South Street (34 page)

“Betsy,” Leo told her, “you wouldn’t have no more customers if they was to line up every damn preacher in South Philly an’ blow his damfool head off. Only way you gonna get more business is if they make it illegal to screw a woman that ain’t got a senior citizen’s card.”

Big Betsy’s sagging jowls sagged further. “That, Leo, was cold.”

“Well if you don’t wanna get froze,” Leo said, “then you get up offa ma case. The man is a preacher, just like I’m a bartender an’ you’re a whore. Everybody’s got to get along the best they can doin’ the best they knows how. Preacher’s got a right to have a quiet drink if he wants one without everybody forkin’ shit on him just ’cause he peddles Bibles instead a peddlin’ his ass or somebody else’s. He’s a nice dude, an’ he don’t make no trouble, an’ he don’t bother nobody, an’ he knows more about the Phillies than Dizzy Dean an’ the damn TV computer put together, an’ he don’t try to tell me who I can have in ma bar an’ who I can’t, so you can just shut your goddamn mouth an’ fuck off.”

Big Betsy stared at Leo, her mouth open. “Damn, Leo. You queer for the dude or somethin’?”

Leo gave her a long, hard look, then he leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You cool it, fat stuff, or I’ma tell everybody ’bout the time you tried to make it with the beer bottle.”

“That was a long time ago,” Big Betsy protested.

“It had to be,” Leo snapped, “’cause even a beer bottle couldn’t keep it up over you any more.”

“Damn, Leo,” said Big Betsy.

“You just let him be if he comes in. You hear?”

“I hear you talkin’,” Big Betsy said.

“You best quit hearin’ me talkin’ an’ commence to listenin’ to what I’m sayin’.”

“I am, I am,” Big Betsy said. “You say he’s okay, then he’s okay. After all, it’s your bar, Leo. You got a right to have anybody in it you wants. You wants a preacher, you gets a preacher. You wants a honky, you can get one a them, too.”

“Ain’t nobody said nothin’ ’bout no honkies,” Leo snapped.

“Well, it’s the next step, Leo,” Big Betsy said. “You get a couple preachers, the next step is to have a bunch a honky social workers. Next thing you know they done fixed the street, put in new sewers, built a new school, an’ raised the taxes. There goes the damn neighborhood.”

Leo uneasily examined her logic for a moment, then gave up and stuck to his guns. “All I got, an’ all I’m gonna have, is one damn preacher. I ain’t no preacher-lover, but he’s a nice fella. There’s gotta be some nice preachers somewheres.”

“I ain’t never met one,” said Big Betsy.

“Well, you oughta meet this one.”

“What the hell …” Big Betsy stopped suddenly and her face assumed an expression that screamed of calculation. “Well, now,” she said slowly, “maybe I should. I mean, if the man drinks beer maybe he’s up for a little action.” Leo put down the glass he had been polishing and stared at her. “W’hell,” said Big Betsy defensively, “maybe I’m just what he’s been lookin’ for.”

“I doubt it,” Leo said. “He sure musta seen you by now. You’re too damn big t’overlook.”

“Maybe he’s shy,” snapped Big Betsy. “We ain’t been introduced. You gotta introduce us, Leo.”

“Oh, God,” Leo muttered. “Betsy, I got better things to do than play pimp to a preacher.”

“Humph,” said Big Betsy. “Trouble with you, Leo, is you don’t change your Kotex real reglar.”

“You remember what them things is for, do you?” Leo said. “You not only look like one, you got a mem’ry like one.” He grinned at Big Betsy, who ignored him pointedly for a few moments, then sighed.

“All right, Leo. Like what?”

“A snaggle-toothed elephant,” Leo said.

“Fuck off,” said Big Betsy, and marched off toward the ladies’ room. Leo grinned and went back to polishing glasses.

It was shaping up to be a quiet night, one of the nights when Leo loved his job, a night free from drawn knives, squabbling couples, sick drunks, maudlin whores, irate wives, henpecked husbands, and idiots who insisted on playing Russian roulette with Leroy Briggs. Such nights had been rare of late—the hot summer seemed to be drawing the sweat and blood and ornery out of everybody. Leo had felt the change in himself as the August heat had taken its toll. He had begun to notice the hard edges of things, instead of sensing the softer interiors: when he looked at Big Betsy he saw her bitchiness before he saw her loneliness, he saw Rayburn Wallace as weak rather than meek, as powerless more than as gentle. Leo realized suddenly that over the long hot weeks he had been withdrawing into himself, spending more time with the TV. Leo drew himself a long, cold beer and took a thoughtful swallow. Then he leaned over and unplugged the set. Tonight, Leo decided, the bar would get his full attention. He would dedicate the evening to breaking out of the crust that the summer had baked onto him. He stretched, expanding his beer-and-sweat-stained shirt past all reasonable expectation. He slurped his beer and trundled down to make amends with Big Betsy, who was now sitting and smoldering at the far end of the bar. Impulsively, Leo poured a shot glass full of gin and placed it before her. Big Betsy eyed it with suspicion.

