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CHAPTER 11

Charles White, The Beer Man

      WEEKDAYS, LUCY opened up for lunch from eleven-thirty to one, because every little bit helped.

      The first thing she did after unlocking the door was to look in the cashbox again. Then she did some arithmetic. Starting with what was in the bank account, subtracting the payroll checks she'd written on Saturday evening, adding in Saturday's cash, and the credit card charges which would count as deposits at the bank by tomorrow, and subtracting the Merchant Charges the bank took for processing the credit card deposit, if all her arithmetic was correct, she needed twenty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents worth of lunches, in cash, to be able to pay the beer man. That meant she needed five, maybe six lunches that paid cash, and if she drove over to the bank right after closing for lunch and deposited everything from Saturday and everything that came in, she could write the beer check to Charles White. And it would clear, always supposing he didn't deposit the check until tomorrow. Twenty-seven dollars. And sixty-three cents.

      Clive was the first customer. Around eleven-thirty, he and Willis Watson came in for a ham-and-cheese. Since Clive was giving Willis a ride, Lucy figured that Willis's old Chevvy must have broken down again.

      Even so, Willis was beaming. "Clive's giving me a ride to the bus depot," he told Lucy.

      "You going on a trip, Willis?"

      "Nope, to work. Up to Belen. They took me on at the tire department up at that new K-Mart up there."

      "That's a long way to go to work," she said.

      He nodded. "I'm going to be staying up there weekdays — just coming back Sundays for the next little while. But it's a very responsible position."

      "Well, I'm glad to hear it's a good job," Lucy said. Willis had been out of work a long time, so this was a big thing for him. He had half a dozen kids to feed, all crowded into an old trailer out beyond the dump.

      He nodded, "Listen, while you're making that ham-an'-cheese, you might as well get me one, too. Since I'll be making some money now, I guess I can afford it."

      She hated to take money from Willis, and he would pay her in dimes and quarters, it would be cash. And Clive always paid cash. Together they counted for about one-and-a-half charged.

      Lucy poured them each a cup of coffee and went into the kitchen to make sandwiches. And there was Shark. Oh dear, had Gene told him to come cover lunches too? That meant she would have to pay him more. Well, that could wait till tonight.

      Shark watched her put mustard on the bread. "Can I do that?"

      "No, but you can get me out a jar of pickles," Lucy answered. She was preoccupied. She was doing subtraction in her mind.

      When she brought the sandwiches in, Willis telling Clive: ". . . and he said 'Lookie here, Pa — I won the ribbon for the Most Improved Handwritin' of the Month.'"

      Clive reached for his sandwich. "How about that."

      "So I said to him, 'Well, Joseph, you must have won it at cards, then. Because can't nobody read your handwriting to save their lives.'" Willis tittered and dug Clive in the side with his elbow. "You know what he said to that, Clive?"

      Clive looked straight ahead, not answering, so Lucy asked, "What did he say?"

      Willis turned to her triumphantly, "He said Mrs. Arthur told him that although his handwriting was still the worst she ever saw, he'd worked so hard at improving it that he'd deserved the prize this time. How about that?"

      "Well how nice," Lucy said. And then, "Is that Calvin Arthur's mother? I thought she was still teaching sixth grade. Joseph isn't in sixth grade yet is he?"

      "Yep, he's the smart one." Willis added reverently. "My Joseph always gets along with his teachers, and he thinks the world of Miz. Arthur."

      Lucy refilled up Clive's cup. "Glad to hear it."

      "Say there, young lady — you want to fix me a BLT, and some of that chili of yours?" Rudy Grosbeck slung his mail sack on the floor at the far end of the counter from Clive and Willis, and sat down heavily. He was a big man with a big nose and a head of bushy tow-colored hair.

      "Well hi, Mr. Grosbeck. "I must have been dreaming, not to see you come in," Lucy said, pouring another coffee.

      He began spooning sugar into the coffee cup as she poured. "No sleeping on the job, now. You don't get a nap at lunchtime unless you get up as early as I do."

      Mr. Grosbeck always ordered a big lunch, Lucy thought, as she headed for the kitchen. Maybe today he'd have a piece of pie, too. She started the bacon and told Shark to make some light toast. Then she ladled out his chili and hurried back with it.

      Ricky Morganstern had come in while she was gone. "'Lo, Lucy." He sat down with Clive and Willis. "Say, you all seen Cal's dog, Wolfgang Amador? Cal's looking all over town for him."

