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CHAPTER 32

The Beer Man Returns

      LUCY WENT back to work the day before New Years.

      There remained the shadow of a bruise below her eye, and the mark on her cheek was still faintly visible, but it was such a busy time that she went in anyway. Swan came in early and showed her how to hide it with makeup, and she did such a good job that no one would notice the marks unless they were looking for them.

      It was nice to get back and be busy. Ricky Morganstern was the only one who even mentioned that she had been gone. "Welcome home," he said. "Thought you'd run off to Paris with one of your millionaire boyfriends." But all she had to do was laugh at his joke and he was satisfied.

      Everything was still the same as usual. Early in the evening Ricky began talking to Clive and Bertie. "Notice how you never see old Cal in here any more? That's Joseph Pump's work," he complained. "He's got Cal doing something or other day and night, and he never has so much as an hour off to come have a beer with his friends. Oh, he's got plenty of time for church of course — just no time for friends."

      Pancho Schneider idled over. "Who you talking about?"

      "Cal Arthur. You remember him? That used to be my good friend."

      "Aw, you still see him pretty often," Pancho said.

      "I heard Cal's been stepping out with a pretty young thing in Belen," Bertie put in slyly. "Maybe he just rather spend time with her than you."

      "Don't ask me," Ricky shook his head. "I might as well as never known him, for all I can tell you about it now."

      Clive, who never hung around Ricky longer than he had to, moved down the bar to talk to Bobby. Lucy brought Pancho a glass of beer, and he took a slug and said, "Listen Ricky, you still serious about those pistachio trees? About us going in together?"

      Ricky shook his head. "Naw, this old fella stopped in the drugstore last week to buy gum, and he got to telling me about some bugs he heard about — called pistachio weevils. You ever heard of those? They can get into the heart of a tree and just ruin it — like a dog with heart-worm."

      "Really? That's too bad," Pancho said thoughtfully. "Might be we could try peaches, though. Because, you know, Uncle Werner's got some well-watered land he's willing to sell, and . . ."

      So nothing had changed while Lucy was gone, she thought. The New Year could come and go, but nothing ever changed here at all.

      However, Lucy was mistaken. Several new problems arose, and the first was brought by Charles White, when he came in the following Monday.

      He began beaming the instant he saw her. "Well Lucy, you're back at last. Great! I got you all lined up with some friends of mine, who'll deliver your pinball machines this time next week. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line."

      "Oh, but Bill," Lucy took a deep breath. "Uncle Bob doesn't want to do that."

      "Not going to do it!" He was incredulous. "Why not."

      "Well," she answered uncomfortably, "He thinks it's a lot like gambling, and he's deeply opposed to it. I'm sorry, Bill, but his mind is set against it."

      "But it's all arranged," he cried, his face getting red. "I made commitments to people! I can't afford to disappoint them."

      She repeated how grateful they were for the good suggestions he'd given them, and she pointed out that she had taken his advice on adding to the menu (in spite of Uncle Bob's anger, Bobby had suggested that they continue serving the chili because it was such a good money-maker), but Charles White cared for nothing except what he called her "broken promise," and he took himself off looking very grim.

      The following Monday, when he came as usual, he was still angry. Instead of leaning on the bar to visit, he said brusquely, "All right, I want to see the old man today and no more stalling." When Lucy tried to protest, he interrupted, "Oh yes, I know all about the arthritis and all, but you better just call him and tell him to get himself down here anyway!"

      She didn't like the look in his eyes today; he was not at all his usual oily, cheery self. "Bill, I just can't do that," Lucy said honestly. "Uncle Bob really is ill, and there's no way he can meet with you or anybody else."

      "Then if that's the way you want it, I'll have to deal with you instead, because this business can't wait any longer." He opened the briefcase he was carrying and hauled out a fat yellow envelope and showed it to her. "Is there someplace around here we can talk without being interrupted?"

      Lucy wished she really could have called Uncle Bob and let him handle this. Aloud, she said uneasily, "We can sit down at one of the tables, Bill. It's early, nobody will bother us."

