When the Sacred Ginmill Closes Read online

Page 18

 

  I covered her with the top sheet, sat back down again. There was something else Id wanted to do but I couldnt think what it was. I tried to think, and I guess I must have dozed off myself. I dont suppose I was out for more than a few minutes, just time enough to lose myself in a dream that fled from me the minute I opened my eyes and blinked it away.

  I let myself out. Her door had a spring lock. There was a dead bolt you could engage with the key for extra security, but all I had to do was draw the door shut and it was locked, and reasonably secure. I took the elevator down and went outside.

  The rain was holding off. At the corner of Ninth Avenue a jogger passed, running doggedly uptown against what little traffic there was. His T-shirt was gray with sweat and he look ready to drop. I thought of OBannon, Jack Diebolds old partner, getting physically fit before blowing his brains out.

  And then I remembered what Id wanted to do at Carolyns apartment. Id been planning on taking away the little gun Tommy had given her. If she was going to drink like that and get depressed like that, she didnt need to have a weapon in the bedside table.

  But the door was locked. And she was out cold, she wasnt going to wake up and kill herself.

  I crossed the street. The steel gate was drawn most of the way across the front of Armstrongs, and the white globe lights over the front were out, but light showed from within. I walked over to the door, saw that the chairs were on top of the tables, ready for the Dominican kid who came in first thing in the morning to sweep the place out. I didnt see Billie at first, and then I saw him at a stool at the far end of the bar. The door was locked, but he spotted me and came over and let me in.

  He locked the door again after I was through it, walked me over to the bar and slipped behind it. Without my saying anything he poured me a glass of bourbon. I curled my hand around it but didnt pick it up from the top of the bar.

  "The coffees all gone," he said.

  "Thats all right. I didnt want any more. "

  "She all right? Carolyn?"

  "Well, she might have a hangover tomorrow. "

  "Just about everybody I know might have a hangover tomorrow," he said. "I might have a hangover tomorrow. Its gonna pour, I might as well sit in the house and eat aspirin all day. "

  Someone banged on the door. Billie shook his head at him, waved him away. The man knocked again. Billie ignored him.

  "Cant they see the place is closed?" he complained. "Put your money away, Matt. Were closed, the registers locked up, its private-party time. " He held his glass to the light and looked at it. "Beautiful color," he said. "Shes a pisser, old Carolyn. A bourbon drinkers a gentleman and a scotch drinkers- what did she say a scotch drinker was?"

  "I think a hypocrite. "

  "So I gave her the straight line, didnt I? Whats it make a man if he drinks Irish whiskey? An Irishman. "

  "Well, you asked. "

  "What else it makes him is drunk, but in a nice way. I only get drunk in the nicest possible way. Ah, Jesus, Matt, these are the best hours of the day. You can keep your Morrisseys. This is like having your own private after-hours, you know? The joint empty and dark, the music off, the chairs up, one or two people around for company, the rest of the world locked the hell out. Great, huh?"

  "Its not bad. "

  "No, its not. "

  He was freshening my drink. I didnt remember drinking it. I said, "You know, my trouble is I cant go home. "

  "Thats what Thomas Wolfe said, You Cant Go Home Again. Thats everybodys trouble. "

  "No, I mean it. My feet keep taking me to a bar instead. I was out in Brooklyn, I got home late, I was tired, I was already half in the bag, I started to walk to my hotel and I turned around and came here instead. And just now I put her to sleep, Carolyn, and I had to drag myself out of there before I fell asleep in her chair, and instead of going home like a sane human being I came back here again like some dim homing pigeon. "

  "Youre a swallow and this is Capistrano. "

  "Is that what I am? I dont know what the hell I am anymore. "

  "Oh, bullshit. Youre a guy, a human being. Just another poor son of a bitch who doesnt want to be alone when the sacred ginmill closes. "

  "The what?" I started to laugh. "Is that what this place is? The sacred ginmill?"

  "Dont you know the song?"

  "What song?"

  "The Van Ronk song. And so weve had another night- " He broke off. "Hell, I cant sing, I cant even get the tune right. Last Call, Dave Van Ronk. You dont know it?"

  "I dont know what youre talking about. "

  "Well, Christ," he said. "You have got to hear it. You have by Christ got to hear this song. Its what weve been talking about, and on top of that its the fucking national anthem. Come on. "

  "Come on and what?"

  "Just come on," he said. He put a Piedmont Airlines flight bag on top of the bar, rooted around under the back bar and came up with two unopened bottles, one of the twelve-year-old Jameson Irish he favored and one of Jack Daniels. "This okay?" he asked me.

  "Okay for what?"

  "For pouring over your head to kill the cooties. Is it okay to drink is my question. Youve been drinking Forester, but I cant find an unopened bottle, and theres a law against carrying an opened bottle on the street. "

  "There is?"

  "There ought to be. I never steal opened bottles. Will you please answer a simple question? Is Jack Black all right?"

