The Bartender's Tale Read Online Free PDF

And
ess of a bee
I soon figured out was his abbreviated version of
son of a bitch
rather than anything to do with collecting honey.
Bee ess
, on the other hand, baffled me until some overheard conversation enlightened me with the key word
bull
.
    Now Howie tucked his tongue in his cheek to keep from saying anything, which nevertheless made all the statement needed about protecting my tender ears, and resumed his bar chores. Pop meanwhile was scooping unpaid bills from a drawer by the cash register. “Come on in the back while I’m busy being busy with these damn things,” he told me as if he saw no other choice. “You can help me count the booze.”
    —
    I HAD NEVER been in a museum, but the colossal back room of the Medicine Lodge immediately fixed that. The two-story space was like some enormous attic that had settled to the ground floor under the weight of its treasures. Ranch things were everywhere, most with the dust of time on them. Saddles, bridles, pairs of chaps, sets of harness—one entire wall was leather items of that sort, as if the horses had just left. Automobile jacks and tires neighbored with the equine gear. Elsewhere, axes and shovels and even a sledgehammer shared space with softer goods such as bedrolls and bright yellow rain slickers and hats of the Stetson sort. A guitar leaned against a pile of well-traveled suitcases. I couldn’t help but notice a clutch of fishing poles poking up in one corner, in with some long-handled crook-headed things that proved to be sheep hooks. As though one floor wasn’t enough for it all, the room had a loft—doubtless the haymow in the early days, when this extensive space had been the stable behind the saloon—and lighter items such as lariats and hay hooks, like the kind stevedores used, hung from the rafters there.
    “Wow,” I let out, openmouthed, “where did you get all this?”
    “All what?” Pop asked absently, shedding his suit coat but not his bow tie as he prepared to deal with the month’s bills. He followed my gaze around the menagerie of items. “The loot?” He half laughed. “It accumulates. See, customers don’t always have the ready cash when they want a couple of drinks. Or maybe need bus fare to somewhere, or are in the mood for a better pair of boots or a new hat. So,” he shrugged and lit up a cigarette, “I’ll take whatever they bring in, if it’s of any use. Maybe they get it out of hock eventually and maybe they don’t. After long enough, I sell it off, a bunch at a time.” He contemplated the motley collection again. “Some of the stuff goes way back, long before me. An old Scotchman owned the joint for a lot of years, in the early days. They say he knew every nickel about life, and he’s the one who started taking things in when cash was short. Kind of comes in handy eventually, doing it that way.” Tobacco smoke wisped over him as he stood there thinking out loud. “Gonna have to lay down the law to Earl Zane, though. He’s dumber than a frozen lizard. You got to watch out for people like that, kiddo,” he philosophized to me. “Hell, if the ess of a bee is short of money, he’s got those belt buckles he won riding at rodeos when he was a bronc punk. Hold up his pants with one hand and drink with the other—it’d be good for him.” Laughing the way he ordinarily did, quick and sharp like exclamations, he climbed the stairs to his check-writing chore.
    I followed him, eager for the next sideshow attraction of the back room. The stairs to the loft were interrupted halfway up by a long, wide landing, and there Pop had his desk and a table and other office requirements, as if staying above the tide of stuff below. I thought it was a sensational perch, and I didn’t yet know the best thing about it as I gawked around from up there: a sizable air vent was cut through the wall at one end of the desk, and all of a sudden, the sound of Howie smashing ice behind the bar came through clear as anything. It took me hardly