Page 34 of Blue Umbrella Sky
“Gimme a shot of Jack and a Bud back.”
The bear winked. “You want that Bud on tap or in a bottle?”
“Bottle.”
Billy looked around the bar at all the other horny, wicked men getting loaded, the rises and falls of their conversations the husky music of desire and seduction. Anita Ward was imploring someone to ring her bell over the speakers. Somewhere near the back, a glass shattered on the floor, followed by laughter and applause.
And then—the shot and the beer were in front of him. Hungrily, guided only by need and instinct, Billy reached for them.
The bear smiled. “Slow on down there, stud. You want me to run a tab for you? Or you want to pay as you go?”
Billy laughed, feeling a little sheepish. His credit and lack of funds had long ago precluded his ownership of a credit card, so a tab was out. He groped in his pockets, and his hand curled around a crumpled bill. It was a twenty.
He had a moment of clarity and thought of all the booze that bill could buy. Not a ton, but enough to at least get a pleasant little buzz going.
But another thought came to him, one of rationalization and control. “Keep the change,” he said.
The bear picked it up, eyeing him—and then the bill—with a lopsided grin. “You sure?”
Billy wasn’t sure at all. He nodded.This way I won’t overdo it.
He downed the shot. After not having drunk for a year, it was like a line of liquid fire going down his throat. He choked a little, and the bartender chuckled.
Billy cooled the flame with a long swallow of beer. It tasted like something the gods had made, yeasty, cold, and delicious, tamping down the heat from the bourbon.
The bartender must have been amused, thinking Billy was a novice. He also might be attracted, but Billy was never sure about bartenders. He could never tell if they were angling for a tip or truly interested.
In any event, he poured him another shot of Jack. And another after that.
“I find that if you get a couple down, the ones that follow go down smoother and smoother.”
Billy licked the whiskey from his lips and gave the bartender what he thought of as his most winning smile. “I’m Billy.” He stuck his hand out over the bar.
“Joe.” The bartender shook his hand, wiggling his forefinger into Billy’s palm while never taking his gaze from Billy’s eyes. “Why don’t you pull up a stool? I’ve got some other guys to take care of, but it won’t take me long. Maybe we can get acquainted?”
Okay. So it’s safe to assume he’s into me. And if I smile pretty, flirt a little, I might not have to pay for another drink tonight. Let him think we’ll go home together once the lights come up.Billy planted his ass on one of the black vinyl stools.
He had no intention of going anywhere with Joe after the bar closed. But he’d take all the free drinks he could charm his way into.
And it barely crossed his mind that what he was doing was little more than prostitution.
Billy chatted with Joe for the next couple of hours—about the heat wave, the best pizza in town (Pequod’s in Morton Grove), Madonna, and the scandals taking place a few feet from the bar. During all this talk, Billy, growing increasingly soused, managed to keep up the currency he needed in exchange for the booze Joe freely poured—a lopsided grin here, a raised eyebrow there, a wink or a few seconds’ worth of meaningful eye contact.
Old Joe, Billy thought, through the haze of his growing buzz, thought he’d be getting a little somethin’ somethin’ tonight. He almost felt sorry for the guy.
Billy worked him like a musical instrument, and the song he was playing was Toby Keith’s “Get Drunk and Be Somebody.”
By the fifth beer and the seventh shot, Billy was certain Joe had fallen in love with him and was planning china patterns. He too was more than a little tipsy (after all, he’d matched Billy pretty much shot for shot) and was finding it hard to tear himself away from Billy’s charms, despite being implored, often forcefully, by outraged customers sick of being ignored.
Billy had to admit he felt their outrage was justified. But what could he do, other than raise a glass to their irritation?
By the time Joe shouted out, “Last call! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” Billy was plotting his escape. Even drunk, he felt shame about how he’d manipulated and used Joe, but he comforted himself with the fact that it probably wasn’t the first time Joe had fallen for such crap. Billy told himself the guy should know better.
Joe rapped his knuckles on the bar, and when Billy looked up at him, grinned. “You want to come by my place? Smoke some weed? I just live over by Touhy Park.”
Billy actually considered it—for all of a few seconds. For one, he was so drunk he thought he could only be a disappointment to Joe. He’d either fall asleep or throw up, maybe both, and hopefully not in that order.
Joe didn’t need to see that. No, Billy convinced himself, he was actually doing the guy a favor by ditching him.
