Klempner
The barkeep looks up from where he’s wiping down the bar. “Yes, sir. What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a beer…”
“Coming right up.”
“… and another for the little one over by the TV.”
His eyes slide sidelong, then he smiles. “I’m sure Mickey won’t say no to a free beer.”
“I’m sure he won’t… ?” I insert the question mark at the end of my sentence.
“Caleb, sir.”
“Thank you, Caleb. Have one for yourself too.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”
The smiling Caleb serves my drink, takes my money, depositing some of the change in a jar, then moves to the end of the bar where Mickey Miller stands, bottle in hand, expounding some piece of wisdom to a group of three others.
Tipping his head back, he sucks from the neck, then carries on talking, punctuating his speech with flourishes of
