Zoie Hart
wanderingwolf
Bugman
yobo
Antlers
Little Bill”In Memoriam…”
Seein’ the chase lights an’ neon of Tampico Royale screamin’ ‘DRINK SPECIALS!’, ‘GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS’, and ‘LADIES DRINK FREE!’, t’weren’t no challenge tah conjure how nothin’ else on tha block would catch even a stray glance from folk passin’ by. With all that flash ‘n trash goin’ on, the peelin’ paint an’ weathered grey boards of Hap’s La Frontera jest didn’t stand a chance…less you’s lookin’ fer it.
Abby was, an’ despite ‘erself she near walked right past. She stepped through them swingin’ doors an’ stopped, sizin’ up tha place.
Despite the crumbling exterior, Hap’s La Frontera offered a careworn charm to those few who might cause its’ rusty door springs to creak. A broad mahogany bar swept the left wall, behind which numerous shelves told of a once robust selection of bottles. The walls held ornate tapestries which had begun to sag under their own weight and the daunting humidity. There were graceful fans suspended from a high ceiling, but the absence of clientele negated their use. The girl’s eye caught vacant Faeroe and poker tables. A staircase mounted the saloon’s right wall, leading up to a traditional whores’ balcony that cut across the barroom’s innermost wall.
An old piano sat untouched on the stairwell wall. Like every other piece of wood in the place, it revealed its’ exposure through a warp in its’ top. The final clue as to the old saloon’s former grandeur lay in its’ stage. A compact deck which held dented clamshell footlights, the little stage looked to be a variety space that might accommodate solo and small group performances. But, as the empty poster case outside would attest, those boards hadn’t been trodden in a very long time.
A tabletop fan shuddered at one end of the bar, it’s roar pushing a bit of air upon the handful of regulars. A rotund man in shirtsleeves soaked through with his sweat moved about, pouring shots. At sight of the teenager’s entrance, he ambled toward the foot. “What can I do ye for?”
Abby come aware of the half dozen sets ‘o’ eyes turned tah look her up an’ down. Fer a minute, she wished she’d changed outta them denim cutoffs and added layers tah her top. “Yew Hap?” she asked as she stepped up tah tha bar.
“Ever’ day,” he replied. “You drinkin’?”
She looked across tah them bottles on display. Ever’thin’ looked brown an’ prob’ly taste like kerosene goin’ down. Most like, she weren’t gettin’ no ‘Boom-Boom an’ vodka in this place….so whiskey it was. But that’s why she’s here, she had tah remind ‘erself as a familiar bottle hove inta view. “Yeah,” she answered tha old barkeep. “I’ll take a shot ‘o’ Blue Ribbon.”
“You sure, little lady?” The bartender give her the curious eye, an’ she could feel all them old fellas watchin’ ‘er.
Abby give a solemn nod. “My Uncle Bob used tah drink it. Told me about this place, so I thought tah come here an’ raise a glass in ‘is mem’ry.”
Hap wiped a shotglass with his rag, an’ reached fer tha bottle. “You’re the doctor.”
Abby studied the brimming glass he set afore her. Uncle Bob used tah warn ‘er ‘bout drinkin’ whiskey…his kinda whiskey in particaler. ”A good whiskey’s fer sippin’, Chick Pea. But this?” he’d waved tha bottle at ‘er, ”is pure-dee rotgut. Only one reason tah drink it…so’s yah best knock it back in one swalla.”
She smiled at tha mem’ry. Uncle Bob tole her lotsa stories an’…anec…anecdotes… ‘bout life, workin’, gunfightin’ and such, most times when he’s drunk. She always hadta clean up after, but afore he passed out he could be right funny. She lifted tha glass. “Uncle Bob,” Abby said, then lowered glass tah tap on tha bar afore she took tha shot. Fire burned all the way down. She choked, then doubled over, coughin’ an’ gaspin’ fer air as all them fellas started laughin’.
A hand slapped ‘er back as a voice chuckled “don’t pay them rubes no mind. Ain’t one of ‘em started any different.”
After one-two more coughs, Abby straightened back up. “Whew!” she gasped as her eyes watered. “Y’all like drinkin’ that?”
That set tha whole bar tah laughin’ again. Hap give ‘er a glass ‘o’ water an’ said, “long’s it does the job, young’un. Pardon me for askin’, but your uncle used to come here? Can I have his name?”
Abby gulped the water. It sorta helped with her blazin innards, but didn’t do nothin’ against the freight train ‘o’ that alcohol hittin’ ‘er. “Yeah, Uncle Bob said he come here sev’ral times. Tole me he had tah shoot a man out front once…”
“Blackjack Bob!” Hap’s eyes done gone wide. “You’re Blackjack Bob’s niece?”
“Sure’n I am. Name’s Abby Travis.”
“Travis. Your daddy was Jim? Yolanda’s your momma?”
“Yessir,” she weren’t sure if it was this surprise connection knockin’ ‘er off balance or that glass ‘o’ booze. But when them words landed, her jaw dropped right open. "Yew knew muh folk?"
“Yup,” Hap nodded afore his smile faded. “Did you say Bob passed?”
“He did,” she nodded. “Few weeks back.”
“Blackjack Bob O’Halleran,” Hap's eyes seemed th wander far off fer a spell. “Wǒ huì diào jìn shǐ lǐ de. And gorramed if you don’t take right after your daddy…’cept of course you’re lots purtier.” After things fell quiet, he spoke again. “I’m powerful sorry to hear about Bob,” the old man reached for the bottle. He laid a row ‘o’ shot glasses down, pourin’ each one full up. After dolin’ em out tah all them’s at tha bar, he raised his. “This here’s Abby. She’s Blackjack Bob O’Halleran’s niece, an’ she come here tah drink to her uncle’s memory. To Blackjack Bob,” he said, “Gunfighter, boat cap’n, and an old friend.”
“Blackjack Bob!” all them fellas roared.
“Uncle Bob,” Abby tapped 'er glass, an' swallowed that whiskey right down 'thout chokin'.
As tha second drink’s burnin’ it’s way through ‘er, he leaned forward. “You got some time tomorrah? They’s things I should show yah. Pictures and such.”
“Yeah…yeah!” she said. “Got work durin’ tha day, but I could be about near supper.”
Hap smiled. “Shiny. That’ll gimme time for to dig it all out. Your drinks're free tonight,” he reached toward the bottle. “Want another?”
Abby shook ‘er head. “Best not. Had two an’ I’m liable tah start singin'. Should git back tah my boat.” She collected her buckets and what she’d packed inside. “Thank yew, Mr. Hap,” she lifted ‘er free hand. “See yah tomorrah.”
Hap’s eyes followed the young woman through the swinging doors. “Jim and Yolanda’s girl,” he muttered to himself. “I’da never seen that comin’.”
