Bluff Walk. Charles R. Crawford

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      “If Tommy wants a quiet evening, who are all the people at the other tables?” I asked.

      “Just a few friends, partner. Now you and the lady need to move along.”

      “Well, I’m another friend, and Tommy told me to drop by any time,” I said. I got a business card out of my wallet and held it out to him. “I’d appreciate it if you gave him my card and told him I’d like to give him my regards.”

      He took a deep drag on the cigarette and then reached out for the card. As he took it with his thumb and forefinger he twisted his hand down, trying to catch my hand with the glowing ember of the cigarette sticking up between his index and middle fingers. Someone had done that to me before with a cigar and I still had a round scar at the base of my thumb. Once burned, twice shy, and I had my hand six inches back from his by the time the tip of his smoke punched through empty air. I kept my forearm up, ready to block the left jab that was the next move, but the soda can never moved. For the second time I thought I saw a spark in his eyes as he waited for my reaction, but when I made no move toward him they faded back into blackness.

      He stuck the cigarette back into his mouth, and said, “Wait here. Don’t come past the rope.” He took two backward steps, then turned and walked back to the far table. I had been wondering, only partly academically, where he kept his business, but I still couldn’t see any sign of a weapon.

      “John, I don’t care where we sit,” Mary said. “Are you going to get in a fight with that man?”

      “No, I don’t think so. Not once he’s talked to the man at the table.”

      I could see him bend over the seated figure, hand him my card and point over at us. Then he straightened up and walked back. He lifted the yellow rope up to head height, and gestured back behind him. “Tommy says come on over,” he said.

      He watched me as we walked under the rope, and I watched him right back. The fact that I couldn’t figure out where he kept his gun made me more, not less, leery of him. I resisted the urge to say I told you so.

      Before we got to the table in the corner, Tommy Traylor stood up and yelled, “John, you old sonofabitch, come on over here!” A few heads turned at the other tables, but they all went right back to partying.

      Tommy was smiling broadly, but his lips stayed together, covering his crooked teeth. He gathered me into a big bear hug, whacking my back hard with his right hand. The top of his bald head glistened pinkly against my chest as I pounded on his wide, fleshy back with my open hand. I had learned from previous encounters that being hugged by Tommy was less embarrassing if you returned his manly backslapping instead of just standing there with your arms trying to reach around him.

      “Goddam, son, you need to put on some weight. I can get my arms clean around you,” he said, grabbing my shoulder and beaming up into my face. “Sit down here and have a plate of swamp chicken with me,” he said, gesturing at a plate stacked with fried meat.

      I half turned to introduce Mary, but before I could say anything he grabbed her and gave her the same hug, without the back beating. Mary, who had learned to expect the unexpected on our dates, hugged him right back. Tommy swiveled his head toward me, and said, “Son, I hate to hurt your feelings, but I’d a lot rather grab aholt of her than you.”

      “I’m relieved to hear it, Tommy,” I said, as he turned back to Mary.

      “Now, what’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked, holding her back away from him.

      Mary didn’t talk a lot but she liked to speak for herself. “My name is Mary Arenduyk,” she said, holding out her right hand. The gesture seemed superfluous after the friendly mauling she had just received, but Tommy took it in both of this and shook it up and down. “I’m Tommy Taylor,” he said. “And I sure am pleased to meet you. Where are you from? England? You don’t talk like us.”

      “The Netherlands,” Mary said. “But that’s close to England.”

      “Well, you sure got a pretty voice. Now sit down here with me,” he said as he pulled out a chair for her.

      A waitress came up to the table as we took chairs on either side of Tommy. Beside Tommys plate of food was an open quart bottle of Jack Daniels’ Black Label that was half gone and a large foam cup that was full of sour mash and crushed ice. The waitress looked like a biker’s girl with her oily jeans, black t-shirt and a tattoo on each forearm. She had bottle blond hair and a face that might have been pretty before the injury that broke her nose and left a four inch long scar across her left cheekbone. Harley wreck or abusive boyfriend, take your pick.

      She leaned on Tommy so that one of the large, sagging breasts under her t-shirt rested on his shoulder. “What are your friends drinking, Tommy?” she asked.

      “What do you want, Mary?” Tommy asked. “Some wine, a beer?”

      “May I have some of your whiskey, please?” she asked him back.

      “Well, sure you can. Do you want a Coke with it?”

      “No, thank you, just a cup of ice like you have,” she said.

      “You heard the lady, sweetie,” he said to the waitress.

      “I’ll take a Bud, please,” I said.

      “A cup of ice and a Budweiser,” Tommy said unnecessarily. “And bring ’em some munchies while they decide what they want for supper.” Tommy reached up and stroked the breast laid out on his shoulder, and the waitress bent down and kissed him on top of his bald head before carrying our order into the kitchen.

      “Is this true love, Tommy? You didn’t even introduce us,” I said.

      “What? Oh, you mean Jessie?” he said. “She’s real pretty, ain’t she?”

      “Yes, she’s very attractive,” I said with a totally straight face.

      “She has beautiful eyes,” Mary said. I hadn’t even noticed Jessie’s eyes, but I had never heard Mary say anything she didn’t mean. Tommy responded to Mary’s obvious sincerity and began to engage her in conversation. Jessie returned quickly with my beer, a cup full of ice for Mary, and a bucket full of more crushed ice. She held a stack of paper plates and two big platters, one of hush puppies and one of UFOs (unidentified fried objects) with a bowl of horseradish dipping sauce in front of Tommy. He gave her a quick smile, but still didn’t offer any introductions.

      Tommy poured a good four or five ounces of whiskey into Mary’s cup, then began heaping a paper plate full of food for her. I listened to him identify the battered covered objects for her: tomato, pickle, chicken, zucchini, shrimp, turtle, and oyster.

      “You decide what you like best then we’ll get you a whole plate,” he said.

      “What is your favorite?” Mary asked, as she took a big swallow of whiskey.

      “I call it swamp chicken, but it’s really soft-shelled turtle,” he said. “A soft-shell will eat anything it can get, dead or alive, so its meat can be a bit strong. Most white people won’t eat it, but I’ve always been partial to it. Now a nigger’ll tell you that an alligator snapping turtle tastes better cause they don’t eat as much dead stuff. But I won’t eat a snappin’ turtle. You know why?”

      Mary shook СКАЧАТЬ