Illustrated by van Dongen
“Fill her up again, Martin.”
Marlin, the bartender, looked coldly at him, pursed his lips, and said slowly, “Sorry, Enright. No more.”
“Put it on the cuff, Martin,” Henry Enright replied in a bluff tone. “My credit’s good.”
“Yeah? You ain’t paid a cent over this bar for two months,” Martin pointed out, wiping his hands on his apron. He then put his hands on the wet bar top in front of Enright and went on indifferently, “The boss just told me no more. Ya see, he just made an agreement with the bank: they don’t sell liquor, and we don’t lend money. We don’t run no hock shop, either; so don’t try to gimme your watch for a drink.”
Enright was just a bit tipsy, but that was not unusual. He had a vague recollection that this had happened before in other bars. In fact, he realized he would not be drinking here in this dark and dirty dive except that, up to now, Martin and his boss had been easy on him.
He pushed back his stool and let it fall to the floor. Looking slowly all around, he addressed the five other patrons, each as shabby as himself. His voice was loud and his words slurred with alcohol. “Did you hear that? Martin just said my credit’s no good! Me, the best rocket engineer in the business! Why I’ve burned up more alcohol in sixty seconds than this lousy joint’s ever poured! Now I can’t even get two ounces! I’ll take my business somewhere else!” He staggered toward the dim outlines of the door and thrust his way out into the murky twilight.
One of the customers jerked his thumb toward the door as it slammed shut. “That guy must be nuts, Mart. They ain’t no such thing as a rocket engineer any more, is they?”
Martin was calmly wiping the bar with a dirty rag around the place where his former customer had been. “Nope. But that guy will always be one.”