now—tired of waiting for Shannon Hill.
Nooooo ! Somebody! Please! Get me out of here, before he killllls meeeeee !
(Silence.)
(More silence.)
( music. )
Isn't it beautiful? It's all for you, Shannon. Because I worship you.
“ Donnnnnnnnnn !''
When Donald Carnes returns from the basement men's room at Cabrera's the rain outside is driving against the windows of the bar, and the lights seem lower, but that just might be an aftereffect of his fourth "Papa doble ." So, undoubtedly, is the hallucination that confronts him: he actually thinks he sees Hemingway himself sitting on the bar stool next to his.
The rest of the bar is deserted; even Francisco has done a temporary vanishing act. Don is about to make a detour and go out into the rain without his umbrella to find out if a fast walk around the block in the equivalent of a cold shower will sober him up when
Papa turns solidly to him, the seat of the stool creaking under his weight (he's wearing a safari jacket with leather trim, camp shorts and knee-length yellow socks). He grins and swipes at his whiskers with one meaty hand and says, "How long does it take you to shake the dew off your daisy? Get over here, Carnes."
"I beg your pardon?" Don says stiffly.
"You need some help with your problem, and there's no time to waste, according to the signals I'm getting." He seems to have trouble with his l's and r's, a mild speech impediment. "Shannon just hopes you're up to it. Expect that's what I'm doing here."
"You, uh, you can't be here. I mean, he can't. So what are you, an actor who impersonates—"
Don looks around to see if any of his friends are peeking at him from the dining room or behind the coatroom door. But they are alone, in an unnerving wee-hours silence. Silent, except for the rain and the swish of tires on the street outside. Alone, except for the quick shadowy presence of pedestrians beneath umbrellas hurrying past Cabrera's windows.
Papa slams a fist down on the bar. He is still grinning, testily.
"Watch what names you call a man, unless you're prepared to defend yourself.
Actor? Never had any use for the lot of them, except Coop. And the Kraut, of course. Sit down and drink up. You don't quit after four daiquiris, not when you drink with me. The record's eighteen. At one sitting. You're looking at the record-holder. What we need now are some prawns. You know how I like them: cooked in seawater with a little lime juice, some black peppercorns. But the kitchen's closed." His expression sours. "Makes a man wish he was back home in San Francisco de Paula."
"What problem?" Don says woodenly, edging a little closer to the burly man, anticipating, hoping that he will suddenly laugh or wink or say something to give away the rib, the conspiracy, whatever it is.
Papa just looks at the rain and then at the two of them in the backbar mirror. He lifts his daiquiri and drinks, two good swallows, leaving a little froth on his whiskers.
"Always this spooky?" he says, with a sidelong glance at Don. "Or is it the booze? Not a rummie , are you? I don't mind rummies. It's the bores that make my ass ache. They'd come right in the house, down there in Key West, while I was trying to get work done. 'Just wanted to shake your hand, Mr. Hummingbuffer . Personally I never read anything, but the little lady tells me you're aces. Help myself to your booze? Don't mind if I do.' So what are you staring at, Carnes? Sit down, drink your drink, and we'll roll for the next one. Then you've got work to do."
Don rubs his eyes and his vision blurs; the man in front of him is immediately less substantial. Don, light-headed, is inspired to think he can almost see through him. Panic in his breast. He wants to back away, but is more afraid of the shadowy, empty room behind him than the man on the barstool. Blinking, feeling a chill in his belly that has settled in like a glacier, he eases onto the adjacent stool. Aware he is being stared at, Papa smiles, but grumpily. And
Nooooo ! Somebody! Please! Get me out of here, before he killllls meeeeee !
(Silence.)
(More silence.)
( music. )
Isn't it beautiful? It's all for you, Shannon. Because I worship you.
“ Donnnnnnnnnn !''
When Donald Carnes returns from the basement men's room at Cabrera's the rain outside is driving against the windows of the bar, and the lights seem lower, but that just might be an aftereffect of his fourth "Papa doble ." So, undoubtedly, is the hallucination that confronts him: he actually thinks he sees Hemingway himself sitting on the bar stool next to his.
The rest of the bar is deserted; even Francisco has done a temporary vanishing act. Don is about to make a detour and go out into the rain without his umbrella to find out if a fast walk around the block in the equivalent of a cold shower will sober him up when
Papa turns solidly to him, the seat of the stool creaking under his weight (he's wearing a safari jacket with leather trim, camp shorts and knee-length yellow socks). He grins and swipes at his whiskers with one meaty hand and says, "How long does it take you to shake the dew off your daisy? Get over here, Carnes."
"I beg your pardon?" Don says stiffly.
"You need some help with your problem, and there's no time to waste, according to the signals I'm getting." He seems to have trouble with his l's and r's, a mild speech impediment. "Shannon just hopes you're up to it. Expect that's what I'm doing here."
"You, uh, you can't be here. I mean, he can't. So what are you, an actor who impersonates—"
Don looks around to see if any of his friends are peeking at him from the dining room or behind the coatroom door. But they are alone, in an unnerving wee-hours silence. Silent, except for the rain and the swish of tires on the street outside. Alone, except for the quick shadowy presence of pedestrians beneath umbrellas hurrying past Cabrera's windows.
Papa slams a fist down on the bar. He is still grinning, testily.
"Watch what names you call a man, unless you're prepared to defend yourself.
Actor? Never had any use for the lot of them, except Coop. And the Kraut, of course. Sit down and drink up. You don't quit after four daiquiris, not when you drink with me. The record's eighteen. At one sitting. You're looking at the record-holder. What we need now are some prawns. You know how I like them: cooked in seawater with a little lime juice, some black peppercorns. But the kitchen's closed." His expression sours. "Makes a man wish he was back home in San Francisco de Paula."
"What problem?" Don says woodenly, edging a little closer to the burly man, anticipating, hoping that he will suddenly laugh or wink or say something to give away the rib, the conspiracy, whatever it is.
Papa just looks at the rain and then at the two of them in the backbar mirror. He lifts his daiquiri and drinks, two good swallows, leaving a little froth on his whiskers.
"Always this spooky?" he says, with a sidelong glance at Don. "Or is it the booze? Not a rummie , are you? I don't mind rummies. It's the bores that make my ass ache. They'd come right in the house, down there in Key West, while I was trying to get work done. 'Just wanted to shake your hand, Mr. Hummingbuffer . Personally I never read anything, but the little lady tells me you're aces. Help myself to your booze? Don't mind if I do.' So what are you staring at, Carnes? Sit down, drink your drink, and we'll roll for the next one. Then you've got work to do."
Don rubs his eyes and his vision blurs; the man in front of him is immediately less substantial. Don, light-headed, is inspired to think he can almost see through him. Panic in his breast. He wants to back away, but is more afraid of the shadowy, empty room behind him than the man on the barstool. Blinking, feeling a chill in his belly that has settled in like a glacier, he eases onto the adjacent stool. Aware he is being stared at, Papa smiles, but grumpily. And
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