2 A.M. at The Cat's Pajamas

2:00 P.M

Cassidy, the new bartender, sweeps the floor. Cigarettes, dirt, stray earrings, a pick, glimmer in the dustpan. When she told Lorca during their brief interview that she was named after the song, Lorca asked what song, and she rolled her eyes and said, “ ‘Cassidy’? By the Grateful Dead?”

“I don’t know new music,” Lorca said.

“It’s like forty years old!”

Cassidy lines up stuffed trash bags by the door. Her hair is brick-colored and she has a way of making every word sound like a curse. “You guys set a fire in here last night?”

Lorca passes her a bucket of soapy water and a pile of dry towels. “You start there, I’ll start here.” He lowers himself onto his knees. The hammering in his shins begins in earnest, but if he supports himself on one fist, he can manage. He plunges the rag into the water and works it over the corner of floor. The heat feels good on his hands. He moves the rag over the unseen parts of the bar, gathering clots of dust and debris. The work satisfies him and he likes that he can see the result, the wood returning to near its original color. He and Cassidy back toward each other until they meet in the center of the room and he can no longer ignore his humming knees. “You got it from here?” He chucks the rag into the pail.

Cassidy surveys the floor and nods, content. “Only way to clean a floor is on your hands and knees,” she says.

In the back room, Gray Gus uses a magnifying glass to paint orderly stripes on the wings of his plane. Sonny reads on his cot in the walk-in freezer, slippered feet pulsing to the jazz coming from an old radio. The very day he and the guys returned from Chicago to help Lorca run the club, Sonny claimed the walk-in for his bedroom. He removed the bottom row of shelves to fit his cot and a night table that held a slim pair of reading glasses and whatever he was reading, these days Chekhov’s collected stories. Sonny is particular in his solos and in his sock drawer. His pants make prim stacks on the shelves; his shirts line the meat racks on hangers. A Dopp kit of soaps for when he half-showers in the kitchen’s industrial sink.

When Lorca enters, Gus looks up, eyes still narrowed in focus. “Can we talk?”

Lorca detects a note of gravity unusual for the easygoing drummer.

“He guessed,” Sonny says.

Gus replaces the cap to the bottle of paint and wheels his chair up to Lorca’s desk. “I can help,” he says. “I have money.”

“You have thirty thousand dollars?” Lorca says.

“Jesus.” Gus pushes himself away from the desk. “I don’t have that much.”

Sonny marks the page in his book. “I told you it was a ridiculous amount.”

“I thought you meant, like, a couple hundred.” Gus brushes excess filings from the plane’s body, the remnants from sanding a wing or a door.

“A couple hundred could not be classified as ‘ridiculous.’ ”

“Depends on who you ask,” Gus says.

Lorca leaves them to debate. He hoists two trash bags from the line and carries them outside. By the Dumpster, a dog the size of a standard amp wrestles a milk carton.

“Dog,” he says. “Come here.”

The dog abandons the battle and runs over. It throws itself onto the ground to announce its belly. “I know you.” Lorca fishes around its neck to find the tag.

Ciao! I’m Pedro.

I have a case of wanderlust.

If found, please call …

Cassidy stands behind him holding two more bags. “What’s that?” she says. “A dog?”