“What the hell’s that?” Big Betsy demanded.

“It’s a slug a gin,” Leo said. “Beefeater.”

“I can see that, Leo,” Big Betsy snarled. “What the hell’s it doin’ there?”

Leo regarded the shot glass appraisingly. “Not much,” he admitted.

“Well what the hell’s it
for
, Leo?” said Big Betsy with exaggerated patience.

“It’s for you.”

“For me?”

“That’s right,” Leo said. “That there gin is a peace offerin’.”

Big Betsy stared at him for a moment, and then her face burst into a jack-o’-lantern grin. “Damn, Leo, I knowed you’d come around. You might almost be human.” Big Betsy reached out and grasped the glass. She leered at Leo, but in an instant the leer turned into a scowl, and she flung the gin straight into Leo’s face. “Only trouble with your thinkin’,” she continued without noticeable rancor, “is that I ain’t hardly desperate enough to be givin’ no pieces away for one lousy slug a gin.”

Leo stood with gin running out of his sparse hair and onto his face, dripping off his nose and onto his thick lips, off his chin and onto his broad chest. He made no motion. Leo appeared to be in shock.

“Haw, haw, haw,” laughed Big Betsy. “You sure do look like a goddamn fool, Leo. Shame to waste good gin, but it’s worth it. Haw, haw, haw.” Leo remained catatonic. His tongue flicked out and, ever so gently, absorbed the liquid that had dripped down to within its range. His eyes blinked as a few drops of gin trickled into them, then closed. Big Betsy stopped laughing. “Leo?” said Big Betsy. Leo did not move. “Leo!” Leo remained motionless, like a lumpy carving in dark wood. “Omigod,” said Big Betsy. “Omigod.”

Brother Fletcher entered Lightnin’ Ed’s just as Big Betsy reached out a crooked forefinger and jabbed her long fingernail into Leo’s protruding paunch. Leo rocked back on his heels, nearly toppling over backward before the counterweight of his pot belly swung him back into balance. Big Betsy emitted an anguished choke and tried to back away from Leo’s rigid form while still perched on the bar stool. As a direct result, Betsy and bar stool became a tangled mass on the floor, which Brother Fletcher eyed with some astonishment. Big Betsy bounced up like an overinflated volleyball, while the stool, two of its legs snapped neatly by the sudden application of Big Betsy’s full weight, remained on the floor. “Omigod,” whispered Big Betsy, her eyes on motionless Leo.

“What’s the matter?” asked Brother Fletcher.

Big Betsy pointed her finger at Leo, looked down at it, and quickly hid her hand behind her back. “Omigod,” said Big Betsy. “I done made poor Leo bust a goddamn blood vessel. I done give poor Leo a stroke, or he’s havin’ a fuckin’ fit, an’ it’s all ma fault. Omigod.”

To Brother Fletcher it appeared that it was Big Betsy who was having the fit. She jabbed Leo in the solar plexus with her forefinger; breath escaped burbling through Leo’s pursed lips, but his face remained immobile and his body rigid. “Omigod.” She tore her eyes away from Leo and focused them on Brother Fletcher. “I threw a whole glass a Beefeater in his face, an’ now he’s havin’ a fit. Poor Leo, I done done him in. I didn’t mean it.”

“Of course not,” soothed Brother Fletcher. “But I really don’t think a glass of gin …” Brother Fletcher stopped suddenly, realizing that he had not the slightest notion as to the possible effects of a glass of gin administered externally, or internally, for that matter.

“It wasn’t the goddamn gin,” Big Betsy wailed. “I shot Leo down. Shot him cold.”

“You
what
?”

Big Betsy nodded. “In flames. I burned him clean. You see”—she turned her wistful gaze on Leo—“me an’ Leo, we ain’t exactly in
love
or nothin’, but, well, we been together a long time, you know? An’ I guess Leo just couldn’t take it when he fin’ly got around to astin’ for some an’ I turned him down.” She turned back to Brother Fletcher. “Some men’s like that, you know. A girl says no, an’ they got to be takin’ it all personal.”

“I’m sure he’ll … recover,” Brother Fletcher said.

“I don’t know,” Big Betsy said doubtfully. “I shouldn’ta done like that t’old Leo.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “I mean, I always figured me an’ Leo’d, well, you know, sooner or later. Right now I got ma career, but …” Her voice trailed off. She regarded Leo sadly.

Brother Fletcher looked down at Big Betsy’s plumb-bob breasts and congested face and repressed a shudder. He reached out and removed the side towel from Leo’s lax fingers. “Here,” he said, handing it to Big Betsy. “Why don’t you go run some cold water on this?”

