“Still. Phantom penis.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Exactly.”
Thrill showed him nice, even white teeth. Myron looked at them. Can’t tell much about gender from teeth. Better to check the cleavage again. “You realize that you’re massively insecure about your sexuality,” she said.
“Because I like to know if a potential partner has a penis?”
“A real man wouldn’t worry about being thought of as a fag.”
“It’s not what people think that bothers me.”
“It’s just the penis issue,” she finished for him.
“Bingo.”
“I still say you’re sexually insecure.”
Myron shrugged, palms raised. “Who isn’t?”
“True.” She shifted her rear. Vinyl on vinyl. Grrrr sound. “So why don’t you ask me out on a date?”
“I think we just went over this.”
“You find me attractive, right? What you see, I mean.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re having a nice talk?”
“Yes.”
“You find me interesting? Fun to be with?”
“Yes and yes.”
“And you’re single and unattached?”
He swallowed. “Two more yesses.”
“So?”
“So—and again, don’t take this personally—”
“But it’s that penis thing again.”
“Bingo.”
Thrill leaned back, fiddled with the neckline zipper, pulled it up a bit. “Hey, it’s a first date. We don’t have to end up naked.”
Myron thought about that. “Oh.”
“You sound surprised.”
“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?”
“I 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 dishrag. “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 Haid mean anything to you?”