Read Online Taste of Tenderloin by Gene O'Neill - Free Book Online Page A

the counter. Then he scooped up the money, carefully counting
the coins before ringing up the sale.
    The Ugly Man cleared his
throat and asked, “A favor?”
    The clerk frowned slightly.
“What kind of favor?”
    “ Use one of those,” the
Ugly Man said, then added a barely audible, “please.” He pointed at
a triangle of dusty souvenir shot glasses stacked on the counter,
but mostly hidden behind the plastic cigarette lighter
display.
    The clerk just stared at
him with a kind of puzzled expression after glancing at the stack.
He tentatively picked up the shot glass from atop the
pyramid.
    “ Now fill it, please,” the
Ugly Man said, nodding toward his half pint of whisky. “I
can’t.”
    Understanding finally
flooded into the clerk’s face and dark eyes after glancing at the
shot glass and then down at the Ugly Man’s badly trembling hand. He
shook his head and explained in a bureaucratic monotone, “I am
sorry, but we are not allowed to uncap any bottle, open any can, or
dispense alcoholic drinks of any kind on the premises, because we
would jeopardize our off sale liquor license.”
    “ It’ll only take a moment,
then I’ll disappear,” the Ugly Man pleaded in a pitiful
whisper.
    The clerk, looking
uncomfortably torn, glanced out the doorway and then back at the
Ugly Man. Despite his obvious misgivings, he uncapped the bottle of
whisky and poured out a generous portion, filling the shot glass
right to the top. He pushed it across the counter and whispered,
“Quickly,” glancing nervously again at the empty doorway.
“ You poured it, if
anyone comes in,” he warned. He left the counter and stepped back
into the rear of the store, near the cold cases, wiping his hands
as if disowning any part of the illegal transaction.
    The Ugly Man breathed in
and out deeply, gathered himself, then reached down and encircled
the glass ever so carefully, keeping his shaking hands firmly
grounded against the counter as if he were attempting to gently
restrain a baby bird from flying off. During the process, his coat
pulled up, exposing the lower several inches of his tattooed
sleeves, the mosaic badly disfigured by thickly layered burn scars.
Sucking in another breath to further steady himself, he leaned over
and slurped from the glass, which still rested firmly on the
counter between his grounded hands. He closed his eyes, swallowed
the raw whisky, and held his breath as the fiery liquid made its
way down to his stomach. After a moment, he blinked, shuddered, and
carefully lifted the shot glass with his still slightly trembling
hands. He only spilled a few drops of the precious liquid before
downing the remainder of the poured drink. Licking his dry lips, he
nodded toward the clerk as he set the empty glass back down.
“Thanks, man,” he said. He picked up and carefully capped the
remaining half pint of Wild Irish Rose.
    Stepping into the doorway,
the Ugly Man looked about fu rtively while
secreting his purchase in the pocket of his scruffy sweatshirt. He
could already feel the “medicine” beginning to take effect,
settling his stomach. A warm glow slowly worked its way out to his
extremities, even quelled the almost constant ache in his lower
right leg.
    Feeling better, he made his
way back up the street, heading home to his cardboard
tent.
     
    As he neared an
apartment entryway just before reaching
O’Farrell, the Ugly Man heard a loud skin-on-skin smack , followed by
snuffled crying.
    He stopped, tilted his
head, and cautiously peeked into the back of the deep, darkened
doorway.
    There was Mad Marco, the
badass bald-headed pimp, dressed in his expensive black leather
coat, holding up and waving a pair of wrinkled ten-dollar bills in
his left hand. “I warned you earlier, you lazy bitch, didn’t
I?”
    A scantily dressed young
woman fingered a bloody nose. She shivered visibly in the cold,
nodding contritely.
    “ Now, you get your raggedy
ass out there and hustle up at least another hundred bucks