      Clive shook his head and continued to eat.

      "Too bad." Ricky looked at Clive's plate. "I think maybe I'll have a bite too. What's good?"

      "That's ham and cheese, but I'm making a BLT for Mr. Grosbeck, if you like that better."

      "Okay. And a grape soda." He turned back to Clive, who was now trying to ignore Willis on one side and Ricky on the other. "Listen, I want to ask your opinion about something. About a business I'm thinking of going into."

      Clive chewed on in resolute silence, but Willis leaned forward. "What kind of business?"

      "Well, this old fella that came in the drug store last week was telling me about pistachio farming.

      "What's pistachio farming?" Mr Grosback asked.

      As Lucy returned to the kitchen, she could hear Ricky saying, "Pistachio nuts. You grow them in an orchard, like peaches or apples, and it sure sounds like a good thing to get into. Pistachios are worth a mint of money, you know. And he's been raising them himself, north of Austin someplace, he says — and really cleaning up. Ever since that, I been thinking about it."

      "You got my sandwich?" Mr. Grosbeck called. He had already finished his chili.

      "Right here." Lucy trotted down to the end of the counter where he sat.

      "Been a hard morning," he said. "Very hard. Need to get some nourishment in me. You want to reach me that Tabasco you keep over there?"

      Lucy handed him the hot-sauce bottle, and he shook it several times over the sandwich before tasting it again. "Had to deliver a big load of advertising flyers this morning. Hardly had time to parcel out the real mail."

      Lucy took the empty chili bowl back to the kitchen, put it in the sink and ran water into it. Well — four lunches so far. If this kept up, she'd pay off Charles White, easy. Maybe she'd wasted her time worrying about it.

      She wiped a spot of bacon grease off the work counter. And Uncle Bob had been really chipper yesterday. And this morning, too.

      He'd gone with them to the wedding yesterday — the three of them in the pickup, with Normalade holding the baby. The family had all sat together. Uncle Bob on the aisle, Normalade next, then Lucy. Tagg and Bobby had slid in from the other side, Tagg next to Lucy and Bobby on the end, as far from Normalade as possible.

      Her thoughts drifted to the wedding. Everything had been so pretty. Melida in a white dress with real flowers in her hair, half a dozen bridesmaids all in various shades of pink, garlands of pink paper roses, pink candles.

      Lucy thought of Gene and Melida saying their vows, and she was surprised to find that her eyes were full of tears. Stupid! She got two pies out of the chiller and went back through the swinging door into the bar. "Who needs a piece of pie?"

      "What kind," Mr. Grosbeck asked.

      She put both plates down on the bar. "This one's apple, and this one's chocolate silk."

      Willis turned an eager look on Clive, who nodded and Willis's eyes lit up. "Chocolate," he said eagerly.

      "Me too," Ricky said.

      I'll have some apple," Clive nodded.

      The postman leaned forward, his eyes traveling from one plate to the other. "Apple or chocolate. Apple or chocolate . . . well — " He let out a big laugh. "Guess I'll just have to try one of each before I decide."

      Lucy went back to the kitchen and got plates and forks.

      All during the wedding she'd been hoping that Bobby would be touched, remembering his own wedding last year, and make up with Normalade and come home with them. But that hadn't happened. While Bobby was shaking Gene's hand, Tagg had taken Lucy aside and told her he and Bobby were leaving to help Swan bring her things down from Albuquerque.

      "Seems she has some dishes and plants and clothes and — and birdcages and things," Tagg had said with a grin.

      Lucy had frowned at him. Birdcages for goodness sake!

      She'd been really irritated with Tagg all through the wedding. He had leaned close and whispered. "Pretty service, isn't it?"

      And when she had to nod, he'd leaned close again and whispered. "Always thought I'd like one of those myself."

      Lucy didn't answer that. Who did he think he was talking to, anyway?

      She hadn't seen either of them since they took off in Tagg's big truck. Bobby must have slept over at Tagg's again last night.

      When she had served out all the pie, Ricky said, "You forgot my grape soda, Lucy."

      "My goodness, I'm sorry," she said and fetched it.

      Sunday supper would have been a lonesome meal, except that Bertie and Clive had come over, and that kept Uncle Bob occupied. Normalade had gone right upstairs, fussing with the baby, saying she wanted to wash her hair. Lucy had ended up taking her dinner upstairs on a tray.