“What for?”

“We’ll put it on his head.”

“Oh.” Big Betsy looked pityingly at Leo for a moment, then waddled off to the rest room. As soon as the door had closed behind her Leo stuffed both hands in his mouth and fell across the bar, his big body shaking.

“You all right?” asked Brother Fletcher.

“No, no,” moaned Leo. “No, the damn bitch is killin’ me. I’m dyin’, Rev, I’m dyin’.” Leo wiped tears from his eyes and tried to push himself off the bar, which was creaking ominously from his weight.

Big Betsy burst from the ladies’ room holding a soggy side towel in both hands. The water ran down her fat arms and dripped off her elbows. She stopped and stared. “He ain’t dead!”

“You keep breathin’ in ma damn face an’ I will be dead,” growled Leo. He stopped laughing and managed to push himself off the bar.

“I thought you was gone, Leo,” Big Betsy said.

Leo looked at her calmly, snorted, picked up a fresh side towel and started polishing glasses.

“I thought sure he was a gonner,” Big Betsy said to Brother Fletcher. She laid the wet side towel down on the bar.

“I, ah, think you can stop worrying,” Brother Fletcher said.

“Worrying?” snapped Big Betsy. “Me? ’bout Leo? Why the hell would I wanta worry about Leo? He ain’t good for nothin’ ’cept pourin’ gin. An’ beer,” Big Betsy added as Leo placed a frosty mug in front of Brother Fletcher. “An’,” Big Betsy continued, “there’s plenty bartenders can do that better. Leo can’t even pour a lady a glass a gin without gettin’ it all over his ugly face.”

“But—” Brother Fletcher began.

“What lady?” Leo cut in. “I don’t see no damn lady.”

“He’s blind, too,” Big Betsy confided.

“But you—” began Brother Fletcher.

“If I wasn’t,” Leo said, “I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to stay in the same damn room as you. Every time you goes to take a piss I gotta buy a new mirror.”

“What …” began Brother Fletcher. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head, and took a long swallow of his beer.

“Don’t you pay no attention to Leo, Cutie-pie,” Big Betsy said, patting Brother Fletcher’s arm. “Leo don’t know if his mother was Lassie or Rin-Tin-Tin.” She turned to Leo and glowered. “You know somethin’, Leo? You think you’re hot shit an’ you go around puttin’ down your old friends. But hot shit don’t end up to be nothin’ but cold turd, Leo. You remember that.” She sneered at Leo and whirled on a mystified Brother Fletcher. “You know what Leo done?” she asked accusingly.

“No,” said Brother Fletcher quickly.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Big Betsy said. “You oughta hear it. You oughta know what kinda fool you been buyin’ beer from. Leo’s tryin’ to turn this place into a fuckin’ Sunday School. How you like that?”

“Uh, Betsy,” Leo said quickly, “I do believe it’s gettin’ to be time you shut your mouth or your ass or whatever you been makin’ noise with.”

“You don’t know shit, Leo,” Big Betsy said. “You don’t even know the difference between your mouth an’ your asshole.”

Leo looked up at the ceiling, his tongue jammed into his cheek. “Betsy, now, I know
ma
mouth from
ma
asshole, but in your case there just ain’t that much difference. Now why don’t you just close whichever—”

“This here conversation,” Big Betsy said with frosty dignity, “is
strictly
between me an’ Cutie-pie here. Now quit bein’ jealous an’ go piss.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Leo obediently, his eyes still on the ceiling, “but I still think—”

“I doubt it,” Big Betsy snapped. Leo shrugged, made a motion of washing his hands, and moved away, being careful to stay within earshot. “Don’t you mind
him
, Cutie-pie,” Big Betsy said, settling herself on the stool next to Brother Fletcher like a hen on a nest. “He just doesn’t want nobody to know he’s turnin’ this place into a damn church social. You ain’t gonna believe this, but he started lettin’
preachers
in here.”

Brother Fletcher choked convulsively and half-swallowed beer sprayed across the bar top. His features under rigid control, Leo moved in with his side towel and mopped up the mess, wordlessly refilled Brother Fletcher’s glass. Big Betsy was pounding Brother Fletcher on the back. Brother Fletcher clapped a hand over his mouth to hold his plate in. “You gonna be sick, Cutie-pie?” gasped Big Betsy between pounds. “Leo, see what you done with your damn foolishness? Cutie-pie’s fixin’ to heave.”

“Maybe I made him sick,” Leo said, “but you’re the one beatin’ him to death. Let up on him, for God’s sake.”

Big Betsy stopped pounding, permitting Brother Fletcher to reposition himself on the stool and his dentures in his mouth. “You all right, Cutie-pie?” Big Betsy asked urgently.