When he had money, he went to bars.
He liked bars—the noise of them, the randomness. He liked the way the click of billiard balls sometimes fell into a rhythm with the songs on the jukebox. He liked the smoke, the sound of people laughing. He liked to eavesdrop on the fishing stories, the travel tales. He liked it that, in Key West bars at least, anyone could talk to anyone, and that, as long as you didn't get too loaded or too shrill in your opinions, you were always allowed to come back.
So on this particular January evening, Fred pocketed his pay, dropped his shovel at the hot dog, and rode his bike downtown. He stopped for an outdoor shower at County Beach—stripping to his boxer shorts between the parking area and the gazebo, holding the chain that started the flow of tepid water, then changing into fresh clothes in the men's room. He double-checked that he hadn't lost his money or his little piece of soap, and continued on his way.
He rode to the Eclipse Saloon, an old favorite. It had a U-shaped bar whose edge was thickly padded and covered in black vinyl. It was good for resting your elbows and occasionally your head. Beer was cheap and cheeseburgers came automatically with fries and slaw, no hidden extra costs. Off Duval, it was mostly a place for locals, but a sprinkling of sunburned tourists provided some amusement. Rich people went there, poor people went there, and most folks dressed about the same.
Fred grabbed a stool on the side that faced the door. He drank, he smoked, he ate. He watched a little basketball. Once or twice he joined in conversations, and didn't seem to notice that his joining in wasn't really all that welcome.
Dinner hour passed and the place gradually started thinning out. There weren't that many empty stools, but there was one on either side of Fred.
That's when Lazslo Kalynin came walking in.
Fred was looking toward the door when Lazslo pushed through it. He didn't know who Lazslo was, but he instantly recognized a pissed-off, brooding guy, a guy who needed distraction and a drink. Even in the young face, there was a tightness at the corners of the eyes; the posture was clenched and the lips seemed thinned out, cramped, from too much held inside.
Lazslo walked around to Fred's side of the bar, blindly grabbed a stool on Fred's right. Before he'd even sat, Fred said, "Lemme buy you a beer."
Lazslo blinked at him, his face skeptical and no softer. His hand-tooled wallet was stuffed with twenties and with fifties. His running shoes were up in triple-figures. His belt buckle was real silver and he had real gold chains around his neck. His haircut cost more than everything Fred was wearing. "You're buying me a beer?" he said.
Fred either didn't hear the sarcasm or elected to ignore it. He said, "I have money and I see a guy needs a drink, I'm buying that person a drink. That's me, okay?"
Lazslo said, "I need a drink?"
Fred said, "You need somethin', man. You look like a scorpion crawled up your ass and died."
Lazslo gestured at the few damp bills sticking to the bar in front of Fred. "Your money's almost gone, sport."
"And when it is," he said, "that's how I know when to go home. You'll have a beer?"
Lazslo looked away. His face was in the midst of a gradual process that seemed more an easing of gears and cables than of skin and flesh. His forehead slowly smoothed, his eyebrows dropped, blood flowed back to his cheeks. He exhaled deeply, blew away his evening with the old Russians, an evening of whispers, paranoia, endless reminders that the world was lull of enemies. Now here was a stranger, a bum, sensing his funk and his anger and fearlessly approaching, reaching out to him for no good reason in the world, offering a pointless kindness. This was what he loved about America.
The bartender came over, said, "Evening, Lazslo. What'll it be?"
The young man in denim touched Fred on the shoulder. "This gentleman," he said, "is buying me a Bud."
Chapter 5
"Nice job on the T-shirt shops," said Donald Egan, publisher and editor of the Island Frigate.
"Whaddya mean?" asked Suki, looking up without much interest from her cramped and cluttered metal desk.
"They doubled all their advertising. You didn't know?"
Suki went back to her paperwork. She used the computer when she had to, but she preferred the concreteness of the old way, the paper clips and tape and staples. It felt like childhood, a project for a rainy day in Trenton. She had a pencil between her teeth. She didn't answer.
"Lazslo called," Egan went on. "Himself. Doubled everything. All eight stores."
Suki snapped some carbons out of credit card receipts, said nothing.
Egan said, "That's a hefty commission. I thought you'd be more pleased."
Suki looked up. She wasn't smiling. She said, "He wants to get into my pants."