Nobody's Fool

peace.
    â€œI always like to look spiffy when I know you’re tending bar,” Sully said. Tiny appeared to be in a better mood, and Sully knew they would not renew last night’s quarrel until later in the evening. For the next few hours both would pretend they were not going to renew it at all, a notion they would surrender only when the quarrel was actually under way. “Where’s your best customer?”
    Tiny consulted his watch. “Should be along any minute,” he said. “You’re popular today. I been open all of an hour and already you’ve had a phone call and a delivery.” Tiny produced a foil-covered plate from underneath the bar. “Smells like turkey.”
    Sully peered beneath the foil. Turkey, stuffing, squash, cranberry sauce. Still warm. He examined both sides of the foil. “No return address.”
    â€œYour ex,” Tiny said. “What’s-his-face brought it. The mailman.”
    â€œRalph?”
    â€œHe said you missed dinner.”
    â€œI just finished eating, actually. Who phoned?” he asked, expecting it to be Ruth, who wouldn’t leave her name, of course.
    â€œSomebody about a job.” Tiny had scribbled a note, which he handed to Sully. The note contained a phone number and a man’s name: Miles Anderson.
    Sully frowned. “Who the fuck is Miles Anderson?”
    â€œNever heard of him,” Tiny admitted. “Said he just bought a house here in town. Needs some work done on it. Another asshole yuppie, probably.”
    â€œThe woods are full of them, all right,” Sully admitted. “At least they’ve got money.”
    â€œThat’s what makes them yuppies,” Tiny said. “Otherwise they’d just be assholes.”
    â€œI wish I could stay busy just working for people I admire,” Sully said.
    He was on his second beer and still chatting amiably with Tiny when Wirf slid stiff-legged onto the stool next to him. “Nice to see all my loved ones are on speaking terms again,” he observed. “What’s that?” he said, pointing at the foil-covered dish at Sully’s elbow. “It smells like food.”
    â€œNo dinner, huh?” Sully said.
    â€œI had dinner with you,” Wirf reminded him. “Remember?”
    â€œThat was yesterday,” Sully pointed out.
    â€œOh.” Wirf grinned. “You meant today?”
    â€œStick this in the microwave, will you?” Sully said, pushing the plate in Tiny’s direction.
    Tiny did as he was told, a shade unhappily, it seemed to Sully.
    â€œHe’ll be bellyaching about that before the night’s over,” Sully predicted.
    â€œHe’d rather sell me half a dozen pickled eggs over the course of the evening,” Wirf said. “And who can blame him?”
    â€œI’ll be able to after another beer or two.”
    The microwave chirped and Tiny returned with the plate of turkey and stuffing, steaming now. Several men watching the football game placed orders for the same.
    â€œSee the trouble you cause?” Tiny said.
    Wirf dove into the food hungrily.
    â€œI don’t think I can watch this,” Sully said, wondering how a man could get a degree in law without picking up some rudimentary table manners. Wirf forked with his left, knifed with his right, put neither utensil down until they were no longer of practical use.
    Sully went across the room and dialed the number on the slip of paper Tiny had given him.
    â€œAdirondack.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAdirondack Motel.”
    â€œYou got a Miles Anderson staying there?”
    â€œWhy don’t I check.”
    â€œWhy don’t you.”
    After a moment: “Miles Anderson.”
    â€œThis is Don Sullivan.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œOkay, good-bye.”
    â€œOh … right … Mr. Sullivan. Sorry. Listen. I just purchased a house here in town. On Upper Main. You know where that is?”
    â€œI’ve heard of it,” Sully said.
    â€œAh.” Miles Anderson hesitated. “That’s a joke, I’ll bet.”
    â€œI live on Upper Main,” Sully confessed.
    â€œYou do?” Incredulity.
    â€œWhich house did you buy?”
    â€œThe one across the street from the Sans Merci.”
    â€œSouci.”
    â€œRight,” Miles Anderson said. “I knew it was without something. I must have been thinking of Keats.”
    â€œMust have been,” Sully said.