Neal Pollack

Later, the band, a five-piece with an alto and a baritone, said they needed a steady drummer and asked if I was interested and I said sure. Then they gave me my cut, which was only five bucks, and I said, “Excuse me, what is this all about?” and they go on to tell me the drinks are not free, and like a fool, I said, “Then you can count me out,” and heck, I had needed that job and I needed that money, but badly. Then Clovis came up and said we should split and I said sure and he said promptly and I said what’s the hurry and he said, “Cannonball Adams just walked in,” and like Clovis said, there he was.

Cannonball was white, muscular, with soft brown hair that was deftly parted, even with both his hands broken. It was a cinch his wife had combed his hair for him. He marched directly up to Clovis and I at the bar. He was in a soft tweed coat, both his hands in oversized white casts, his lip split and one eye still red and puffy.

“Well, gentlemen, I just came here to tell you a certain associate of mine is looking for you,” and I couldn'’t think who that might be, so I said, “So why is this fellah looking for me?”

“He is representing me,” Cannonball grinned. He was knocking his casts against his pocket, trying to pull out a cigarette. I shook my head and obliged him.

“So, He’'s representing you?” I repeated as I lit the smoke for him. “So?”

“My associate says he can’t make any money off me because I can’t play the piano. I can’t play the piano because you and your pug Irish friend broke my hands. I owed this associate a sum, so now my associate is looking for you two to collect what I owe.”

“I bet,” I said.

“My associate is to come by here right before midnight,” Cannonball grinned, and the clock above the rows of glass and liquor shouted out five to twelve and I had to think, was I a real posy in bloom? Yes. And my luck was only getting worse; worse, joe, worse. Like magic, it had become morning. We found Seamus near his apartment on the corner of Broadway and Wilson. From down the block, I could see he was standing out front in the snow, smoking, and his big, misshapen nose was mashed and bleeding. He was holding his ear, which was swollen as big as a stone, and for some reason, standing there in the snow, he was smiling.

“What happened to you now?” I asked. “Number Twelve?”

“Nope. I ran into Cannonball’s associates. They took what they think I owed them.”

“How much was that?”

“My wristwatch and my wedding ring.”

“That was it?”

“Yep. they'’re strictly small-time. I think one of them is going to have to learn to breathe through his ears from now on, but they got what they wanted.”

“Is that why you’re smiling?”

“Nope. I got a telegram from Shirley. She’'s moving back to town, she says.”

I shrugged my shoulders, not knowing what to think.

“I just sent her one back. I told her, in my book she'’s still o-key.”

I nodded. I thought my good friend here might be truly crazy.

“I got something else,” he said.

9

It was in the back of the trunk of some automobile down the street, a white Ford, another one he had borrowed or stolen. Cold and desperate, we all stood around behind it and watched as Seamus inserted the key and the rear panel sprang up.

It almost made me cry, what I saw. There, beside a spare tire and a soft blue blanket, was a single red sparkle drum, just one, a floor tom, with its silvery legs and all.

I didn'’t know what to say.

“It was all I could afford,” he whispered, “the one. I was gonna try and buy one at a time, but they sold the rest before I came back.” I shook his hand and smiled, glad like usual, that he was my friend.

The city seemed to be very pleased with itself then, cool and silent and steady. We went to go get some coffee and eggs at a place on Wilson. As we were walking, I looked up and caught a snowflake on the corner of my eyelash, it just landed right there, and to me that was as good as any good luck wish. It was then I noticed that the snow was falling. It was really falling.

MARTY’S DRINK OR DIE CLUB

BY NEAL POLLACK

Clark & Foster

The guy at the end of the bar was dead. Carlos had seen dead guys before, so he knew. They usually didn'’t get many customers in Ginny’s, especially not before 5:30, which was when Carlos had started his shift, slapping the mop around the pool table: A couple of bikers had gotten into it the night before, leaving the usual dried residue of blood, saliva, and Leinenkugel. Tonight, the guy slobbered in and took the stool by the window. He sat hunched, not out of some deformity, but just overall weakness, his hair long and gray and greasy under the Cubs hat, his eyes brown and wide and blank, staring at himself in the mirror, or maybe through the mirror, at something beyond.

“Get you something?” Carlos said.