Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(27)

*



“Ain’t you a good-looking fella?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I am.”

Kathleen, the longtime barmaid at Malachy’s, cackles a half laugh, half cigarette-cough at that one. She has a rye (I mean that in two ways) smile and yellow (as opposed to blonde) hair. Kathleen is comfortably north of sixty years old, but she wears it with confidence and an old-world sultry appeal that some might describe as burlesque. She is buxom and curvy and soft. I like Kathleen immediately, but I recognize that it is her occupation to be liked.

“If I was a little younger…” Kathleen begins.

“Or if I were a little luckier,” I counter.

“Oh, stop.”

I arch an eyebrow. It’s one of my trademark moves. “Don’t sell yourself short, Kathleen. The night is young.”

“You’re being fresh.” She playfully slaps me with a dishrag last laundered during the Eisenhower administration. “Charming. Good-looking as hell. But fresh.”

On the stool to my right, Frankie Boy, who is closer to eighty, wears a tweed flat cap. Thick tufts of hair jut out of his ears like Troll dolls turned on their side. His nose couldn’t be more bulbous without cosmetic surgery. I have been to Malachy’s perhaps five times prior to tonight. Frankie Boy is always at this stool.

“Buy you a drink?” I say to him.

“Okay,” Frankie slurs, “but just for the record, I don’t think you’re that good-looking.”

“Sure, you do,” I say.

“Yeah, maybe, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna have sex with you.”

I sigh. “Dreams die hard in here.”

He likes that.

As I said before, Malachy’s is a legit dive bar—poor lighting, stained (and I mean that in two ways) wood paneling, dead flies in the light fixtures, patrons so regular that it’s sometimes hard to see where the stool ends and their butts begin. A sign above the bar reads, LIFE IS GOOD. SO IS BEER. Wisdom. Regulars blend well with the newcomers, and pretty much anything goes but pretension. There are two televisions, one set up at either end of the bar. The New York Yankees are losing on one, the New York Rangers are losing on the other. No one in Malachy’s seems to be too invested in either.

The menu is standard pub fare. Frankie Boy insists I order the chicken wings. Out comes a plate of grease with a smattering of bone. I slide it to him. We chat. Frankie tells me that he is on his fourth wife.

“I love her so much,” Frankie Boy tells me.

“Congrats.”

“’Course, I loved the other three so much too. Still do.” A tear comes to his eye. “That’s my problem. I fall hard. Then I come in here to forget. Do you know what I’m saying?”

I don’t, but I tell him that I do. The song “True” by Spandau Ballet comes drifting out of the speakers. Frankie Boy starts singing along: “This is the sound of my soul, this is the sound…” He stops and turns to me. “You ever been married, Win?”

“No.”

“Smart. Wait. You gay?”

“No.”

“Not that I care. Be honest, I like a lot of the gays in here. Less competition for the ladies, you know what I’m saying?”

I ask him how long he’s been coming to Malachy’s.

“First time was January 12, 1966.”

“Specific,” I say.

“Biggest day of my life.”

“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Frankie Boy holds up three stubby fingers. “Three reasons.”

“Go on.”

He drops the ring finger. “One, that’s the first day I found this place.”

“Makes sense.”

“Two”—Frankie Boy drops his middle finger—“I married my first wife, Esmeralda.”

“You went to Malachy’s for the first time on your wedding day?”

“I was getting married,” he says, emphasis on the “married.” “Who’d blame a man for needing a stiff drink or two beforehand?”

“Not I.”

“My Esmeralda was so beautiful. Big as a barn. She wore a bright yellow wedding dress. In our wedding pictures, I look like a tiny planet orbiting a giant sun. But beautiful.”

“And what’s Reason Three?” I ask.

“You may be too young, but did you ever see the TV show Batman?”

“Oh yes.” This, I think to myself, is kismet. Myron and I have watched every episode at least a million times. I nod. “Adam West, Burt Ward—”

“Exactly. The Riddler, the Penguin, oh, and don’t even get me started on Julie Newmar as the Catwoman. I would have ripped off Esmeralda’s right arm and slapped myself silly with it, just to sniff Julie Newmar’s hair. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“And nowadays, we have all these”—finger quotes—“‘method’ actors losing a hundred pounds or whatever to play the Joker, but back then? Cesar Romero didn’t even bother shaving his mustache. Just threw white makeup over it. That, my friend, was acting.”

I see no reason to disagree. “And Reason Three?”

He scoffed. “I thought you were a fan.”

“I am.”