The Dainty - Chapters 9 to END

Chapter 9

When the Stroh’s keg sputtered and spit out only foam, Richie unhooked it and hauled it out of the cold oak cabinet where it was stored beneath the bar, lugged it back through the swinging doors and stowed it in the cooler. Instead of hefting the remaining full one and bringing it back to the bar, he plopped down on it and put his head in his hands.

When the chemistry at The Dainty went sour, it depressed him. Most of the people who frequented the bar were not happy people. In 1969 Detroit, there simply weren’t a lot of happy people. Richie often ended his long days in a fog of disillusionment.

He was well-cast as ringleader for the misfits that were his customers and friends.

Having never known his mother, Richie realized he’d missed out on an important aspect of the Irish male experience. The soft, gentle, forgiving nature of the Irish mother imbued the more harsh male life with a sense of nurturing, though it occasionally took a couple of pints to loosen the machismo inherent in the testosterone-fueled Irish world of men. There was a sentimental strain running through the veins of Irishmen, and the purveyor was the Irish mother. In Ireland, women were only second class citizens on paper. Both genders, however, knew who was in charge.

Richie also knew this. He’d seen it manifest itself many times in The Dainty. He often wondered why he hadn’t turned into a hardened prick, angry at women. There was the somewhat damning evidence of a marriage-less life. Richie had never broken through the barrier he’d been presented with at birth: Women leave you. One way or another.

Sean had been a solid, stable, genuinely contented man, even after the death of Richie’s mom. Possibly getting Richie as a son in exchange for the loss of his wife made some karmic sense to Sean, and he refused to be the grieving widower. He had no time for self pity. He had a bar to run, and now a son to raise. By himself. He took the fatalistic outlook of the Irish. Fate, historically the stronger opponent, forced Sean to accept the cards he was dealt and make the best of it.

He’d sired a strong, handsome son and instilled in the boy a resilient sense of self worth, and the Protestant work ethic. He took great pride in running the bar with his boy, who was tending bar as early as his 14th birthday. Yet, on his deathbed, he’d realized that The Dainty had been their lives. He’d admonished his son to branch out, to start a family of his own. Sean had used Richie as his protection from becoming married to the bar. He hoped his son would not fall prey to the romantic, yet ultimately destructive allure that came with owning a bar, but owning nothing else.

Richie heard Theo’s soft yet persistent voice call him.

“Uh, Richie. You better get out here.”

Shit, Richie thought. Sarge has probably got Brendan in a headlock.

As he came through the doors, he saw three young black men, boys really, no more than 18. The were lined up shoulder to shoulder facing the bar, just inside the closed front door. The four men at the bar stood facing the boys.

The tallest boy, situated in the middle, had a pistol trained on the patrons of The Dainty.

Chapter 10

“Give us the money.” the boy with the gun said in a steady voice.

The Sarge eyed Richie, who walked behind the bar toward the cutaway swing ledge at the far end, where Brendan stood stiffly. He eyed the nightstick, but didn’t reach for it. He lifted the ledge and came out in front of the bar and stood facing the three bandits.

“I want the money,” the boy demanded again, though not as firmly. The size of three of the men seemed to disconcert him.

Theo stepped up next to Richie. The Sarge quickly followed. Brendan and Tim did not move.

Richie cleared his throat. His mouth was dry. “If I give you money, what’s to say you won’t be back here again, for more?”

“Naw man. Give me the cash and you won’t see us no more.”

Richie shook his head.

“Don’t give these nigger punks shit, Richie.” It was Theo’s low growl.

“You shut your fat-ass mouth, Uncle Tom,” barked the gunman. “Give us the money or we waste your fuckin’ asses.”

It was Sarge’s turn to speak up. “With one pistol? You better shoot me first, ‘cause if you don’t, I’ll be on your ass before you can get off another round.” Then, more calmly, “Why don’t you boys just back out of the door and forget this ever happened. Luck of the draw, fellas. You just picked the wrong bar.”

