Burial of the Dead

PLOTS - 6

******

Clive, the Bartender’s one of those shifty guys in his thirties who look like the shifty kid from high school who pretended to know a lot about drugs, booze, cigarettes, pool and fake I.D.’s. He sits on a stool, reads a paper, fumbles with an old radio and, when called upon, serves some old guys.

When the old guys hear Clive’s midlands accent they talk about Normandy and Montgomery and how the Yanks and the Limeys got along in ‘44. They ask Clive to put the TV on so they can see what’s happening in New York and argue over Homeland Security and how the President’s over his head, screwing up worse than LBJ (who at least gave a shit about people). They leave after two rounds talking about ‘dirty bombs’ and how New York’s dirty enough, and Clive turns off the TV, and the place is empty until the cop comes in.

The cop’s not a drinker. He orders one draft and drinks slowly. He doesn’t make small talk; he doesn’t like to be bothered.

The front door opens with the percussive wind, and the good looking lady with the limp and the cane with the lion’s head enters and sits next to the cop. She calls the cop, Louis. That’s how Clive knows the cop’s name. They’ve been meeting like this on Monday afternoons. She never stays long and after she leaves Officer Louis orders one for the road, drinks half and leaves. At first Clive figured it was an affair, but then some things happened and he changed his mind about that. It’s not an affair; it’s something else. They’re planning something, trying to solve a problem, negotiating something - something that’s got to be taken care of.

LaPorta calls to Clive, orders a club soda for the lady. Clive shoots a glass with the soda pump and sets it on the bar for Manny.

“Thank you, Clive.” Manny says, and Clive offers up a short smile, feeling dismissed.

“Clive,” Manny says, calling him back.

“Yes, mum.”

“Where do you come from over there?”

“Family was from Liverpool, mum, but I was packed off to the midlands early on. South of York. Worked on my uncle’s farm, went to school there for the reading, writing and figures.”

“Liverpool’s famous,” Manny says.

“My grandparents knew the Starkeys,” Clive says. “In the Dingle.”

“The Starkeys?”

“Ringo’s folks. Fear they must be all gone now.”

LaPorta listens to the back and forth but he doesn’t pick up on it. He just stares at his beer and moves his lips every now and then.

“I bet you could make some money with that,” Manny says.

“With what, mum?”

“Being from Liverpool, knowing a Beatle’s family. People are making money off them left and right these days. Memorabilia, eBay. All that sort of thing.”

“’Fraid not, mum, I was out of Liddypool by the time I was seven. I didn’t know anybody. Couldn’t even tell you what the place looks like.”

“That’s the easy part,” she says. “They got maps and books for that. You’ve got the accent. That’s what will sell it.”

“Maybe so,” Clive says, looking at her face - the face of an American beauty from a hundred years ago, the kind of face he’s seen on posters in pharmacies extolling the virtues of a cough medicine sold at the turn of the century, a face from a time when young women had half the rights and twice the cunning.

LaPorta looks up from his glass, looks at Clive, looks at Manny and then looks at his glass again. Clive figures LaPorta wants to get on with it, and all this talk about Liverpool is holding him up.