The Reggis Arms Caper Read online

He said all I ever see is that big horse’s ass coming around.

  Shorty Connors was weaving his way back from the washroom.

  Old Dad Underwood kept a gimlet eye on the clock.

  He said ah-ha.

  He said see what I mean?

  He said that big horse’s ass is coming around again.

  Shorty Connors didn’t sit down.

  He picked up his change.

  He said all right goddammit.

  He said you don’t like me you don’t got to drink with me.

  8

  …football and sex is very much alike only football got a bigger playing field…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  I turned the Monday night football game on.

  Blohard Blowell was saying ladies and gentlemen of this vast national television audience zero hour has stalked us remorselessly and now the savage brutal brawling Chicago Bears borne high on a foaming wave of resurgency are about to show fang and claw to the stonewall defenses and deadly rapierlike attack of the consistently fearsome Dallas Cowboys.

  Sundown Sanders said whut Blohard is sane fokes is Chicago plane Dallas tonight.

  He broke into a spirited chorus of “When It’s Roundup Time in Texas.”

  I turned the Monday night football game off.

  I watched a big guy come in.

  His shoulders barely cleared the door frame.

  Water streamed from his unkempt black beard and from his trench coat of identical condition and color.

  He had disappointed eyes.

  The kind you associate with Chicago baseball fans.

  He ordered a double vodka on the rocks and took it into the dim solitude of the corner booth.

  Wife trouble.

  His old woman and one of his best friends.

  I knew the signs.

  I hadn’t been a private detective for nothing.

  I turned the Monday night football game on.

  Blohard Blowell was saying big tough fleet-footed Moses Johnson was bumped twice by the Chicago secondary defense as he departed the Dallas backfield en route to becoming an eligible pass receiver but the officials failed to detect Chicago’s utterly unpardonable conduct.

  Sundown Sanders said whut Blohard is sane fokes is ole Mose got hisself a bonus shot but ain’t nobody could locate a doggone whistle.

  He warbled a chorus of “Going Back to My Good Old Texas Home.”

  I turned the Monday night football game off.

  Brightside Nelson stomped in from the rain.

  He sat with Old Dad Underwood and Shorty Connors.

  He waved for a round.

  He said boy was I ever fortunate today.

  He said I had a flat tire and I had to take a bus to work.

  I said that’s great.

  I said if your luck holds out maybe your house will burn down.

  Brightside Nelson said why if I hadn’t of got me that good ole flat tire I might of got killed in a wreck.

  Shorty Connors said yes and you probly would of got a ticket for speeding.

  Old Dad Underwood nodded emphatically.

  He said sure and what’s more somebody more than likely would of stole your car.

  Brightside Nelson said there comes a time when a feller just got to sit down and count up all his blessings.

  I turned the Monday night football game on.

  9

  …friend of mine ate a bowl of Texas chili…stuck his head in a bucket of water and drowned…didn’t leave no farewell note or nothing…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  Blohard Blowell was saying now it is third down and six.

  Sundown Sanders said mo lak sebbem Blohard.

  A kinky little frown crept into the voice of Blohard Blowell.

  He said mo lak sebbem what for God’s sake?

  Sundown Sanders said mo lak sebbem yards fur a fustest down Blohard.

  Blohard Blowell sighed.

  He said well if it’ll make you any happier we’ll call it a long six.

  Sundown Sanders said man on thud down thass the onliest kind of six they is.

  Blohard Blowell said well while we quibbled over inches Cliff Buttervalve overthrew Dusty Rimrock by fifteen yards and this amateurish maneuver was inexcusable in light of the indisputable fact that Buttervalve had Slats Slinkwick all alone on the sideline.

  He said Slats Slinkwick certainly has all the moves.

  Sundown Sanders said wall juss one mo move lak that an ole Slats gonna make his nextest move outten Dallas on a rail.

  Blohard Blowell bristled.

  He said for your enlightenment Slats Slinkwick was wide open on the Dallas thirty-five yard line.

  Sundown Sanders said he sho was Blohard but Dallas got the ball on the fifty an ole Slats is plane fur Dallas or anyhow thass which uniform he got on.

  He cut loose with a chorus of “Beautiful Beautiful Texas.”

  I turned the Monday night football game off.

  I heard Old Dad Underwood announce that he was about to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity.

  Shorty Connors said Einstein didn’t know the first goddam thing about relativity.

  He said if Einstein would of had my mother-in-law then he would of learnt something about relativity.

  I turned the Monday night football game on.

  Blohard Blowell was at the Dallas bench with a microphone.

  He had cornered Slats Slinkwick.

  He said Slats tell us about that third and six play of a few minutes ago.

  Slats Slinkwick said mo lak sebbem Blohard.

  Blohard Blowell said let’s not split hairs Slats.

  Slats Slinkwick said I never seen no hair a yard wide.

  Blohard Blowell said tell me Slats were you running the wrong way?

