Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)

The bartender, backlit by the Carslberg clock over his shoulder, looks up from his paper.
Naw, TonyO ain’t been in. Not for a week or more.
His old man owns the place.
Yeah.
Maybe he’s around then.
Nope.
Grig’s screwing up his nerve. A place like this, the guy gets hit for drinks a dozen times a day.
Say friend . . .
Don’t start partner.
You ain’t even heard me ask.
I know the delivery so save it.
How about some soda water, just some soda water and I’ll sit back by the pool table, just in case he shows up.
The bartender, his eyes on Grig the whole time, grabs a rocks glass, fills it at the slop-sink.
Come on friend. From the gun how bout?
You want it or don’t you?
Fine, yeah fine.
The cripples at the bar don’t move, don’t acknowledge the exchange. Grig hunts for some sympathy. Someone who may be in a buying mood.
Don’t sit at the bar.
No sir. No sir. Back by the table. If TonyO or his old man comes in could you tell them I’m here?
First thing partner.