Bad News

37

When Dortmunder walked into the O.J. Bar & Grill on Amsterdam Avenue at four minutes before six that evening, Rollo, the bulky, balding bartender, was painting MERY XM on the extremely dusty mirror over the back bar, using some kind of white foam from a spray can, possibly shaving cream, while the regulars, clustered at one end of the bar, were discussing the names of Santa’s reindeer. “I know it starts,” the first regular said, “‘Now, Flasher, now, Lancer, now—’”

“Now, now, wait a second,” the second regular said. “One of those is wrong.”

Dortmunder walked over to stand at the bar, somewhat to the right of the regulars and directly behind Rollo, whose tongue was stuck slightly out of the left corner of his mouth as, with deep concentration, he painted downward a left-trending diagonal next to M.

“Oh yeah?” said the first regular. “Which one?”

“I think Flasher,” said the second regular.

A third regular joined in at that point, saying, “Naw, Lancer.”

Rollo started the second leg of the next letter.

“So what are you telling me?” demanded the first regular. “They’re both wrong?”

A fourth regular, who had been communing with the spheres of the universe, or maybe with the bottles on the back bar, inhaled, apparently for the first time in several days, and said, “Rupert.”

All the regulars looked at him. Rollo started the horizontal.

“Rupert what?” demanded the second regular.

“Rupert Reindeer,” the fourth regular told him.

The third regular, in total disdain, said, “Wait a minute. You mean the one with the red nose?”

“Yeah!”

“That’s not a reindeer!” the third regular informed him.

“Oh yeah?” Transition complete, the fourth regular was at this point fully in the here and now. “Then why do they call him Rupert Reindeer?”

“He’s not one of these reindeer,” the first regular explained.

“He’s not even Rupert,” the third regular said. “He’s Rodney. Rodney, the red-nosed—”

“They won’t let him play,” the second regular said, “unless it’s foggy.”

“And you,” the third regular said, pointing a definitive finger at the fourth regular, “are foggy.”

“Hey!” the fourth regular said. “How’m I supposed to take that?”

Rollo added an extremely accomplished apostrophe just to the right of XMA, then paused to contemplate that next bare space.

“Any way you want,” the third regular said.

The fourth regular frowned, thinking that over.

Rollo shook his head, then turned slightly to glance toward Dortmunder. “How you doin,” he said.

“Fine,” Dortmunder assured him.

Rollo shook the spray can in the direction of the space next to XMA’. “It’s all curves from now on,” he said.

“You did good with the R,” Dortmunder told him.

Rollo was cheered by that. “You think so? It’s in the wrist, I believe.”

“You’re probably right,” Dortmunder said.

“I think one of them is Dopey,” the second regular said.

“Yeah,” the third regular said, “and I know which one, too.”

The first regular said, “I think the next two are Masher and Nixon.”

“Nixon!” snorted the third regular. “He wasn’t even alive yet.”

“Well, it’s Masher and somebody.”

“Do

“No, no, no,” said the first regular. “Do

Everybody was interested in that. “Who ate the people?” asked the fourth regular, who had decided not to make a federal case out of being called foggy, or whatever it was.

“Some other people,” the first regular explained. “They got stuck in the snow, on a bus.”

“Now wait a minute,” the third regular said. “It wasn’t a bus. I know what you’re talkin about, it was a long time ago, it was one of those wagons, Saratoga wagons.”

“It wasn’t Saratoga,” the second regular said. “Maybe you mean station wagon.”

As Rollo started the slow circuitous path of the final letter on the mirror, the first regular said, “Station wagon! If it’s too long ago for a bus, whada they doin in a station wagon?”

“I du

Rollo finished a somewhat recognizable S, and the first regular called over, “Hey, Rollo, you got that misspelled there!”

Rollo looked at the regular, then at his handiwork. MERY XMA’S. He didn’t seem particularly worried. “Oh yeah?” he said.

“You gotta spell merry,” the first regular told him, “with an a.”

The third regular said, “What are you, nuts? When you spell it with an a, that’s what you call it when you get married.”

“Only if that’s her name,” the fourth regular said, and received massive frowns of bewilderment in response.

Rollo at last put down the spray can and faced Dortmunder. “It’s the thought that counts,” he said.

“You’re right about that.”

“You’ll be wanting the back room.”

“Sure. We’re go

“She is,” Rollo agreed. A professional to his fingertips, he identified his customers exclusively by their choice of beverage. “I’ll give you the other bourbon’s glass,” he said, “and send everybody back when they get here. You’re the first.”

“I’m kind of the host,” Dortmunder said.

As Rollo went off to get glasses and ice and a bottle of Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon—Our Own Brand, as it said on the label, the regulars spent some time trying to decide if it was Mary that was a grand old name or Ulysses S. Grant that was a grand old name. Ulysses S. Grant certainly sounded grander. Probably older, too.

Rollo brought over a round enameled metal Rheingold Beer tray containing two plain water glasses, a shallow ironstone bowl with ice cubes in it, and the alleged bourbon, which, beyond the brave statement of its label, was a muddy brown liquid that looked as if it might have been scooped from a river somewhere in Azerbaijan. “See me on the way out,” he advised.

“Sure,” Dortmunder said. “Merry exmas,” he added, and carried the tray past the regulars, most of whom were pretty sure at this point that Nerdy was not one of the original Seven Dwarfs. Dortmunder went on down beyond the end of the bar and down the hall past doors decorated with black metal dog silhouettes labeled POINTERS and SETTERS and past the phone booth, where a new string now dangled from the quarter slot, and on through the green door at the very back, into a small square room with a concrete floor. All the walls were completely covered from floor to ceiling by beer and liquor cases, leaving a minimal space in the middle for a battered old round table with a stained felt top that had once been pool-table green but now looked as though some Amsterdam Liquor Store bourbon had been poured all over it a long time ago and let dry. This table was surrounded by half a dozen armless wooden chairs.

This room had been dark when Dortmunder opened the door, but when he hit the switch beside the door, it all sprang to life, illuminated by one bare bulb under a round tin reflector hanging low over the table on a long black wire. Dortmunder walked all around the table to sit in the chair that faced the door; the first arrival always did that. Setting the tray on the table, near his right hand, he shrugged out of his coat and let it drape behind him on the chair. Then he put two ice cubes into one of the glasses, poured muddy liquid on top, took a sip, and leaned back to gaze around the room in contentment. Small, cramped, windowless; what a nice place to be.

Tiny Bulcher appeared in the doorway. Barely visible in his left fist was a tall glass containing what looked like, but was not, cherry soda. He paused to cock his head and say, “Dortmunder. What’s that on your face?”