The tall boy mulled this over. He looked to his left, then to the right.

Tim stood and stepped forward, holding his own gun, and pointed it straight at the boy. Sarge recognized the Army issue service revolver.

Richie sensed all hell was about to break loose.

“Now we got a fair fight,” Tim said softly.

“Corporal, just stay steady with that sidearm. Nobody has to get hurt.” The Sarge then walked over and stood in front of Tim and faced the three boys. “Don’t you think it best to get the fuck out of here?”

Again the leader looked at his sidekicks. All three began backing toward the door. With a rush, they turned and were gone.

Richie leaned against the bar and almost fainted. Brendan was about three minutes late for the bathroom, reflected on the front of his trousers.

Tim put the gun back into the inside pocket of his jacket, sat, and took a sip of his drink.

Chapter 11

Richie gathered himself, went back behind the bar and back to the cooler. Sarge stared at Tim for a moment, then returned to his seat, clapping Theo on the back as he went by. Brendan disappeared under the “For Leakin’” sign.

When Richie had the new keg of Stroh’s hooked up, he silently refreshed everyone’s drink. He knocked his shot of vodka back immediately and poured another and set it on the bar in front of him. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, and looked at Sarge.

“What the fuck almost just happened here?”

Sarge grinned. “Three punks just missed havin’ the piss beat out of ‘em, that’s what.”

Theo laughed. “Them little niggers was scared. Shit. Give us honest, hardworking brothers a bad name. Shoulda beat ‘em just for cause.”

Richie looked at Tim. “What the hell are you doin’ carrying a piece?”

He shrugged, sipping his drink. “Came in handy, didn’t it?”

Richie shook his head. “No. It could’ve got us all killed. You’re the last guy who should be armed, for Christ sake.”

There was no response. Tim set his drink down and looked at Sarge.

“What do you think?”

Sarge looked at Richie and said, “You’re both right.”

Chapter 12

With a smashing right hand that landed unerringly on the nose of a drunken grunt, the legend of Sergeant Raymond Donohue was born.

What had been a small celebration between loyal Marines for the return home of one of their own, had turned sour when four drunk infantrymen entered the bar in Seoul. The smallest of the ground pounders approached the bar, easing in to the right of the Sarge.

“What are these pussies having?” the kid said loudly, gesturing with his thumb to his left at the Marines.

The bartender, a kid no more than 22, shook his head and moved toward the little man.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. What do you want?”

Without missing a beat, the runt said, “Anything stronger than these bung lickers.”

Sarge flinched, but didn’t move. One of his men started to rise out of his stool and Sarge put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, quieting him.

“Hey soldier,” Sarge said quietly, “why don’t you just move on. We don’t want any trouble.”

The soldier turned and just as he was about to speak, Sarge hit him square on the nose with a right hand that had risen from somewhere around his knee. The impact was so powerful that the soldier’s blood sprayed people in a five foot circle. With his left hand, Sarge then slapped him on the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the floor.

The three men accompanying the now supine soldier stood stunned, unable to move.

As he started to stand, the Sarge said quietly to the three soldiers, “Impressive, huh?”

The beaten soldier was scooped up and carried out of the bar.

Chapter 13

By 3:00, five or six other hardy denizens of Detroit had traipsed through the hoary conditions and enjoyed some of the Dainty’s holiday cheer, none staying longer than a drink or two. The weather had grown nastier by the hour.

With each round, the memory of the young bandits had grown more and more surreal. Each new arrival was regaled with the story.

Tim left for a stroll in the sleet, not saying where he was going.

The Sarge endured a second call from his wife, terminating it with a terse, “I said I’ll be home when I get there.”

Theo kept the jukebox active, varying his song choices between Sinatra, Ray Charles, and Otis Redding.

Brendan took a pad out of his overcoat and was scrawling notes that, at one point, Richie tried to sneak a look at. The pad disappeared immediately.

