Slow Burn by G. M. Ford Read Free Book Online

glasses and three empty shot glasses
rested on the far end of the bar. The tops of the stools were covered with an
array of coats, sweaters, vests, ponchos and plastic bags. The Boys were
playing snooker. As I stood at the corner of the bar and watched, it occurred
to me that these old guys were, at this point in my life, my only tangible
bequest from my father. Funny that they were the only ones who'd actually known
him, and yet they were the only ones who never tried to trade on his name.
    George Paris
saw me first. Sometime back in the early seventies, George's banking career had
fallen victim to both merger mania and his own unquenchable thirst for single
malt scotch. His finely chiseled features and slicked-back white hair made him
look like a ring announcer. If you didn't look into his filigreed eyes or down
at his mismatched shoes, you could easily mistake George for a functioning
member of the global village.
    "The
prodigal returns," he said.
    I waved three
fingers at Bonnie. "Wine for my friends."
    The wine was,
of course, purely metaphorical. I mean, they'd sure as hell drink wine if That’s
all there was. Hell, they'd drink cleaning products if that's all there was,
but not if somebody else was buying. No, no. I checked my watch:
eleven-fifteen. By now they were well into the shank of their drinking day.
    "Leo,"
shouted Ralph Batista. He stumbled over my way, the butt of his pool cue
clattering across the boards, threw an arm around my shoulder and planted a wet
kiss on my cheek. He smelled of diesel fuel and dry vomit. Ralph used to be a
well-known port official. In his younger days, he mustered the longshoremen's
vote for the old man. The extra folds of skin on his face, combined with a pallcity
of functioning brain cells, gave him the benign countenance of a cabbage. Inner
peace by default.
    "Hey,
Harry, old boy. Look who's here," he shouted.
    Harold Green
had sold men's shoes at The Bon and been active in the Retailers Union. He used
to be taller. He was one of those drunks who just keeps getting skinnier and
skinnier, each lost ounce further emphasizing his baseball-sized Adam's apple
and cab-door ears.
    Harold was up
on one foot, leaning over the table, sizing up a tricky three-rail shot. When
he heard the unmistakable sound of boilermakers fatting the bar, he left the
cue rolling on the table and hustled over.
    "Howdy,
kid," he said as-he squeezed by me.
    Other than an
unquenchable thirst, these three had one other thing in common. Each had
managed to hang in there long enough to have garnered a meager monthly stipend
from his respective employer. Not a full pension, not enough to make it alone,
but, with careful management, enough to collectively keep them in liquor and
even, sometimes, out of the rain. Simplify. Simplify. That was their motto.
    With the
precision of a drill team, the twisted trio downed their shots, slapped the
glasses back on the bar and chased it with the beer.
    "Ah,"
said Ralph. "The pallse that refreshes."
    "Ambrosia,"
confirmed Harold.
    George agreed.
"Nectar of the gods," he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
    "Could you
guys use a little work?" I asked. "You got something for us?"
Ralph asked. "No, you idiot, he's taking a survey," snarled George.
"One hundred bucks a day. Each," I added.
    "No
shit," said Ralph.
    "We're
going to need a bunch more people, too."'
    "How
many?" George asked.
    "I figure
nine more, plus you three."
    "Well,"
George said, "there's Norman, for one."
    "Where is Norman, anyway?"
    "He's
sleeping in."
    Harold
explained. "He got overserved last night at the Six-Eleven. Barkeep's got
no sense at all. Oughta call the city on him."
    "Okay,"
I said. "Norman for four. Big Frank, Judy, Mary and Earlene, Billy Bob
Fung, and Flounder for ten. Who else? I need two more. What about Waldo?"
    "In the
can," George said. "Got some twenty days left."
    "Red
Lopez?"
    "I can
find Red," said Ralph. "One more."
    George started
to open his mouth. I beat him to it.
    "Not