      It had been awkward with Normalade, who was pretending not to notice that Bobby was gone. She hadn't mentioned him or even asked where he was. It was as if she'd forgotten she had a husband or that they had ever lived under the same roof.

      Clive and Willis left, Clive paying for both his and Willis's lunch. Ricky left and his father, Mr. Morganstern, came in from the pharmacy for a cup of coffee, and he had a piece of pie too. Then Mr. Schneider came in and sat down with his brother-in-law and while the two of them talked business, Mr. Schneider had a ham-on-rye, and a pair of tourists came in for lunch and each had a bowl of chili. For a wonder, they had all paid cash, so at one-thirty, when Lucy shut the door and put up the "Closed" sign, she had cleared thirty two dollars and change, and she was saved!

      She cleared the dishes and took them to the kitchen and told Shark to put them into the washer and then come back at five. Then she wiped down the bar and put beans in to soak for tomorrow's chili, and made salads and put them in the cooler. Then, as soon at Shark left, she went to the bank and deposited all the cash that had come in at lunch on Saturday, saving back only enough to make change with.

      When she got back, she did the books for the past week, just as she always did on Mondays. The checkbook looked bleak, of course, but not as bleak as it would have if she hadn't had enough to pay the beer man when he came in.

      Just as she finished the books, in came Charles White, their personal NuMex Beer Representative, resplendent in his fringed leather jacket, shiny three-colored boots, and a genial, oily smile. "Well, how's the best-looking brunette in Los Nietos."

      "Afternoon, Bill,"

      "Beautiful day out there — cold as good beer. Just the kind of day when it's a real pleasure to meet with a pretty girl, Lucy Vance." He sat down on the barstool next to where she was standing and gave her a big sleek smile. "How've you been?"

      "Just fine."

      "And how's that grand old Cowboy Bob?"

      "Doing pretty well, thanks," Lucy said guardedly. She could see that he was trying to work up to it gradually, so she faced into it. "But he's not here. It's hard for him to get out in this cold weather."

      "Ah, the cold weather. That's too bad. Is he going to be in at all?"

      "No, he's just not up to it."

      "That's a pity." Charles White looked glum. "I was really hoping I'd catch to him this time."

      "Can I offer something to drink?"

      "Why not — do you have any beer?" He laughed softly at his own joke. Only of course, it was always the same joke.

      She drew him a draft and set it before him. Then she took the checkbook out of the cashbox. "I'll write you a check for what we owe you this week."

      "Money? Well, in the pleasure of talking with you, I'd almost forgotten that." He put down his glass to take it. "Although, you know how I hate to take money from a lady."

      He took the check and looked at it for a minute, as if considering something. "You know, I sure do want to meet with old Cowboy Bob pretty soon. Did you happen to give him my message, like I asked you to?"

      "Yes I did, Bill, and he said . . ."

      But just then the door opened and Swan came in — what was she doing here so early? "Hi, Lucy. I got so tired of unpacking things and moving stuff around that I thought I'd come see what was going on over here."

      At the sight of her, Charles White came to full attention, and appeared completely to forget what he'd been saying. "Well hell-LO." he said. "I've never seen you here before — let me introduce myself: Charlie White, your own personal NuMex Beer Representative."

      Swan gave him a slow smile. "Pleased to meet you, Charlie."

      Lucy said, "This is Swan Wagonwright, my sister-in-law." She wanted him to know that Swan was family, so he'd keep his distance and not bother her.

      "Well Swan Wagonwright, I'm dee-lighted to make your acquaintance." Charles White grabbed one of Swan's hands and began to shake it. "And is it Miss Wagonwright or Mrs. Wagonwright I'm having the pleasure of meeting today?"

      "Miss. And Bobby's married to my sister," Swan said sweetly, letting him hang on to her hand. "And I'm especially glad to meet you, because I've just started working here, and I'd sure like to learn more about this business. So maybe, as you're a beer expert and all, you can settle a little discussion I was having with a friend of mine just this morning."

      "I'd be more than happy to help you with you anything in the world," Charles White said, leaning eagerly toward her. "Ask me anything. Anything at all."