“You’re a sportswriter, not a crime hack,” Richie said. “I don’t need the bad publicity. That shit never happened.”

Brendan nodded knowingly.

At 4:30, Tim pushed his way through the big door, dragging a Christmas tree behind him. He paused as the door scraped closed, his hair caked with snow, his grin evident even in the dimly lit bar.

The laughter was universal and hearty. When it subsided, he said, “Get this. The guy who sold me this thing? A fucking gook.”

More laughter as Tim set the tree upright on its crossed wooden stand, sliding it next to the giant clock.

“I’ll be right back,” Brendan said, slipping on his coat. He waded out into the snow.

There had not been a Christmas tree in The Dainty since Sean had died.

Only Sarge noticed as Richie furtively wiped away a tear.

Chapter 14

Theo approached Tim and smacked him good-naturedly on the back, scattering melting snow in a two foot circle around both of them. “I can’t figure your dark ass out.”

Tim chuckled. “Shit, is that the pot belly callin’ the kettle black?”

Theo ignored him and helped him off with his coat. He stepped outside and shook it violently, returning the frozen water to its natural habitat.

Through misty eyes, Richie watched. These men all had families, in one form or another, with which to spend this holiday and yet they remained at The Dainty. The warm flush he felt was only partly vodka. Countering the warmth though, was regret that his only real family was a group of disconnected, semi-alcoholic, occasionally sociopathic men. But they were also a cache of men that valued loyalty, camaraderie and a held a genuine appreciation of the instinctive chemistry created between men who frequent the same bar. What linked them was the subterranean, rarely spoken of, reasons that men used as excuses to drink together.

The confluence of fear, vulnerability and insecurity that enveloped these men, hell, most men, transparently cloaked beneath talk of sports, war, race and sex, proved to be a shared motivation for getting drunk. At The Dainty, the complexity could often be startling.

Chapter 15

At 6:30, Brendan wedged himself through the door carrying a large sack from which he proceeded to unload Christmas tree lights and an assortment of ornaments. Sentimentality was invading The Dainty. The one-pop stragglers that had slipped in and out throughout the day were gone. It was just the five of them.

Chapter 16

Richie watched as his four patrons awkwardly decorated the tree. It took some time, as there was little coordination among these men. They were as disparate as a tiger, a black bear, a wolverine, and a feral cat. The tree evolved into its decorative state, almost in spite of the eight good-intentioned hands adorning it with lights and ornaments.

He turned and looked into the mirror behind the bar. It was a familiar face. A face he new, and a face he’d grown tired of. Life had become a dulled hum the past few years. A sort of flat line of mediocrity. He’d never really felt a spark for life since Sean had died. His father had been his life, and after his death, the bar had proved to be a poor, if not steady, substitute. He’d become, against Sean’s advice, married to the bar and nothing else. Of the swirling regrets that visited him often, never having a wife and family always surfaced as his most significant failure.

The bar was a success, for the most part. However, with no one to share it with, it was a hollow victory.

Richie did not call Ireland that night.

The Dainty’s Final Chapter
January 1, 1970

Exactly one week later, shortly after buying the house a round at two minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, 1969, Richie walked back into his store room of The Dainty, dug out the pistol he’d hidden back there that morning in a box of dirty bar rags, put it in his mouth and, surrounded by beer kegs, old pallets and cases of booze, and standing underneath a photo of his dad Sean, Richie McGovern blew his brains out.

Everybody in the bar that night will remember that Auld Lang Syne.

Nobody requested $10 to be a pall bearer at Richie’s funeral. In fact, there were only four. The same four who spent Christmas Eve with Richie just seven days earlier. All four men broke down and cried as the casket was lowered into the ground.

It was rumored the gun Richie used was the same one he’d confiscated from Tim on Christmas Eve after the confrontation with the young black bandits. Tim was beyond consoling. Talk about a final straw.

