I've been back from Vietnam for seven years. I spent the first three in a drunken New Orleans haze. The next four, I drove for Hoffa's Teamsters.
Almost 30, I decide to utilize the GI Bill. Besides school, I tend a bar in Queens. I've got dream shifts. The regular barman wants weekends off. I earn more in two nights than he does the rest of the week.
Weekends are action nights in more ways than one.
***
One early Saturday night in June, I've got three customers left from the day shift. A heavyset guy plants himself in the center of the horseshoe bar and orders a martini. I glance out the window and notice two guys in a double-parked car.
Northern Boulevard's a major thoroughfare, not where anyone would usually double-park.
Besides, Queens, as is all of New York, is edgy about "Son of Sam," the .44-caliber killer. Two weeks ago, he shot Stacy Moskowitz outside a disco only a mile east from where I'm working.
I'm eyeballing the double-parked car, but I'm not spooked - yet.
I count my register. The car's still there with the driver at the wheel. The motor is running.
The man from the passenger seat enters the bar.
This is a hold-up.
He floats in, grabs a stool just inside the door and orders a draft. I pour his beer.
Then, I spot his partner heading toward my door. He's left the car running.
When this guy enters, he ignores his partner. He heads to the opposite side of the bar and takes the stool farthest from the front door. Resigned to my fate, I await the inevitable.
That's when the sonofabitch pulls the gun. I'm not playing hero to prevent a $500 score, so I reach for the cash.
The gunman's partner stands too, but his hand holds an open wallet. Attached to the wallet is a gold badge.
"Police," he says. "Everyone stay calm."
The two of them head for the center of the bar. They frisk the heavyset guy drinking the martini and then haul him to the back room.
I seize the Jameson bottle and pour four-fingers. As the whiskey finds its mark, it musters my moxie. I charge into the back room.
"Why didn't you flash your badge earlier?" I say. "Jesus, you scared the shit out of me."
"We've a procedure to follow," the detective says. "We've tailed this guy for three hours and need to ask him a few questions. Go back behind the bar. Let us do our job."
I return to the bottle of Jameson.
The bar is empty. The few lingerers fled. Saturday night, I'm on duty two hours and haven't rung up shit. To make matters worse, it's teeming rain. I can barely make out the detective's double-parked car because of the sheets of water pounding against the glass. Squinting, I wipe the pane with my forearm and just stare at the deluge.
"This is going to be some crummy night," I think to myself. "I'm not making a buck tonight."
An hour later, the two cops finish. They come back to the bar area and apologize for causing a commotion,
"Just doing our jobs," they say. "He fits the description of the .44-caliber-killer, but he's got an alibi. He checks out okay."
They head for the door. The guy they hassled returns to his watered down martini.
"Wait a minute," I blurt. "You're not leaving this guy here?"
"Yeah, we got nothing on him," the larger detective says. "Have a good night."
Is he kidding? I'm half shit-faced. I don't have dollar one in the register, and it's 9 p.m. I start wiping down glasses trying to decide how I'm going to handle this guy. Should I bully him or treat him with kid's gloves?
One thing's sure: I want him gone.
While I'm deliberating, my customer sips the diluted martini. Neither of us utters a word. After an eternity of silence, he says wistfully, "Thank God I didn't have the gun."
"What? What did you say?"
I take his drink and toss it down the sink.
"Get the f**k out of here, asshole. We're closed for the night."
He's motionless for what seems like a month. Finally he stands and mercifully walks into the rain.
I shift into high gear. I'm outing lights, counting cash and locking doors simultaneously. I'm vibrating like a cocktail shaker. I can't believe that guy - "Thank God I didn't have the gun."
What if he's got one stashed? What if the cops made a mistake? I'm leaving here fast.
I need a drink, and I know just the place: a five-block strip nicknamed "Booze Boulevard." I know six bartenders who work that strip, and two of them are like my brothers.
***
"Kevin, give everyone a drink. Give me a bottle of Heineken, a double shot of Jameson and $200 out of the register."
This starts my night. I'll repeat this sentence when I stop at Black Mike's to see Buffalo. Four hundred should be enough for the night. I'm in the business, so every bar I drink in it's customary to "set the table."
Buying drinks for potential customers builds up business. I want everyone to know my name and where I work. Good will pays everlasting dividends. So I buy a round of drinks, introduce myself and tell the recipients where I work.
The bartender plants the cocktail and says, "This drink's on Billy. He tends bar at Kelly's."
Everybody wins. The joint makes money. The bartender owes me a stop, and I get drunk and meet women.
Tonight, the fishing's not extraordinary. But the girls I'm interested in bite on cash, and I'm using plenty of bait.
My plan's successful. At 5 a.m. I'm in a parked car grappling with a lipstick-smeared enthusiast. I'm only two blocks from the scene of Son of Sam's last murder. One thing leads to another and the inevitable takes place.
As she puts her head in my lap, I lie back. But despite the anesthetizing effects of the alcohol, I get a sudden foreboding. Earlier in the night, I was sober and terrified of the crazed killer, but now my belly's full of whiskey and the prisoner inside my pants has pulled a coup.
So two short blocks from Elephas, during the "Summer of Sam," I'm "taking a shot," hopefully not from the barrel of a .44 Magnum.
Bill O'Connor is a Vietnam veteran, former Bronx firefighter and pub and restaurant owner. O'Connor is currently a journalism major at UF and a standup comic. The irreverent and acerbic O'Connor performs free standup around Gainesville.