  Slats Slinkwick said no juss bout same way as always Blohard.

  He said fust the leftest foot an then the tightest foot an then the leftest foot an lak that.

  Blohard Blowell blinked a few times.

  He said Slats what part of the country are you from?

  Slats Slinkwick said I from Nowater Taixus.

  Blohard Blowell nodded.

  He said yes well thank you Slats Slinkwick for Christ’s sake.

  Sundown Sanders sang “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You.”

  Sundown Sanders sings better than Johnny Mathis.

  Hardly an acceptable excuse.

  I turned the Monday night football game off.

  Shorty Connors was saying let’s us discuss nuclear physics.

  Old Dad Underwood said I never have no truck with all that there newfangled stuff.

  He said castor oil always been good enough for me.

  The big guy took another double vodka back to the corner booth.

  It was still raining.

  The beer cooler continued to clank.

  I wondered about the price of tickets to Bolivia.

  10

  …there is fifteen parallels between navigation and life…one ain’t hardly worth mentioning and I plumb forgot the other fourteen…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  The night wore on.

  I finished reading “Skull Squadron Flies Again.”

  I dug another Eagles magazine out of a backbar drawer.

  The feature story was “Deathbirds of the Argonne Skies.”

  Also by Arch Blockhouse.

  I gave some thought to Arch Blockhouse.

  Arch Blockhouse had probably been the pen name of a novice nun.

  I glanced at the magazine cover.

  March 1937.

  By now she might be Mother Superior.

  Brightside Nelson left.

  I poured myself some Sunnybrook and drank to that.

  Old Dad Underwood introduced the subject of astronomical navigation.

  Shorty Connors said I know all about that astronomical navigation.

  He said how you think I find my way home of nights?

  Old Dad Underwood said there has been some times I sort of wond
ered about that.

  Shorty Connors said I just haul out my trusty ole sexton and I get me a fix on Jupiter and before you know it I am parked smack-dab in front of 3009 Belden Avenue.

  Old Dad Underwood said I think you better get your trusty ole sexton repaired.

  He said you live at 3008 Palmer Avenue.

  Shorty Connors said yeah but I always park on Belden and walk a block.

  He said the finance company is looking for my car.

  Old Dad Underwood said you ain’t been getting no fix on Jupiter.

  He said you been getting a fix on the streetlight at Kimball and Barry.

  Shorty Connors stood up.

  He said let’s you and me just step outside.

  Old Dad Underwood said don’t be ridiculous.

  He said why I would dazzle you with footwork.

  He said I would left-hook you to death.

  He said I would reduce you to a pile of smoking debris.

  Shorty Connors said I don’t want to fight.

  He said I want to show you Jupiter.

  They went out.

  I hopped over the bar.

  I sprinted to the door and bolted it.

  I turned off the neon sign and dusted my hands.

  Jupiter in the goddam rain.

  Then I remembered the big guy.

  11

  …oncet there was a patriots’ convention…five people showed up…one patriot and his four psychiatrists…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  He left the darkness of the corner booth.

  Ponderously.

  The way a grizzly checks out of a cave in the spring.

  He eased himself onto a groaning barstool.

  He said Purdue I got to talk to you.

  I said no you don’t.

  I said what you need is a marriage counselor.

  I said there used to be one down in Logan Square but he’s on the lam.

  I said he couldn’t meet his alimony payments.

  The big guy hoisted a traffic-cop hand.

  He said hold it Purdue.

  He said my name is Grogan and I’m a government man.

  I weighed Grogan’s statement.

  For about one-fifth of a second.

  I grabbed Grogan by the lapels of his beat-up black trench coat.

  I gazed into his forlorn eyes.

  I said listen Grogan do you know what happened to me the last time I met a guy who claimed to be from the government?

  I said I got arrested twice and married once that’s what happened to me.

  Grogan detached me from his lapels.

  Gently but firmly.

  He had the strength of a brontosaurus.

  He said Purdue this is hotter than hell.

  He said I’m with Section B-3 of the CIA.

  He said I’m out of Langley.

  I said baby that ain’t the half of it.

  I said you’re also in the wrong place at the wrong time discussing the wrong subject with the wrong man and you’re out of Betsy’s Last Chance.

  I went to the door and opened it.

  I pointed into the cold December rain.

  I said depart.

  Grogan removed his waterlogged hat.

  He held it over his heart.

  A tear glistened on his cheek.

  He said Purdue ask not what your country can do for you.

  He said ask what you can do for your country.

  I shrugged.

  I closed the door and bolted it.

  I said all right Grogan what’s on your mind?

  12

  …patriots is like baseball fans…they holler a lot and go home before the game is over…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  Grogan handed me a leather folder bulging with identification cards and badges.

  He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

  He said let’s have a drink while we talk.

  I went behind the bar and poured a double snort of Comrade Terrorist vodka for Grogan and a double Sunnybrook for myself.

  We drank.

