8. Whistler’s Message
Good under pressure
You could be forgiven for forgetting it is lunchtime on a Friday, still
The pub door opens and Whistler strides in, bloodied butcher’s apron half covered by a blue and white striped towel tucked into his belt, sleeves rolled up on his red and white striped shirt, cigarette between his teeth, the flick of his Teddy Boy haircut dangling handsomely across his freckled forehead. He walks like the bass line of his life is falling out of his arse pocket. He moves fast; he’s on his lunch break from the indoor market across the road and Alden has poured his lager by the time Whistler reaches the bar, and he hands over the right money and takes a mouthful half of foam, moving gingerly on the balls of his feet. Whistler’s forty-odd, and once, for about an hour in his teens, had ambitions of making it big in his cousin’s psychobilly band, but other than that has and always will be happy butchering meat in between his drinking sessions. He thanks Alden for his beer, nods hello at Rollie.
“Your boy gave me one sausage less than what I asked for last week,” Rollie says, his voice finding a new baritone.
Whistler nods, takes another deep go at his pint as if he wants to submerge is eyes and ears in it, and comes back up to say, “Come over later and I’ll sort you out.” Whistler winks at him. Rollie seems happy with that. Then Whistler sees Moses and Vardaman sitting down the front.
“All right, boys?” he calls over. “Heavy one last night?”
Moses nods.
Whistler stubs out his fag.
“You both look a damn sight worse than Aaron did this morning, I can tell you.”
Neither Moses nor Vardaman think they’ve heard him right. They look at each other. That can’t be right. Moses looks at the small tear in the cuff of his jacket. He remembers when it happened, when he brought the chair down hard into the floor and the impact splintered it and he stood there with just the frame of the backrest in his hands and his feet surrounded by the broken wood.
“You saw Aaron this morning?” Vardaman says.
“Yeah, he came in for some bacon.”
“What time?”
“Early, I guess.”
“He’s in court today,” Alden says.
Whistler shrugs. Takes a glug.
“Must have been on his way,” he says.
“With a pocketful of bacon?” Rollie says.
“Maybe he was going to wave it at the coppers from the stand,” Whistler laughs. They all laugh. “Not beyond him.”
It was though, wasn’t it? A joke far too sophisticated for the likes of Aaron Bailey, unless he’d seen it on an episode of The Bill or something.
“Why were you boys drinking with him anyway?” Alden says.
“We go where life takes us,” Vardaman sniffs.
Nobody is convinced by that.
“Well, anyway,” Whistler says. “Funny I should run in to you, because he wanted me to tell you he said he’d see the two of you later on.”
What does that mean?
“I thought he was going down today?” Alden says.
Whistler shrugs again. “Just saying what he said. The eternal optimist, maybe?”
“That boy’s dumb enough to be an optimist,” Rollie says.
Vardaman looks pale.
Whistler notices. Brings his pint over and sits with them, pulls up a little red leather stool and gets in close.
“He asked after you,” Whistler says. “Which I thought was weird as I didn’t really know you knew each other.”
“Asked after us?” says Vardaman.
“I wouldn’t worry,” says Whistler. “But you don’t owe him money or anything do you?” Whistler puts his finger to his nose and makes a sniff.
“Not my scene,” Moses says.
Vardaman shakes his head too.
“Anyway, he wasn’t angry or anything,” Whistler says. “I guess he just knows I see you in here.”
“He’s going down today,” Moses says. “Hence last night’s session.”
“He didn’t mention anything about that,” Whistler says. “He just wanted some bacon. And then in passing wondered if I’d be seeing you two. Like an afterthought, it was.”
Whistler takes a guzzle of his pint.
“What did you say to him?” Vardaman says.
Whistler shrugs. “I guess I said I’d probably see you in here what with it being a Friday.”
This seems to spark Vardaman into motion, and he leans forward and tries to neck his pint but only gets halfway through it. Moses watches him, and then realises he should probably be chugging along. He necks his. It hurts, but he’s good under pressure.
Vardaman thanks Whistler, the boys say they’ll catch him later on no doubt, shout their goodbyes to Alden and even to Rollie who raises a hand, and they get to the door and there’s Raul with a dob of ketchup in his beard from his fry up in the upstairs market, rubbing his belly, tight in that Clash t-shirt, and grinning he says, “Where are you two fuckers off in a hurry?”.
The boys just bark their hellos and goodbyes and push past him out into the light.
“Funny fuckers those two,” Raul says to Alden and Rollie and Whistler at the bar.
“Aaron’s after them,” Alden says.
Raul laughs.
“Dead funny fuckers, then,” he says and hands over his coins.