the floor once in a while," T.S. observed. "It wouldn't hurt the atmosphere any."
"Your Detective Santos must be one depressed man," Herbert Wong