  Grogan fished a worn manila envelope from a pocket of his disreputable trench coat.

  He took out several papers and began to arrange them.

  He said Purdue this will be a mutually advantageous little alliance.

  He said we can use your help and brother you can certainly use ours.

  I shrugged.

  I bought a round.

  We drank.

  Grogan motioned for another.

  We drank.

  Grogan said Purdue you’re reportedly a very patriotic sonofagun.

  He said it’s a matter of record that you sing patriotic songs and recite patriotic poetry.

  I shrugged.

  I said well my wife has a name for that.

  I said Betsy calls it alcoholus patrioticus.

  I said she tells me it’s an incurable malady which causes the patriotism of the afflicted to accelerate commensurately with his consumption of alcoholic beverages.

  I said whiskey and vodka to name just a couple.

  I poured another round.

  We drank.

  I said I’ve just recently recovered from a serious recurrence of alcoholus patrioticus.

  I said it caught up with me on Armistice Day.

  Grogan nodded.

  He said yes I believe I have something on that.

  He ran a thuringer-sized forefinger up and down a yellow sheet of paper.

  He mumbled Armistice Day Armistice Day Armistice Day.

  He said here it is.

  He frowned.

  He gave a long low whistle.

  He said Holy Christ.

  I shrugged.

  Grogan made a sign for another round.

  We drank.

  Grogan said would you care to give me the particulars of this matter?

  I said well we had an Armistice Day party here at the tavern.

  Grogan said wait a minute.

  He said you held an Armistice Day party?

  I said sure.

  I said doesn’t everybody hold Armistice Day parties?

  I said there was a certain amount of drinking.

  I said at eleven o’clock we faced the east and I recited “In Flanders Fields.”

  I said it was a solemn moment.

  Grogan’s sad eyes were welling with tears.

  He said we shall not sleep though poppies grow in Flanders Fields.

  Sonorously.

  I poured a new round.

  We faced the east.

  We drank.

  Grogan waved his handkerchief for another round.

  I poured.

  We drank.

  I said right after that I sang “God Bless America.”

  Grogan nodded approvingly.

  I popped for a round and Grogan raised his glass.

  He said stand beside her and guide her.

  We drank.

  I said it was then that I recited “Barbara Frietchie.”

  Grogan turned pale.

  He said my God you didden.

  I said the hell I didden.

  I pointed a finger at an imaginary window.

  I said who touches a hair of yon gray head.

  Grogan lunged to his feet.

  He bellowed dies like a dog march on he said.

  I said goddam right.

  Grogan said less have little drink.

  I poured.

  We drank.

  I said I have been given to understand that strong men wept openly.

  Grogan wept openly.

  He said maybe we ought have one for good ole Barber Fishy.

  I poured.

  We drank.

  I said that was when I mobilized an army to invade Russia.

  13

  …oncet I knowed a feller what joined the Salvation Army…got court martialed and shot at sunrise…they caught him reading a Playboy magazine…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  I said we drove out to Pine Grove
in Bud Baxter’s pickup truck.

  I said the Pine Grove VFW used to have an old 155 mm howitzer in front of the building.

  Grogan looked up.

  He said used to have?

  I said used to have.

  I said we just got around the corner with it when our tow chain busted.

  I said that goddam cannon rolled onto the railroad tracks and derailed a two hundred car freight train.

  Grogan peered at his yellow sheet of paper.

  Myopically.

  He said says here Pine Grove chief of police ennen up in hocking fusspital with busted jaw.

  I shrugged.

  I said he became very belligerent.

  I said he refused to join in the singing of “America the Beautiful.”

  Grogan’s melancholy eyes narrowed to slits.

  He said you should have liquidated the shwine.

  I said I think maybe thass what I had in mind.

  Grogan bought a round.

  We drank.

  Grogan sang a chorus of “America the Beautiful.”

  I sang tenor to the last two lines.

  That was the only part I knew the tenor to.

  Grogan said how many men in your army?

  I said seven.

  I said eight if you count Grandma Bittingham.

  Grogan squinted at me.

  He said how you ever getting eight peoples in cab of pickup truck?

  I said we didden.

  I said Grandma Bittingham wooden fit.

  I said we had to put her in back enn.

  I said she damn near froze to death.

  I said boy was she ever pissed off.

  I poured a round.

  We drank.

  I turned up the jukebox volume and played Alte Kameraden.

  I said I juss love millterry musics.

  Grogan said oh me too also.

  I heard a pounding on the ceiling.

  Grogan said wunsh I wenn bann consherr an join Shalvasun Army.

  He said you wann hear bout Ball of Armagennon?

  I said I think I juss heard.

  Grogan said who won it?

  I shrugged.

  I said how many points you get?

  Grogan said less have juss one more lil ole drink here.

  I poured.

  We drank.

  We sang “Gol Bess America.”

  The pounding on the ceiling grew louder.

  I played Alte Kameraden again and we marched around the tavern.