      She drew him a glass of beer, and got herself a cup of coffee and sat down with him, expecting the worst.

      Charles White took out a sheaf of papers and laid them on the table beside her cup. "I'd like you to verify your uncle's signature on each of these."

      The papers were all bills from the previous year. The first one was dated the week before Uncle Bob had started staying at home. On each one was a notation in Uncle Bob's hand that they hadn't paid in full for that week's beer bill. Most were only ten or twenty dollars short, but some were for more.

      In spite of her unease, Lucy was interested. "So that's what they do when you can't pay," she thought. "How easy; you just put your name on the bill and promise to come up with it later."

      Only these had never been paid. Because Uncle Bob had quit coming in, and Lucy had never known anything about it. She thumbed through the sheets. All together, they represented quite a debt. Where in the world were they going to get the money to pay that?

      Then Charles White pulled out another, smaller packet that contained two more bills, records of weeks when nothing had been paid at all. The first was over a year old, dating before last Christmas. The second was dated late last spring, from about the time Bobby and Normalade were on their honeymoon.

      "You're aware that all these are unpaid?" Charles White said.

      Lucy looked at the papers on the table. "No sir. I mean yes sir, I guess I am now."

      "All right then, Miss Vance, your uncle has been a customer of ours for over twenty years, and I value his business. But I've carried these overdues on your account for some time now. Too long."

      "Yes Sir."

      "Do you know how much it totals?"

      Lucy shook her head. "Must be a lot."

      "Comes to just over sixteen hundred dollars," Charles White said. "One thousand, six hundred. That's too much."

      Lucy took a breath, unable to say a word. It was too much. It seemed like a fortune.

      "Now I'll tell you why I'm showing you these, Miss Vance. It's because NuMex Brewery Distributors was sold recently. We're part of WesterTex now. And this being the beginning of a new year, they're reviewing all the accounts. And when they got to my files, here were all these bills, just sitting there."

      He waited, as if expecting her to say something. But she didn't, so he continued, "First, the new management asked Bookkeeping about it. And then the big boss, the top man, the owner of WesterTex — he called me in. You understand what I'm telling you here?"

      Lucy nodded mutely.

      "He demanded to know all about every one of these bills. And I got to tell you that this new owner — he is not a kind, good-natured man, Miss Vance. He doesn't care how long a customer has been with us or how good his payment record used to be. All he wants is the money that's due him, and a set a balanced books at the end of the month. So it was not a pleasant experience to have to explain these bills to him. Not at all."

      "No sir."

      "Then he asked me some questions about you people, and I had to be honest with him." Charles White paused for effect. And something about the way he was looking at her made Lucy so nervous that she found herself shaking.

      "I told him quite truthfully," Charles White continued, "That this bar was on the downslide. That it was poorly run, and that it had been losing money steadily. And I told him that even when good money-making opportunities were offered, the person in charge had turned them down."

      Lucy could hardly believe the spite in his face when he said that, and the way he glared at her when he added, "And I gave him my opinion that I had seen no evidence that this establishment was ever going to be able to repay these bills."

      "But we will pay them." Lucy cried, "Of course we will."

      "Well, Miss Vance, you better. And I think you'd be advised to do it by the end of this month — or you'll damn well take the consequences!"

      "By the end of the month? But we don't . . ." She couldn't get any more words out, and she was so upset that quite unexpectedly, her eyes filled.

      "You can stop the waterworks," he said sourly. "That's not going to change things."

      "But we need some time," she begged, ashamed to cry in front of him, but unable to control the tears. "My uncle's really sick right now, and we're . . ."

      "All right, that's enough." Charles White held up his hand. "Everybody's got their own hard luck story, so don't start telling me how your uncle's sick and your brother's wife's just had a baby and all that. WesterTex wants its money, and you better believe I'm not going to lose my employment over any difficulties you might have."

