BABY GIGOLO.

At the Corner Bar

Cash-flushed, Mike headed straight to The Corner Bar; he needed a drink and a strong one. He thought that he would have some of those fancy and expensive whiskey that he had seen lining the top shelf of the bar but could never afford. Today his dream would come true. He would simply point to the fanciest label, and without asking the price, would order a double. His stock-in-trade was the cheapest beer, and only when he had done an off job or two. His luck had changed, and he kept patting the pocket where the cash lay hidden. He reveled in advance when he imagined the look of amazement on the faces of the regular patrons and the owner in particular.

He pushed open the barroom door, plonked himself on a stool at the counter, pointed at the fanciest label and ordered a double. The bartender, who was also the owner, looked at Mike as if he were joking. He hesitated and asked, "Are you sure you can afford it?"

"Yes. Now will you pour? I have something to celebrate, and I want to do it well."

By that time, the boisterous conversation of the regulars had died down. It was only the loud music from the speakers that was audible. Everyone's eyes and ears were fixed on the two men. They expected Andy, the owner,to throw Mike out in the next minute.

Andy was a short stocky man of fifty with beady eyes, a shrewd look on his face, and a short temper. It wouldn't be the first time that Mike would provoke him, and it wouldn't be the first time that Mike would be thrown out.

"Ok Mister, show me the money," Andy said.

Mike had expected it, and with a flourish he pulled the money from his pocket and slapped it onto the counter.

"Now, will you pour?" Mike demanded, already hot under the collar.

"Are you sure those are real? Are you sure they're not monopoly money, because I swear..."

"Oh, they're real. I just came from a job. Pour a brother a drink. I've worked very hard, and don't make me wait," Mike said, cutting him off.

The owner poured the drink while eyeing Mike suspiciously. He pushed the drink over to Mike. Mike picked it up, tilted his head back, and downed it. He slapped the empty shot glass on the counter and said, "Again."
The second time around, he sipped it more slowly.

By this time the bar was abuzz with Mike's good fortune, and those who had seen the money, told the rest of the patrons that Mike had a stack of the most gorgeous smakaroos.
"He might buy all of us a drink. You ever know," was the comment that came from a cluster of men. The conversations were picked up where it was left off, and the noise levels returned to normal.

Two brave girls sauntered up to Mike, and stroking his biceps said, "Hello, big boy." They were only a fraction of his regular entertainment. He turned a viciously scolding glance at them, and there was a deep angry growl at the back of his throat. They got the message, and one of them said, "Don't worry, he's gonna need us again, and soon. And then I'll give him the cold shoulder."

But it was idle talk on their part, and they both knew that when Mike snapped his fingers they would come running. And if not them, it would be someone else.

It has been said that women are the greatest gossipers. That's not entirely true;men are. Especially when they are drunk, and particularly when it involves women. The only difference is that men call it bragging, and the bigger the fish they have caught, the wider their chests swell, and the more they feel that they have to share. What was the point of having bagged the richest date so far, and nobody knew about it?

Mike was past the point of being tipsy; he was as drunk as a Lord, and was ready to share the burden that laid so heavy on his heart. It is a well-known fact that drunken men the world over, speak a sober tongue, and tell the bartenders their heartfelt secrets.

Andy watched as Mike ordered his whiskey and beers; ringing up every sale, and knowing that Mike had at least three hundred dollars. He would know when to stop and demand payment. In the meantime he obliged Mike's every wish cheerfully. But his heart was burning to ask Mike the million dollar question, and when he saw that Mike was finally in the mood to talk, he asked, "So, tell me, Mike. Where did you get that money from? What kind of job pays a truckload of dough to an uneducated bum like yourself ; and first day's work?"

"Speak for yourself," Mike answered belligerently. "And it's not for a day's work. It's for an hour's work."

"That's even better," Andy said as he leaned his arms on the counter and brought his face confidentially closer to Mike's. "So, tell me. How did you earn it?"

"By helping an old lady move her furniture around," Mike answered scornfully and laughed sarcastically.

Andy was aware that that was not the whole story. He wasn't born yesterday, and he was beginning to smell a rat. He prodded and poked, and as he did so, the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place, and a nasty picture appeared in his mind's eye. He only asked relevant questions for the truth to reveal itself.
Well, well, who would have thought, he thought as he passed Mike another beer. Mike did not have to confess outright, but Andy was shrewd enough to put two and two together.

"Wait a minute," Andy said to Mike as a thought struck him. "I remember Mr. Anderson's son, Cole, that apart from working in the coffee shop uptown did the exact same thing on his days off."

Mike laughed uncontrollably and said, "It was he who recommended me for the job, and I owe him big-time."

Andy shook his head thoughtfully, and looking at Mike's tab he said, "Ok, Mister, time to pay up. Three hundred dollars please." He held out his hand for payment.

"What?" Mike roared. "My drinks couldn't have cost that much. You're a thief, a crook, and a liar."

"You drank the most expensive whiskey in the bar, and now you're complaining?"

Andy nodded his head in the direction of the three men sitting quietly in a corner. They came over, and while two of them grabbed Mike's arms, the third rifled through his pockets, found the money and handed it to Andy. Mike resisted. He tried to shake off his captors, but they were stronger than him, and besides he was drunk to the point where he could hardly stand up.

The spectators watched with glee written all over their faces. They were enjoying the spectacle, because Mike had not thought of buying one of them a drink. Mike broke loose, and a fight ensued. Tables and chairs were broken in the scuffle, and he was repeatedly punched in the stomach and face. He fought back bravely, but was easily overpowered. He was again a prisoner of his former guards, and they held him up while he stood facing Andy behind the counter top.

Calmly Andy said, "Mike, the broken tables and chairs will be put on your tab. I suggest you rearrange a lot more furniture as soon as possible. And I don't have to remind you what happens to those who don't pay their debt around here. Now throw him out."

They flung him out of the door, and he landed, like an old rag, on the sidewalk, bleeding and in pain; and with no one to help him home.

Slowly he got to his feet and dragged himself homeward. He collapsed in front of his gate, and passersby who knew him helped him inside.

They placed him on his bed, and his mother, the eternal angel of all wayward sons, pulled a blanket over him and let him sleep.

Before he drifted off to dreamland he thought of his gambling debt that some of the cash was supposed to cover which he accumulated at Tommy Teardrop's gambling joint.

~•~

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