That will be ten bucks.”
“Ten bucks a song?”
“Just for the first song. After that’s it’s free.”
As I pulled out my wallet, I said, “Good thing you boys don’t charge a cover.”
I stepped through the door and into a neon-lit room, ringed with everything Elvis. Velvet paintings glowing with black light, guitar clocks, gold records, ceramic busts, framed photographs from each Elvis era: Elvis impossibly young, Elvis impossibly handsome, Elvis impossibly svelte in black leather, Elvis impossibly bloated in a white jumpsuit. There were tables, about half full, in the center, bars around the edges, booths in the back. Waitresses dressed like schoolgirls with high hair carried drinks on circular trays. On a narrow stage in the front, a redhead in a ruffled shirt, looking a little like Ann-Margret, belted out the first verse of “Viva Las Vegas” as the words rolled up a television screen and the crowd hooted and clapped along.
A man in dark glasses greeted me with a bright smile. “Welcome,” he said in a deep voice. “Slip?”
I handed it over. He gave it a look.
“Good choice, Franz,” he said. “You want some company tonight?” He thumbed toward a trio of women at the bar with bouffant hair and low blouses. They were nice-looking women once, but once was enough.
“No thanks,” I said. “I already had my fiber today.”
I scanned the scene, found whom I was looking for in a booth in the back. He was sitting alone, hunched over a drink, something dark and almost gone in his glass. He wasn’t viva-ing to Ann-Margret. I wondered if my visit that afternoon hadn’t ruined his day. Knowing what I knew now, I didn’t doubt it.
Gleason glanced up when I sat down across from him, didn’t seem one bit surprised to see me. “How’d you find this place?” he said.
“Torricelli.”
He nodded, he understood. Torricelli hadn’t just told me about the bar, he had told me about the shooting, too. “I should hang up a sign,” he said. “Do not disturb.”
“You know that piece of gum you step on and can’t get off your shoe?” I said. “It ends up on your hand, your other hand, your nose. That piece of gum? That’s me.”
“I was thinking of something else that sometimes gets on my shoe. What do you want?”
“I want to know if you were the one to teach Seamus Dent karate.”
His eyes widened a bit, as if he were about to say something, but just then one of the waitresses with the schoolgirl skirt and high hair came to our table. Her eyes were rimmed dark, her lips were red as paint.
“Anything, boys?” she said.
“My treat,” I said.
“Wonder of wonders,” said Gleason. “I’ll have another bourbon, neat.”
“Can I have a Sea Breeze?” I said. “With lime?”
“Closest thing we have is a Blue Hawaii,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Vodka, pineapple juice, crème de coconut, and blue Curaçao.”
“Aloha,” I said.
“Thanks, Priscilla,” said Gleason before she swished away.
I raised an eyebrow. “Priscilla?”
“They’re all Priscilla,” he said. “How’d you know about the karate?”
“It made sense. From the stories I’d been hearing, Seamus Dent, big as he was, was never a fighter. Then suddenly he starts giving side kicks like he’s Jackie Chan. Somehow he learned. And then you have this whole Elvis thing going with the sideburns, the little southern twang you give your voice even though you grew up in Manayunk, not Memphis. And the way you described Seamus’s fight with that drug dealer. You seemed to even know the type of kick he used to send him to the ground. It just added up.”
“Aren’t you clever.”
“Well, you know. Deal with cops long enough, it rubs off.”
“Why the hell do you care so much about Seamus?”
“Because he testified against François Dubé.”
He stared at me for a while, saw something in my eyes that made him turn to look at the stage, where the woman was swinging her arms as she wailed the final
“Ten bucks a song?”
“Just for the first song. After that’s it’s free.”
As I pulled out my wallet, I said, “Good thing you boys don’t charge a cover.”
I stepped through the door and into a neon-lit room, ringed with everything Elvis. Velvet paintings glowing with black light, guitar clocks, gold records, ceramic busts, framed photographs from each Elvis era: Elvis impossibly young, Elvis impossibly handsome, Elvis impossibly svelte in black leather, Elvis impossibly bloated in a white jumpsuit. There were tables, about half full, in the center, bars around the edges, booths in the back. Waitresses dressed like schoolgirls with high hair carried drinks on circular trays. On a narrow stage in the front, a redhead in a ruffled shirt, looking a little like Ann-Margret, belted out the first verse of “Viva Las Vegas” as the words rolled up a television screen and the crowd hooted and clapped along.
A man in dark glasses greeted me with a bright smile. “Welcome,” he said in a deep voice. “Slip?”
I handed it over. He gave it a look.
“Good choice, Franz,” he said. “You want some company tonight?” He thumbed toward a trio of women at the bar with bouffant hair and low blouses. They were nice-looking women once, but once was enough.
“No thanks,” I said. “I already had my fiber today.”
I scanned the scene, found whom I was looking for in a booth in the back. He was sitting alone, hunched over a drink, something dark and almost gone in his glass. He wasn’t viva-ing to Ann-Margret. I wondered if my visit that afternoon hadn’t ruined his day. Knowing what I knew now, I didn’t doubt it.
Gleason glanced up when I sat down across from him, didn’t seem one bit surprised to see me. “How’d you find this place?” he said.
“Torricelli.”
He nodded, he understood. Torricelli hadn’t just told me about the bar, he had told me about the shooting, too. “I should hang up a sign,” he said. “Do not disturb.”
“You know that piece of gum you step on and can’t get off your shoe?” I said. “It ends up on your hand, your other hand, your nose. That piece of gum? That’s me.”
“I was thinking of something else that sometimes gets on my shoe. What do you want?”
“I want to know if you were the one to teach Seamus Dent karate.”
His eyes widened a bit, as if he were about to say something, but just then one of the waitresses with the schoolgirl skirt and high hair came to our table. Her eyes were rimmed dark, her lips were red as paint.
“Anything, boys?” she said.
“My treat,” I said.
“Wonder of wonders,” said Gleason. “I’ll have another bourbon, neat.”
“Can I have a Sea Breeze?” I said. “With lime?”
“Closest thing we have is a Blue Hawaii,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Vodka, pineapple juice, crème de coconut, and blue Curaçao.”
“Aloha,” I said.
“Thanks, Priscilla,” said Gleason before she swished away.
I raised an eyebrow. “Priscilla?”
“They’re all Priscilla,” he said. “How’d you know about the karate?”
“It made sense. From the stories I’d been hearing, Seamus Dent, big as he was, was never a fighter. Then suddenly he starts giving side kicks like he’s Jackie Chan. Somehow he learned. And then you have this whole Elvis thing going with the sideburns, the little southern twang you give your voice even though you grew up in Manayunk, not Memphis. And the way you described Seamus’s fight with that drug dealer. You seemed to even know the type of kick he used to send him to the ground. It just added up.”
“Aren’t you clever.”
“Well, you know. Deal with cops long enough, it rubs off.”
“Why the hell do you care so much about Seamus?”
“Because he testified against François Dubé.”
He stared at me for a while, saw something in my eyes that made him turn to look at the stage, where the woman was swinging her arms as she wailed the final
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