Now Mae is a sweet old gal, so when I saw her leave Blarney's with the stranger with the scissors in his arm, it began to worry me.
I'd been drinking most of the evening. Actually, since late afternoon. Since they put the line on part time I get off early, and there's nothing much to do but head on home or over to Blarney's. Lately, Blarney's seems to be on the way.
Though I'm of German-Dutch persuasion myself, Irish whiskey is my drink. Straight up with beer chasers. I must have had about eight or ten. But let me tell you right off, I wasn't drunk. I long ago learned to pace my drinks to get just the right glow. Now it was getting late, and even for an experienced pacer like myself, the glow was beginning to fade.
I was trying to work up the energy to head home. Which wasn't easy. Since the wife got herself full of ideas and left for no good reason, there's not much waiting for me there. A tv dinner. A rerun on the Carson show. Some old movie from before the Ice Age thawed.
Blarney's was for the most part deserted. All of the guys I work with had left hours ago, and silent Willard, the bartender, is no decent company. There were three guys I'd seen before, but didn't really know, playing liar's dice at the other end of the bar. There was me. And then there was this strange old geezer in one of the back booths. I'd been noticing him more and more as the evening wore on and the crowd in Blarney's thinned out. And the reason I call him strange right off, is that he didn't really belong.
Blarney's is a neighborhood bar and it's got its regulars. A few old folks who live nearby, guys on their way home from work, and of course, the local talent, which for the most part is Mae. How else do you think I know she's sweet? Anyway, like I was saying, Blarney's is a neighborhood bar, and don't get me wrong, there's nothing that bad about the neighborhood, but it sure ain't Park Place. And that's where the stranger looked like he belonged.
First off, he's the only guy in the room with a suit on, a gray three-piecer at that. There's even a little gold watch chain dangling from his vest pocket, and there's a gold watch on it, too. I know cause he keeps taking it out to look at. That and the door, and every once in a while, when the guys playing dice get loud, he gives them a hard stare. As if they didn't have the right to make noise in their own bar. The stranger's hair is white, that's how I can tell he's old, but it looks good cause it's styled and all fluffed up in some fifty-dollar cut, if you like that sort of thing. But in spite of all these trappings, there's something squirrely about the fellow. Not in his face, which I really can't make out that well, but maybe in his manner. In any case, there's something I don't like about him right off. Maybe it's just him being there where he doesn't belong. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not the kind to poke into other people's business. I leave that to the wife ... at least I used to. I was more interested in the game of liar's dice and trying to decide if I could afford to play. I mean who cares about some old man sitting by himself all evening not drinking wine. And that's the other thing I forgot to mention. He's got a glass of white wine--I wonder where Willard came up with that?--but he's only taken a couple sips and pushed it to the side, like he was too good for it. Probably used to drinking Rosechild or something fancy like that at home.
Anyway, like I said, I was more interested in the guys playing liar's dice. That is, until I saw the stranger light his cigar. And this is the part you're not going to believe. Unless you know something I don't.
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