      "But I'm telling you we will pay it." she said desperately, "Every penny! But you have to give us a few months to get the money together. . . "

      All this time, Charles White had been looking smug and angry, still holding it against her that she had backed out on those machines. But now, as if he'd terrorized her enough to repay her for it, he seemed to relent. He hitched his chair closer to hers, leaning forward until she could smell the suede of his jacket and the sweet-oil scent of his Mennen after-shave.

      "Yes, I believe you will," he said, taking her hand and clasping it between his own. "Now that you understand the situation, I think you'll make it good. And I told my management that self-same thing. I went to bat for you, Sugar, I really did. Because I do want to help you get this taken care of."

      Lucy hated him at that moment. He went to bat for them? Sure he did. The flesh of his hands felt too cushy against her own, as if never used them for anything but soft stuff. But she didn't draw her hand away.

      "But you got to remember, these new people are hard businessmen," Charles White went on earnestly, twining his one hand around hers, stroking her arm with the other hand. "I had to sweet-talk them a long time before I could finally — finally — get them to hold them off till the end of the quarter. But that's the best I could do."

      "The end of . . . ?"

      "That's last day of March, Sugar. Look, here it is, all spelled out in black and white." One-handed, he rummaged among the papers, slid out a letter she hadn't noticed, and give it to her. "Here — you just put your John Hancock right there to show you got this, and then you read every word."

      Lucy disentangled herself from him so she could sign where he showed her and then took up the paper. But by now, she was so upset that she was hardly able to understand what she was reading. She saw one sentence that said, ". . . must receive the entire amount of one thousand, six hundred, twenty-one dollars and forty-two cents on or before the thirty-first of March . . ."

      Further down the page it read: "In the event of non-payment, the debt will be turned over to the legal firm of Verity, Booker and Rast, Esq., which is prepared to bring legal action against Mr. Robert Cooke Vance, Senior, together with any and all other owners or managers of the establishment known as 'Cowboy Bob's At The End Of The Trail' a bar and/or cafe, located in . . ."

      "Legal action? What will they . . . do to us," Lucy asked in a tiny voice, when she got to that part.

      "Well they can do quite a lot. Attach your bank account and savings, for one thing."

      Lucy shook her head. "We don't have any of those."

      "Your other assets then. This building, its equipment, your other possessions. Force you into bankruptcy, I expect."

      He paused, letting it sink in. "But none of that has to happen, you know. All you have to do is pay up."

      They looked at each other for a minute, and he added, "You know, I really hate to bring news like this to a nice young lady like you. I'd rather of told it direct to old Mr. Vance, but you left me no choice."

      And then, having done his business here, he gathered up all the bills and put them back in the envelope, which he put back in his case. Then he finished his beer and stood up. "I'd be real sorry to see anything bad to happen to you folks. Old Cowboy Bob's had this bar a long time, and it'd be a pity for him to lose everything, at his age." He was smiling now.

      When Lucy didn't answer, he said, "Now you be sure you tell your uncle about all this. Give him that lawyer-letter and make sure he understands how important it is for him to pay the whole amount by the due date. Because those lawyers won't wait a day longer than that paper says, believe me."

      "Yes, I believe you," Lucy looked at the letter that still lay on the table in front of her. She wondered if there would be any point in showing it to Uncle Bob.

      After Charles White had gone, Lucy sat and looked at the letter. One thousand, six hundred, twenty-one dollars and forty-two cents. On or before the thirty-first of March. The words hadn't changed.

      And of course, Charles White had been right when he said the people at WesterTex were entitled to their money. They were; it was a true debt.

      Only there was no way on earth they were going to be able to get that much together, even by March thirty-first a year from now. It was impossible, that's all.

      The more Lucy thought about it, the less she could come to grips with it. "It's like somebody on the television called our name out over the air," she thought. "And said that God's going to strike us dead." Thirty-first of March — bang! No more Cowboy Bob's! Bang! No more Lucy.

      Lucy finished her coffee, which was cold now. She folded up the letter from the lawyers, and put it in her apron pocket, and got up and went back in the kitchen.

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