      "Well, I mentioned to my friend, that probably, since Los Nietos is so small and all, that Cowboy Bob's was about as successful as a bar could get in these parts. But my friend said — and to be honest, I don't know that my friend knows all that much more about it than I do — anyway my friend said that maybe there might be one or two things that could be done to improve business. What do you think, Charlie?"

      While saying this, Swan managed to disengage her hand from Charles White's grasp.

      He frowned. It might have been concentration, or it might simply have been that he was sorry Swan had gotten her hand back, Lucy could not tell for certain. But he said, "Oh, I might be able to suggest one or two things, maybe. But you know — Old Cowboy Bob kinda likes to do things his own way, and he gets a little irritated if you offer him advice."

      "Even so, Swan and I'd be pleased to have your opinion." Lucy said, eager to distract him from thinking up some terrible message for her to take to Uncle Bob.

      "Well . . ." Charles White said slowly, "Although the bar itself could use a few touches here and there, this place really isn't too bad. Picturesque decor in a rustic setting, that kind of thing. All I really think you folks need is some marketing savvy."

      "I bet you could give us a hint or two about that," Swan said.

      He looked around judicially and nodded. "You got no real competition out here. But what happens is that nobody leaves any real money with you folks."

      As he became interested in what he was saying, his freshly-shaved face grew pink. "And that's because there's no excitement in this place. No snap. No sizzle!"

      He was up off the barstool now. "If you could . . . yeah, why not have contests. Like — guess the number of gumballs in the jar and win a free beer. You could hold it every — Listen, what's your worst night?"

      "Tuesday," Lucy answered, interested in spite of herself in what he was saying. "Wednesday, maybe."

      "Okay then: all week, every time somebody buys something, they get to write their guess on a slip of paper. And on Tuesdays, you have this drawing — got to be present to win. First you count the gumballs in front of everybody. Then you could read out all the guesses, one at a time. Maybe one every ten minutes, something like that. Build suspense. And the one that comes closest to the right number gets a free beer. That way it's like an entertainment. And it takes all evening. And all the time they're here, they're spending money, and you're making money."

      "You know," Swan said thoughtfully, "We could do something like that . . . "

      "Sure you could — there's lots of stuff you can do." Charles White nodded. "But the point is, once you get them in here, you got to keep them buying more stuff than what they're used to. Food for example," he nodded sagely. "Because much as I hate to say it, a man can only hold so much beer."

      Lucy was torn between amazement at the eager flow of Charles White's remarks and her admiration of Swan's skill at evoking them. She was leaning her elbows on the counter, chin on her hands, looking at him as if he was the smartest man she'd ever seen. And was expanding, his attention riveted on Swan, delighted with himself for impressing her. He was impressing Lucy, too, for that matter.

      "You got to provide more things for them to spend their money on. Like for example — don't just keep giving away those free chips for nothing. Nossir — once they come in, right away you got to hand 'em a menu."

      His little black eyes began sparkling. "And sell hamburgers, for godssake. And fries. If you got to offer them hotdogs, that's okay — but not in the chili for chrisesakes! Serve real chili. Not just those godawful chilibeans with hotdogs in them."

      Lucy stared. He didn't like Uncle Bob's famous Texas Hotdog Chili? But he was already on to the next thing, telling them he knew a man who had pinball games to put in bars — real money-makers. And he'd split the proceeds, half for the bar and half for the owner of the machine. "All you got to do is say the word," Charles White said excitedly. "He's a close personal friend of mine, and I'll call him up today, if you want, and he'll have a couple of those things in here by the end of next week."

      Swan nodded. "You know, Lucy, I played one of those shuffleboard games a couple of times while I was in Albuquerque, and it was fun."

      And Lucy began to wonder whether maybe — just maybe — they might actually do some of those things. So she said all she could say: "I'll talk to Uncle Bob about it."

      After that, Charles White took his check, and shook Swan's hand, and shook Lucy's hand and bade them a polite goodbye and took himself off as usual. And he never said another word about wanting to see Uncle Bob this week.

      When he was gone, Lucy and Swan looked at each other and began to giggle. Lucy hadn't giggled with anybody since high school, and she found it hard to stop. Finally Swan said, "You know, though, those are not bad ideas, really."

      Lucy said, "I meant it when I said I'd tell Uncle Bob about them."

      "You think he'll do it?"

      Lucy sighed. "Maybe in a million years."

      Swan looked thoughtful. "Lucy . . . you want me to come over and help suggest it?"