  "Of course its all right, but where the hell are we going?"

  "My place," he said. "Youve got to hear this record. "

  "BARTENDERS drink free," he said. "Even at home. Its a fringe benefit. Other people get pension plans and dental care. We get all the booze we can steal. Youre gonna love this song, Matt. "

  We were in his apartment, an L-shaped studio with a parquet floor and a fireplace. He was on the twenty-second floor and his window looked south. He had a good view of the Empire State Building and, farther down on the right, the World Trade Center.

  The place was sparsely furnished. There was a white mica platform bed and dresser in the sleeping alcove, a couch and a sling chair in the middle of the room. Books and records overflowed a bookcase and stood around in stacks on the floor. Stereo components were placed here and there- a turntable on an upended milk crate, speakers resting on the floor.

  "Where did I put the thing?" Billie wondered.

  I walked over to the window, looked out at the city. I was wearing a watch but I purposely didnt look at it because I didnt want to know what time it was. I suppose it must have been somewhere around four oclock. It still wasnt raining.

  "Here," he said, holding up an album. "Dave Van Ronk. You know him?"

  "Never heard of him. "

  "Got a Dutch name, looks like a mick and I swear on the blues numbers he sounds just like a nigger. Hes also one bitchin guitar player but he doesnt play anything on this cut. Last Call. He sings it al fresco. "

  "Okay. "

  "Not al fresco. I forget the expression. How do you say it when you sing without accompaniment?"

  "What difference does it make?"

  "How can I forget something like that? I got a mind like a fucking sieve. Youre gonna love this song. "

  "Thats if I ever get to hear it. "

  "A cappella. Thats what it is, a cappella. As soon as I stopped actively trying to think of it, it popped right into my head. The Zen of Remembering. Where did I put the Irish?"

  "Right behind you. "

  "Thanks. You all right with the Daniels? Oh, you got the bottle right there. Okay, listen to this. Ooops, wrong groove. Its the last one on the album. Naturally, you couldnt have anything come after this one. Listen. "

  And so weve had another night

  Of poetry and poses

  And each man knows hell be alone

  When the sacred ginmill closes.

  The melody sounded like an Irish folk air. The singer did indeed sing without accompaniment, his voice rough but curiously gen
tle.

  "Now listen to this," Billie said.

  And so well drink the final glass

  Each to his joy and sorrow

  And hope the numbing drunk will last

  Till opening tomorrow

  "Jesus," Billie said.

  And when we stumble back again

  Like paralytic dancers

  Each knows the question he must ask

  And each man knows the answer

  I had a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. I poured from the bottle into the glass. "Catch this next part," Billie was saying.

  And so well drink the final drink

  That cuts the brain in sections

  Where answers do not signify

  And there arent any questions

  Billie was saying something but the words werent registering. There was only the song.

  I broke my heart the other day.

  It will mend again tomorrow.

  If Id been drunk when I was born

  Id be ignorant of sorrow

  "Play that again," I said.

  "Wait. Theres more. "

  And so well drink the final toast

  That never can be spoken:

  Heres to the heart that is wise enough

  To know when its better off broken

  He said, "Well?"

  "Id like to hear it again. "

  " Play it again, Sam. You played it for her, you can play it for me. I can take it if she can. Isnt it great?"

  "Play it again, will you?"

  We listened to it a couple of times through. Finally he took it off and returned it to its jacket and asked me if I understood why he had to drag me up there and play it for me. I just nodded.

  "Listen," he said, "youre welcome to crash here if you want. That couch is more comfortable than it looks. "

  "I can make it home. "

  "I dont know. Is it raining yet?" He looked out the window. "No, but it could start any minute. "

  "Ill chance it. I want to be at my place when I wake up. "

  "I got to respect a man who can plan that far in the future. You okay to go out on the street? Sure, youre okay. Here, Ill get you a paper bag, you can take the JD home with you. Or here, take the flight bag, theyll think youre a pilot. "

  "No, keep it, Billie. "

  "What do I want with it? I dont drink bourbon. "

  "Well, Ive had enough. "

  "You might want a nightcap. You might want something in the morning. Its a doggie bag, for Christs sake. Whend you get so fancy you cant take a doggie bag home with you?"

  "Somebody told me its illegal to carry an opened bottle on the street. "

  "Dont worry. Its a first offense, youre odds-on to get probation. Hey, Matt? Thanks for coming by. "

  I walked home with the songs phrases echoing in my mind, coming back at me in fragments. "If Id been drunk when I was born Id be ignorant of sorrow. " Jesus.

  I got back to my hotel, went straight upstairs without checking the desk for messages. I got out of my clothes, threw them on the chair, took one short pull straight from the bottle and got into bed.

  Just as I was drifting off the rain started.

  Chapter 13

  The rain kept up all weekend. It was lashing my window when I opened my eyes around noon Friday, but it must have been the phone that woke me. I sat on the edge of the bed and decided not to answer it, and after a few more rings it quit.