“Warner raised his glass. “You ought to be, charging seventy-fine cents for a glass of water.”
“In New Orleans, you can sell real drinks and stay open all night if you want to,” Babe said. “Here it’s beer and wine and setups and close at midnight. Crazy fucking place. Ain’t a bartender got as much right to sell whiskey as the guy in a liquor store? Ain’t that what bartenders are for?”
“It’s the Baptists,” Warner said. “They’re afraid somebody might get drunk. It’s them and the brown paper bag companies.” He giggled.
“It’s the fucking legislature,” Babe said. “They’d change it if they wasn’t hypocrites. They get drunk enough.”
“I can’t allow you to impugn the reputation of that august body,” Warner said. “I’m a member of it.”
“Yeah?” Babe’s dark eyes lit briefly. “Then why don’t you change it?”
“The Baptists wouldn’t like it.”
“Well, between the state law and the city’s midnight curfew, I’ve got it tough, even at seventy-five cents for water. By the time I pay the rent and the band and the girls, I ain’t got nothing.” He grunted. “And that’s a fact. Where you from?”
“San Antonio.”
“Oh, yeah. You said. The old Alamo City.”
“Right.”
“You really in the legislature?”
“Yeah. The House.”
Babe rolled his cigar between thumb and forefinger, inspecting its gnawed, soggy end. Warner tilted his head for the last of his drink. “How about another?” Babe asked.
“Might as well.”
Babe picked up their glasses and walked behind the bar.
“You here for the visit?” he asked.
“Yeah. I missed him in San Antonio.”
Babe laughed. “You must not be important.”
“I’m not.”
“Where is he tonight?”
“Fort Worth.”
“You like him?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a pinko liberal. No wonder you ain’t important.”
Babe returned to the table and watched Warner pour the whiskey. “How’d you like my girls?”
“The brunette had a bruise on her thigh.”
“Shit. You noticed.”
“Couldn’t help noticing.”
“I told her to cover it up. With makeup, you know. Her boyfriend did it. Fucking boyfriends. I keep warning them, but they don’t listen.”
“The blonde is nice.”
“Ain’t she? That’s Sheila.”
“Yeah, Sheila’s nice. Nice tits.”
They stared at the ashtray in the center of the table, drinking quietly. The haze in Warner’s head made the butts in the tray seem to move. He groped his pack from his pocket and lit another.
“You here alone?” Babe asked.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you’d like to meet Sheila. She likes politicians.” Warner raised his eyes to Babe’s. “She lives at the Plaza,” Babe said. “Couple of blocks from here. If you wanted to drop by, I could call. She wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t want to go to the Plaza.”
“Maybe she’d come down here. It’s up to you.”
Warner shrugged. “Why not?”
Babe got up and picked his way among the tables and chairs toward the telephone near the door. He walked with a limp. Warner heard the nickel drop into the phone and the whirr of the dial.
“Hi, honey. You busy?” Babe spoke softly, intimately, like a father to a daughter. “I got somebody I want you to meet…Yeah, I know…I know. But this is special. A favor for Babe, huh?...Well, he don’t want to come there. He’s important, a state rep…yeah…yeah…Listen, honey, just get your ass in gear and come down here, OK?...Well, you got an umbrella, ain’t you?...OK. Good. Step on it, OK? Good. Fine. Thanks, sweetheart.”
Babe sat down and relit his cigar. “Sheila’s anxious to meet you,” he said.
“She coming right away?”
“She’ll be along. She’s got to get herself together, you know. How about a drink?” Not waiting for Warner’s reply, Babe picked up the glasses, got the ice, and refilled them. “How long you in town?”
“Just till tomorrow.”
“Just for the visit, huh?” Big deal for a politician, I guess. You going to meet him? Personally, I mean.”
“That’s why I’m here. I’ll have to get lucky, though.”
“Well, maybe you will. Mind if I clean up a bit?”
“Go ahead.”
Babe moved among the tables with a tray and a towel, picking up glasses and ashtrays, wiping the tables, arranging chairs. Warner rested his chin on his chest, saw a speck of ash on his necktie and considered flicking it off, but didn’t. He wished Babe hadn’t called the girl. He wished he weren’t sitting alone, that he was in his room where he belonged, sleeping, resting for tomorrow. When Babe limped past him and said, “That’s Sheila,” he raised his head, but he had heard nothing. Babe went through a door next to the stage and closed it, and Warner heard him talking but didn’t understand his words. Then the door opened and Babe was shaking a collapsed umbrella. The girl was unbuttoning her blue plastic raincoat.
She smiled. “Hi,” she said.
“Hello,” Warner said.
“This is Sheila,” Babe said. “Sheila, this is Representative Barnhill.”
Warner stood. Sheila offered her hand, so he shook it. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Sheila said.
Babe laid the umbrella on a table and helped the girl out of her coat and folded it over a chair. The girl stood like a statue, avoiding Warner’s eyes. Her blonde hair and red satin sheath and gold earrings reminded Warner of Marilyn Monroe. Men probably were supposed to think of Marilyn Monroe when they looked at Sheila. She was about twenty. Maybe twenty-one. “Have a seat,” he said. He pulled out a chair.
“Thank you.” Her voice was small. She perched on the edge of the chair. Maybe the sheath was too tight to let her really sit down.
He nodded at the brown bag. “Drink?”
“I don’t like the hard stuff. Mind if I have something else?”
“Whatever you like.”
Sheila smiled at Babe. “I’ll have the usual, Babe.”
“I’d like a beer,” Warner said.
“Sure. What kind?”
“Whatever’s handy.”
Sheila placed her elbows on the table and folded her hands and propped her chin on them. A gold charm bracelet clicked down her arm. Her nails were long and red. Her eyes dropped. Babe set a brown Lone Star bottle and a fresh glass before Warner and a long-stemmed glass of something bubbly in front of Sheila.
“Champagne,” Warner said. “You’re an expensive lady.”
“It’s