      "No — no." Lucy said hastily. Uncle Bob hated getting suggestions about the business, and she had a sudden picture of him losing his temper at Swan and shouting at her. She didn't want to take a chance of letting that happen. "That's all right. I'll do it."

      Swan nodded, and the two of them went to the kitchen to make salads for this evening's customers. Swan made salads and Lucy made salsa.

      At five o'clock, somebody tried the back door and Swan opened it to find Cal Arthur leaning against the door frame. He was pale, and he staggered a little as he came in.

      "Cal," Swan said, "Are you okay? You look sick."

      "Gone," Cal mumbled. "I've looked everywhere." He dug into his jeans and brought out a crumpled ten dollar bill that looked as if it had been carried in a clenched, sweaty fist for a long time. He put the bill down on the work table beside a mound of chopped tomatoes.

      "Who's gone?" Swan demanded. "Cal, what's the matter with you?"

      Remembering what Ricky had said when he came in for lunch, Lucy said, "Is it Wolfgang-Amador, Cal? If it is, you mustn't worry about him, dogs can always find their way home."

      Cal shook his head. "No. F'rever gone . . ." He took a wavering step toward Lucy, and she saw that his eyes were not tracking properly. Cal Arthur was not sick at all, but drunk out of his mind.

      She picked up the bill and put it in his shirt pocket. "Cal, you better go home and lie down a while. You've had enough today."

      He stared at her blankly, pasty-white now, perspiration starting all over his face. Lucy reached out a hand to steady him. "Listen, you better sit down a while. I think you need to . . ."

      But she was talking to empty air. Because he was sinking down, softly and gently, to the floor.

      Swan shrank back. "What's the matter with him? Is he sick? He's too young for a heart attack, isn't he?"

      Lucy shook her head. "Passed out. Goodness knows how much he's had. Can't you smell it?"

      "You mean he drank himself insensible? Why?"

      "Ricky said earlier that his dog's been missing, and that he'd been . . ."

      "Because of a dog!"

      Lucy didn't bother answering that. "I need to think how to get him home. We can't just let him lie here."

      Swan sniffed. "I'll call his mother to come get him."

      Mrs. Arthur was there in less than ten minutes, and Swan, who'd been standing outside waiting for her, brought her in, thin and tall, her iron gray hair as stiff as her iron-hard face. She was still in her neat school dress and stocking, as if she'd just gotten home.

      She spoke to Swan, not looking to Lucy at all. "Where is he?"

      "Over here."

      They'd decided it would be too awful for his mother to come in and see him sprawled on the floor, so they'd cleaned off the table, and then between them managed to get Cal into a chair with his head down on the table-top.

      Mrs. Arthur went over to him. "Get up, Calvin."

      Cal never moved.

      "Calvin Coolidge Arthur, you get up this instant and come home with me." The words were fierce, but the woman's voice trembled as she spoke..

      Lucy said gently, "I don't believe he hears you."

      Mrs. Arthur never gave Lucy a glance. She said to Swan. "Can you help me get my boy to the car?"

      Swan said, "Yes'm," and lifted one of Cal's arms in a hesitant way.

      "Let me do it, Swan, I'm bigger than you are," Lucy said. "You get the door"

      Mrs. Arthur still didn't glance Lucy's way, but she didn't protest, and she and Lucy each took one of Cal's limp arms around her shoulders. Swan opened the door, and then ran ahead and opened the car door, and among them, they managed to get Cal into the rider's side of Mrs. Arthur's car.

      "If you'll wait a minute or two, we have a young man helping us who'll be to work in just a minute or two," Lucy said, as Mrs. Arthur closed the car door. "He can go with you and help you take Cal in the house.

      "You've done enough!" Mrs. Arthur said. She caught Lucy full in the eyes with a look so full of anger and resentment that it took Lucy's breath away. "But as you're so eager to assist me, suppose you quit feeding poison to my poor boy. His soul is dying! And when he's gone, his death will be on you and yours."

      Mrs. Arthur opened the car door and started to get in. Then she stopped and straightened up to say more. "Young woman, I knew your mother, and she was an upright soul. Weak, but upright. And I swear to you that she'd die all over again — from shame. — if she could see the way her daughter is killing my boy today."

      Then she got into her car and drove off, Cal's head lolling against her shoulder, leaving Lucy and Swan standing speechless beside Cal's rusty pickup in the parking lot.

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