The wake afterwards was, ironically, not held at The Dainty, but at a VFW hall about two blocks away. It was normally rented for a nominal fee for such events, but the VFW had many members who were also Dainty regulars, and the hall was donated gratis for the final farewell.

It was a poor decision.

The cavernous hall was freezing and held little of the intimate charm that The Dainty was known for. All the WWII and Korean War reminders simply added to the depressing premise. The two open bars ran out of ice, which is not easy to do in January in Detroit. The food was cafeteria-level at best, prison institutional at its worst.

Most of the men who really knew Richie left after staying only an hour. This was not the sentimental sendoff they had intended.

It was Tim who had suggested liberating the shuttered Dainty. “What the fuck,” he’d asked logically, “who’s gonna report it?”

Once again, it was the four pall bearers and Christmas Eve survivors who pried open the back door to The Dainty, busting loose the rusted hasp that had been used since the place opened and, nodding skyward
to Richie in apology, cruised through the back room that was still blood stained and commandeered the bar area. Brendan had a flashback to Hemingway, WWII, when Papa had helped liberate the bar at the Ritz Hotel in Paris on the day the Nazi’s surrendered. A metaphorical stretch of Herculean proportions, bridging Paris and Detroit.

Sarge situated himself behind the bar, even stringing on one of Richie’s off white aprons.

Theo ordered a rum neat, with a vodka tonic on the side. Sarge shuddered, but nonetheless made the drinks. Then Tim ordered a single malt scotch, also neat, with a Rolling Rock chaser. Brendan went with a gin martini up, with a twist, very dry and two olives.

Sarge dutifully made the drinks, grunted after handing out the last one, and poured himself a generous tumbler of Jack Daniels, sliced a soft, obviously past-the-buy-date lemon and lay the slice on top of the surface of the sour mash and watched it sink, imbuing the whiskey with its citrus. The ice in his large glass regained its superior position on top.

It was Theo who first raised his glass. “To Richie, but also to this dive-ass bar that has been a second home to a lot of us.”

Glasses touched to the background of several muted “yeah”s.

It was Brendan who introduced thought and sentimentality first.

“Why the hell would he kill himself after what we went through on Christmas Eve? I mean, that was a great freakin’ day.”

There was no answer.

With suicide, there often isn’t.

Tim spoke up for the first time since the break-in.

“The man was lonely as long as I knew him. And I knew him a long fuckin’ time.”

“Loneliness doesn’t equate to suicide automatically,” the Sarge intoned, taking off the apron and coming around to the drinking side of the bar.

“It don’t equate to much at all, you ask me,” Theo said, taking a long multi-gulp from his glass of rum. “In fact, shit, try bein’ a black man in this day and age, tell me you don’t think ‘bout offin’ yo’self a time or two.” He finished his rum, got up from his stool, and limped around the bar to refill his glass. His vodka tonic remained untouched. It was the first time all four men realized, consciously, Richie was gone.

They’d taken for granted that previously their drinks here were, simply, presented to them.

Tim spun his gritty stool and hopped off, yawned, and headed for the huge Wurlitzer. He paused in front of it, slid two nickels into the machine, and chose two songs.

As he sat back on his stool, “Time After Time” came on. It was Sinatra. And all four heads moved almost imperceptibly to the song. It was very quiet at the bar. Dry eyes were a commodity.

When the second song Tim played kicked in, there was no longer silence at the bar.

“One For My Baby (And One More For the Road)”, Frank Sinatra.

Set ‘em up, Richie.

”It’s quarter to three,
There's no one in the place, ‘cept you and me
So set em up Joe
I got a little story, I think you oughta know

We’re drinking my friend
To the end, of a brief episode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road

Well, that's how it goes
And Joe I know you're getting’, anxious to close
So thanks for the cheer
I hope you didn't mind
My bending your ear

But this torch that I found
Its gotta be drowned
Or it soon might explode

So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road”

‘McGovern’s Den of Antiquity’ never reopened.

THE END