The Bum's Rush by G. M. Ford Read Free Book Online Page B

of days, give or take, at yours. Let's call it two days even."
Before I could object, he added, "And that's not to mention the shit
I'm taking from my insurance company about this newly hired employee of
mine who's up in Swedish."
    "There is no justice."
    "Amen, brother." The line clicked, and I was back with Charlotte.
    "Does this mean I should add you to the active file?" she asked.
    "Might as well."
    "The mean streets feel safer already."
    "Thanks. Nice talkin' to ya, Charlotte." 
    "Harriet wanted me to tell you that Mr. Batista's
condition has been upgraded all the way to stable. He seems to have
staged a somewhat miraculous recovery,"
    Why wasn't I surprised? "Thanks again."
    "She said Mr. Batista seems to be quite lucid
except that he doesn't seem to be aware that he's free to leave. He
wanted Harriet to post bond for him or to call you and get you to do
it."
    "Ralph's used to being in jail, not the hospital,"
I said. "What say, for the time being, we don't dissuade him of that
little notion?"
    "Whatever you say."
    "Thanks for the help."
    "Good to have you back, Leo."
    Next, I tried the pay phone at George and Harold's
flop. I let it ring about forty times. Nothing. No chance everybody was
up and out by ten-thirty a.m. There were people in that building who
weren't finished throwing up by this time of day. Somebody must have
torn the phone from the wall again. I swilled the rest of my coffee and
headed for the shower.
    The night wind had churned the overhead blanket of
sludge, mixing it, breaking it in places, sliding it east out over the
Cascades like a cavalcade of dirty elephants joined trunk to tail.
    I parked the Fiat on Eastlake and walked the half
block to the Zoo. I stood inside the battered brown door and waited for
my eyes to adjust. An ornate, carved bar ran the length of the front
room and around the comer toward the Johns. The tables on the left were
deserted. The next room back contained a green acre of snooker table
and, farther back yet and around the corner, more tables, the dollar
pool tables, and the little stage.
    George, Harold, and the rest of the gang were at
the far end of the bar, suckin' 'em down. The place was rilled with
shouts and laughter. The boys were the very models of consistency. They
faced both triumph and tragedy in precisely the same fashion. While
others worked in oils or stone, they had elevated to an art form the
process of perpetual swillage. It was after eleven, so you could make
book that they'd already had three, four beers just to tune the system
a little smidgen to get them vertical, as it were. And since they'd
ventured outdoors at such an ungodly hour, it was also safe to assume
that they'd all had a couple of stiff midmorning bracers usually a
peppermint schnapps or two would do the trick here. Something to keep
the gaze steady and the chin firm on their way to the Zoo. After lunch
and its obligatory cocktails, they would recharge their batteries with
an afternoon pick-me-up or four around the snooker table, which, all
things being equal, would melt right into happy hour, where, as luck
would have it, all semblance of moderation could safely be jettisoned.
On their way out at closing time, they'd snag a halfrack of beer and
split it up among them, everyone pushing three or four deep into his
pockets. That way they were primed and ready for morning. You had to
admire the fearful symmetry of it all.
    Harold saw me first. "Leo!" he shouted. All heads
turned my way. The gang was all here. George, Norman, and Harold held
down their deeded stools while Earlene and Mary leaned on the far end
of the bar, blocking the gate. Billy Bob Fung was engaged in a spirited
game of snooker with the Speaker, whose omnipresent sandwich board made
leaning over the table nearly impossible. He played exclusively with
the bridge. Today's missive read: 
    "You'd Probably Drive Better with That Cellular Phone up Your Ass."
    "You guys heard?" I asked. It was a dumb question.
The bum telegraph