Write me a Letter

Dago Don’s, served lunch. Then he snapped his fingers, made an apologetic gesture, and produced from under the counter a package that he said had come for me. ”Perishable!” it said on the outside. I thanked him kindly, directed Uncle Theo to a chair, in which he sat, then made haste back up to my room to open my parcel. And I felt a lot better, hombres, when I saw the comforting sight of one of my own, my very own, .38-caliber Police Positive nestling inside on a bed of confetti, and beside it, a substantial supply of ammunition. I checked it out, tucked it in the shoulder holster I’d brought with me in my airline carry-all, slipped on a lightweight windbreaker to hide it from prying eyes, and then rejoined Uncle once again downstairs. Uncle was making ”no spika da English” gestures to the nature freak, who had bits of a fishing rod spread out on the worn carpet. Evidently one of the couplings had come loose in the recent past and he was showing Uncle how he’d cleverly fixed it by himself, alone, out in the wilderness, with naught but a tendon from a tree frog’s leg and a dash of Superglue. Close up the guy smelled of a combination of rubber and bug repellent.
    I got Uncle out of there and we headed for Dago Don’s famed bar and eatery, which we’d passed earlier on our stroll. I may not spot every Symphoricarpos albus when I’m strolling, or driving, but you can bet I don’t miss all that many bars.
    Dago Don’s—what a place. There was so much dusty bric-a-brac on the walls and hanging from the ceiling, it was ten minutes before I noticed the stuffed ostrich. I was too busy putting away a couple of brews and admiring the lobster with the decals on it, the blowfish with the corncob pipe in its mouth, the ratty old deer head—or was it a small moose?—and the old photos of the old days and the hundreds of dollar bills stuck mysteriously to the ceiling.
    ”Ok, I’ll bite,” I said to the bearded geezer tending bar, who might even have been Dago Don himself, for all I knew, ”how do they get up there?”
    ”Got a buck?” he said.
    ”Yeah, I got a buck,” I said, handing him over one. ”But I get the feeling I won’t have it for long.”
    He grinned through his nicotine-stained whiskers, took a silver dollar out of his watch pocket, folded the, or rather, my, dollar bill around it somehow, dipped it all in beer, then lofted the ensemble ceilingward, where it stuck, what else? After a minute or so my dollar bill, traitor that it was, unfolded itself just enough to go on sticking up there but to let the silver dollar slip out and fall down into the bartender’s awaiting palm. Bet Mike never saw that one, I thought. But who knows—maybe it was Mike behind all that beard. Or even Lethal Lou. Which reminded me—I took a quick look around—at the clientele this time instead of the artifacts—no Solomon. There was a husband and wife, obviously sightseers, drinking soda pops at one table, and three deaf folks, drinking booze, signing away busily at one another. I wondered if they ever said to each other the equivalent of, ”What a chatterbox that woman is! Doesn’t she ever stop signing?”
    About then an old-timer wearing a chef’s hat and a long white apron appeared in the doorway to the dining room. He was holding a large brass bell, which he proceeded to ring violently.
    ”Come ’n’ get it,” he said, ”if you want it. Special’s pot roast.” He surveyed the room briefly, then scuttled back into the dining area. Uncle Theo looked at me inquiringly. I pointed to my mouth and made chewing sounds. He nodded eagerly.
    We had the pot roast. So did the husband and wife, the three deaf people, and a table of four locals next to us. I divided my attention between the food (terrific), our fellow diners (harmless, as far as I could tell), and an intriguing business card which was propped up against the mustard pot on our table. ”Charlie Chan’s Tattooing,” it said. ”No drunks. Free Hand. Ladies in private. 100s of designs. Wide choice of colors. Noon to midnight.” Hmm, thought I. A tattoo, thought I. Something tasteful, of course, nothing ribald. Perhaps merely a heart entwined with flowers, and underneath, ”Evonne.” That’d show her I was willing to endure grievous pain over her, that I wasn’t just some fly-by-night incapable of suffering over a woman. I changed my mind when I perused the back of the card. ”Remove bandage in 24 hours,” it said. Bandage?? ”Use