The Final Detail

No I mean

Maybe I'm not that easy.

My mistake for presuming I mean, you're hanging out in this bar.

So?

So I didn't think most of the patrons in here played hard to get. To quote Woody Allen, 'How

did I misread those signs?'

Thrill didn't hesitate. Play It Again, Sam.

If you are a woman, Myron said, I may be falling in love.

Thank you. And if we're reading signs from being in this bar, what are you doing here? You

with your penis issue.

Good point.

So?

So what?

So why don't you ask me out? Again with the smolder. We could hold hands. Maybe kiss.

You might even sneak a hand under my shirt, go for a little second base. The way you've been

ogling, it's almost like you're there anyway.

I'm not ogling, Myron said.

No?

If I've been looking and note I said if it would be purely for the sake of gender clarification,

I assure you.

Thanks for straightening that out. But my point is, we can just go and have dinner. Or go to a

movie. We don't have to have any genital contact.

Myron shook his head. I'd still be wondering.

Ah, but don't you like a little mystery?

? like mystery in lots of arenas. But when it comes to trouser content, well, I'm a pretty

traditional guy.

Thrill shrugged. I still don't understand why you're here.

I'm looking for someone. He took out a photograph of Clu Haid and showed it to her. Do you

know him?

Thrill looked at the photograph and frowned. I thought you said you're a sports agent.

I am. He was a client.

Was?

He was murdered.

He's the baseball player?

Myron nodded. Have you seen him here?

Thrill grabbed a piece of paper and wrote something down. Here's my phone number, Myron.

Call me sometime.

What about the guy in the photograph?

Thrill handed him the scrap of paper, jumped off the stool, and undulated away. Myron watched her movements closely, looking for, umm, a concealed weapon. Big Cyndi elbowed him. He almost fell off the stool.

This is Pat, Big Cyndi said.

Pat the bartender looked like someone Archie Bunker might have hired to work his place. He

was mid-fifties, short, gray-haired, slouch-shouldered, world-weary. Even his mustache one of

those gray-turning-to-yellow models drooped as though it'd seen it all. Pat's sleeves were rolled

up, revealing Popeye-size forearms covered with hair. Myron hoped like hell Pat was a guy. This

place was giving him a headache.

Behind Pat was a giant mirror. Next to that, a wall with the words Customer Hall of Fame

painted in pink. The wall was covered with framed head shots of big-time right-wingers. Pat

Buchanan. Jerry Falwell. Pat Robertson. Newt Gingrich. Jesse Helms.

Pat saw him looking at the photographs. Ever notice that.

Notice what?

How all the big antifags have sexually ambiguous first names? Pat, Chris, Jesse, Jerry. Could be

a guy, could be a girl. See what I'm saying?

Myron said, Uh-huh.

And what kind of name is Newt? Pat added. I mean, how the hell do you grow up with a

healthy sexual attitude with a name like Newt?

I don't know.

My theory? Pat shrugged, wiped the bar with a dish-rag. These narrow assholes were all

teased a lot as children. Makes them hostile on the whole gender issue.

Interesting theory, Myron said. But isn't your name Pat?

Yeah, well, I hate fags too, Pat said. But they tip well

Pat winked at Big Cyndi. Big Cyndi winked back. The jukebox changed songs. Lou Rawls

crooned Love Is in the Air. Timing.

The right-wing head shots were all autographed. Jesse Helms's read: I'm sore all over, Love

and kisses, Jesse. Blunt. Several Xs and Os followed. There was also a big lipstick kiss impression as though Jesse himself had puckered up and laid down a wet one. Eeeuw. Pat started cleaning out a beer mug with the dishrag. Casually. Myron half expected him to spit in it like in an old western. So what can I get you?

Are you a sports fan? Myron asked.

You taking a poll?

That line. It was always such a riot. Myron tried again.

Does the name Clu ttaid mean anything to you?

Myron watched for a reaction but didn't get one. Meant nothing. The guy looked like a lifetime

bartender. They show about as much range as a Baywatch regular. Hmm. Now why was that

show on his mind?