tossed back a shot of Bushmills to take the edge off her frustration at not being able to whack anyone with her baseball bat. She wasn't really angry that Molly had bitten a customer. After all, he was a tourist and rated above the mice in the walls only because he carried cash. Maybe the fact that something had actually happened in the Slug would bring in a little business. People would come in to hear the story, and Mavis could stretch, speculate, and dramatize most stories into at least three drinksa tell.
Business had been slowing over the last couple of years. People didn't seem to want to bring their problems into a bar. Time was, on any given afternoon, you'd have three or four guys at the bar, pouring down beers as they poured out their hearts, so filled with self-loathing that they'd snap a vertebra to avoid catching their own reflection in the big mirror behind the bar. On a given evening, the stools would be full of people who whined and growled and bitched all night long, pausing only long enough to stagger to the bathroom or to sacrifice a quarter to the jukebox's extensive self-pity selection. Sadness sold a lot of alcohol, and it had been in short supply these last few years. Mavis blamed the booming economy, Val Riordan, and vegetables in the diet for the sadness shortage, and she fought the insidious invaders by running two-for-one happy hours with fatty meat snacks (The whole point of happy hour was to purge happiness, wasn't it?), but all her efforts only served to cut her profits in half. If Pine Cove could no longer produce sadness, she would import some, so she advertised for a Blues singer.
The old Black man wore sunglasses, a leather fedora, a tattered black wool suit that was too heavy for the weather, red suspenders over a Hawaiian shirt that sported topless hula girls, and creaky black-on-white wing tips. He set his guitar case on the bar and climbed onto a stool.
Mavis eyed him suspiciously and lit a Tarryton 100. She'd been taught as a girl not to trust Black people.
"Name your poison," she said.
He took off his fedora, revealing a gleaming brown baldness that shone like polished walnut. "You gots some wine?"
"Cheap-shit red or cheap-shit white?"Mavis cocked a hip, gears and machinery clicked.
"Them cheap-shit boys done expanded.Used to be jus' one flavor."
"Red or white?"
"Whatever sweetest, sweetness."
Mavis slammed a tumbler onto the bar and filled it with yellow liquid from an icy jug in the well.
"That'll be three bucks."
The Black man reached out – thick sharp nails skating the bar surface, long fingers waving like tentacles, searching,the hand like a sea creature caught in a tidal wash – and missed the glass by four inches.
Mavis pushed the glass into his hand. "You blind?"
"No, itbe dark in here."
"Take off your sunglasses, idjit."
"I can't do that ma'am. Shades go with the trade."
"What trade? Don't you try to sell pencils inhere. I don't tolerate beggars."
"I'm a Bluesman, ma'am. I hear ya'lllookin for one."
Mavis looked at the guitar case on the bar, at the Black man in shades, at the long fingernails of his right hand, the short nails and knobby gray calluses on the fingertips of his left, and she said, "I should have guessed. Do you have any experience?"
He laughed, a laugh that started deep down and shook his shoulders on the way up and chugged out of his throat like a steam engine leaving a tunnel. "Sweetness, I got me more experience than a busload o' hos. Ain't no dust settled a day on Catfish Jefferson since God done first dropped him on this big ol' ball o' dust. That's me, call me Catfish."
He shook hands like a sissy, Mavisthought, just let her have the tips of his fingers. She used to do that before she had her arthritic finger joints replaced. She didn't want any arthritic old Blues singer. "I'm going to need someone through Christmas. Can you stay that long or would your dust settle?"
"I 'spose I could slow down a bit.Too cold to go back East." He
Business had been slowing over the last couple of years. People didn't seem to want to bring their problems into a bar. Time was, on any given afternoon, you'd have three or four guys at the bar, pouring down beers as they poured out their hearts, so filled with self-loathing that they'd snap a vertebra to avoid catching their own reflection in the big mirror behind the bar. On a given evening, the stools would be full of people who whined and growled and bitched all night long, pausing only long enough to stagger to the bathroom or to sacrifice a quarter to the jukebox's extensive self-pity selection. Sadness sold a lot of alcohol, and it had been in short supply these last few years. Mavis blamed the booming economy, Val Riordan, and vegetables in the diet for the sadness shortage, and she fought the insidious invaders by running two-for-one happy hours with fatty meat snacks (The whole point of happy hour was to purge happiness, wasn't it?), but all her efforts only served to cut her profits in half. If Pine Cove could no longer produce sadness, she would import some, so she advertised for a Blues singer.
The old Black man wore sunglasses, a leather fedora, a tattered black wool suit that was too heavy for the weather, red suspenders over a Hawaiian shirt that sported topless hula girls, and creaky black-on-white wing tips. He set his guitar case on the bar and climbed onto a stool.
Mavis eyed him suspiciously and lit a Tarryton 100. She'd been taught as a girl not to trust Black people.
"Name your poison," she said.
He took off his fedora, revealing a gleaming brown baldness that shone like polished walnut. "You gots some wine?"
"Cheap-shit red or cheap-shit white?"Mavis cocked a hip, gears and machinery clicked.
"Them cheap-shit boys done expanded.Used to be jus' one flavor."
"Red or white?"
"Whatever sweetest, sweetness."
Mavis slammed a tumbler onto the bar and filled it with yellow liquid from an icy jug in the well.
"That'll be three bucks."
The Black man reached out – thick sharp nails skating the bar surface, long fingers waving like tentacles, searching,the hand like a sea creature caught in a tidal wash – and missed the glass by four inches.
Mavis pushed the glass into his hand. "You blind?"
"No, itbe dark in here."
"Take off your sunglasses, idjit."
"I can't do that ma'am. Shades go with the trade."
"What trade? Don't you try to sell pencils inhere. I don't tolerate beggars."
"I'm a Bluesman, ma'am. I hear ya'lllookin for one."
Mavis looked at the guitar case on the bar, at the Black man in shades, at the long fingernails of his right hand, the short nails and knobby gray calluses on the fingertips of his left, and she said, "I should have guessed. Do you have any experience?"
He laughed, a laugh that started deep down and shook his shoulders on the way up and chugged out of his throat like a steam engine leaving a tunnel. "Sweetness, I got me more experience than a busload o' hos. Ain't no dust settled a day on Catfish Jefferson since God done first dropped him on this big ol' ball o' dust. That's me, call me Catfish."
He shook hands like a sissy, Mavisthought, just let her have the tips of his fingers. She used to do that before she had her arthritic finger joints replaced. She didn't want any arthritic old Blues singer. "I'm going to need someone through Christmas. Can you stay that long or would your dust settle?"
"I 'spose I could slow down a bit.Too cold to go back East." He
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