"My old stomping grounds," his father said. "I have a friend there, Heidi Merrill. Haven't heard from her since her husband died. She has a son. Look her up for me, Pat—give her my best."
"Will do."
Patrick checked around the cafe for a pay phone, wondering whether there was a listing for his father's friend. No phone. On his way out of the cafe, he changed his mind and ordered a beer at the bar. The room was filling. A Van Morrison album had replaced the piano player. Attractive women crowded around guys who wore hammer hooks and Stanley tapes like jewelry on their belts, totems of a better way.
"Feels good to stand up," he said to the guy next to him. "This is a happening place."
"You just get here?"
"Yep. Any work around?"
"What kind of work?"
"Wash dishes, construction, paint houses . . . "
"Hey Parker, you need anybody?" A heavyset fellow came over. He had a pleasant ironic expression.
"For what?" There were white paint stains on his button-down blue shirt.