I open the door half expecting to see the dwarf—maybe he locked himself out?
But it’s not the dwarf.
Instead, a scruffy scrapper of a guy stands before me, scowling. His face is unshaven, pock-marked and ugly as sin, and he has the torso of an orangutan. His shirt is half-tucked into greasy work trousers.
“I need a drink,” he growls.
“You can take my place,” I say as I configure an escape through the doorway around him.
“Nope,” he says, blocking my way.
I turn—and see that Winston Churchill has disappeared.
The new fellow lumbers over and takes the stool where the old gent had been sitting. I re-rump my rear.
The first thing this new guy does is drain the remaining gin in Winston’s martini glass. Then he glares at me. “Where’s the fucking barkeep?”
I shrug. “Gone.”
Shaking his head in disgust, he gets up, walks briskly around the bar and grunts in appreciation. “So much booze, so little time,” he mutters before reaching for a bottle of Jack. He fills a shot glass with charcoal liquid and taps himself a beer chaser, then drops a shot glass of Jack into the beer and looks up at me. “What? It’s a boilermaker—want one?”
“No thanks.”
He gulps it down then pours another and reverts to me, pleased with himself. “Sometimes I drink to forget. Other times I drink to celebrate. But tonight I’m drinking to make something happen.” He is intimidating, even menacing. “I’m Chuck,” he says.’
“I believe you. Chuck who?”
“Bukowski.” He glances around. “Is there a fucking dwarf around here somewhere?”
“Funny you should ask.”
“Where is that sonofabitch?”
“He comes and goes.”
“He promised me three naked broads.”
I shake my head, chuckling. “I suspect he makes promises he doesn’t keep.”
Chuck sucks it up and studies the bottles upon shelves. “Fuck it. I prefer my own company anyway.”
I eye the door thinking maybe I’ll tootle on out and leave Chuck to his binge. Oh so softly I ease myself and tiptoe away… open the door…
“Where the fuck you think you’re going?”
I look down and see the dwarf looking straight up at me. This time he’s wearing a plaid driving cap.
“Home?” I say.
“You ain’t going nowhere till we’re done.”
I look both ways thinking maybe I’ll make a run for it.
But the dwarf slips in and bolts the door behind him.
Bukowski swings his bulbous head sideways. “Fucking midget,” he mutters.
The dwarf climbs a bar stool and steps onto the bar and faces Bukowski. “I’m a dwarf, not a midget. What’s your fucking problem?”
“You promised me three naked women, midget.”
“Oh, really? It’s not like you can do anything about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” growls Bukowski.
“First of all I’m in control, maggot, not you. Second, you’re a drunk. I could produce Miss Universe and you still wouldn’t get it up.”
Bukowski throws his beer mug at the dwarf but the little guy is too quick on his feet for Bukowski and dodges it, looks at me. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Happens every time I bring this dumbass neanderthal out to play.”
“That’s another thing!” Bukowski pounds his ham-hock of a fist on to the bar. “I’m sick and tired of you bringing me out to entertain your friends!”
“Who said this fool is my friend?” The dwarf points at me with a stubby thumb while addressing Bukowski. “He opened the fucking bottle so he ends up with you. Funny, no?”
“I don’t give a shit about your fun and games!” bellows Bukowski. “Just get me another fucking drink!”
“You haven’t had enough already?” The Dwarf taunts. “I’m not your fucking servant—get it yourself, dumbass.”
Bukowski rises from his stool and points at the door. “Outside, midget!”
The dwarf rolls his eyes. “We do this a lot,” he says to me out the side of his mouth. “He takes a swing, misses, falls down—and I kick him in the nuts.”
“Then why does he keep doing it?”
“Gee.” The dwarf puts a stubby by finger on his chin and looks up to the ceiling with one eye closed. “Why do you go to a bar and drink every night?”
Bukowski and the dwarf go outside and I sit in the bar all alone contemplating the dwarf’s words.
The old bartender lumbers in from wherever he’d gone and sets about clearing the bar.
He climbs the steps to return The Raven to the top shelf, steps down to face me and says, with no small amount of droll, “Will there be anything else this evening?”