The liquor salesman sat alone at the mahogany bar. Since noon he’d been there, dawdling over a pint glass and twisting in his fingers the thin chain of a woman’s wristwatch. A stagnant cigarette mist filled the air; the tables stood empty as the music for the evening had ended and the musicians had retired backstage to smoke reefer. Their laughter carried faintly through the darkened curtains. It was a high, loose sound that filled the bar with an uneasy weight. The salesman looked wearily toward the bandstand. His eyes panned until they centered upon a group of four men seated around a table. Here, as if planning something secret for them, his eyes settled and he laced his fingers tightly over the bar.

            He wore a tired thrift-store suit, threading around the collar and pant leg bottoms. His tie was loose around his throat and his shirt was damp. From the table one of the men caught his gaze. He was Thad Teller, a slim, sinuous Negro with sleepy eyes and a languid, unperturbed posture. Two of the other men were promoters, the third a pool shooter. All but Thad disliked the salesman.

            “Why’s he still hanging around?” the pool shooter said. “I thought you told him the deal.”
            “I did,” said Thad. “I don’t mind, though, if he comes in for a drink. He oughtn’t be alone now, anyhow.”
            “He doesn’t look too good,” said the first promoter.

He was a stout man in large, gray trousers who worded most of his questions and statements around the edge of his glass. “He’s been like that since the accident,” he added.

           “Longer than that,” the pool shooter said. “You could almost see it settin’ in when he started playing around with that girl. It just took a highway crash to bring it up to speed.” As if lamenting this course of action he added, “Used to be a good fellah, sold to Thad all the time, but then he started getting into his own stuff after the accident, started bringing his own bottles in.”

           There was a deep pause in which the pool shooter opened a Zippo and snapped it shut over his knee, repeating the move two or three times. “Must be damn hard gettin’ around without a license,” he said quietly. “He ain’t no bother,” Thad said, tipping his head back. “But don’t make no talk about the girl around him. Best jus’ keep quiet altogether.”

           They returned after a moment to the business at hand, a deck of cards and a salad of green crumpled bills in the center of the table. A mirror ball glittered feebly over the dance floor like a strange mouth missing a mass of its silver teeth. A pair of girls dressed in summer whites and pinks pushed through the chrome and glass door and took a seat at the bar.

            “He just fingers that watch all night,” the second promoter said. “All afternoon, all evening, turning it over and over. Wouldn’t that be considered tampering with evidence, or swiping something from a—“

            “Leave the man alone,” Thad said quickly. It was his first flare of irritation and it caused the men to look up. He sighed heavily and took a long pull from his cigarette. The liquor salesman was still watching them.
            “I can’t believe you sell that Kentucky Dawn to the musicians,” the pool shooter said, sliding a card to Thad.
            “I don’t sell them nothin’,” Thad protested. “Most them fools drink it fo’ free. I want them coming back to play, don’t I?”

            “What about the chorus girls?” the first promoter asked. “A lot of ‘em’ll drink and dope up with anything you throw at ‘em just to deal with customers that want to spend time with ‘em, guys like me, for instance. That all free too?”
            Thad’s lips gleamed tepidly. He prepared to speak, but cut himself short when, from across the room, the liquor salesman rose and staggered toward them. His movements were heavy, labored, speaking of the many drinks he’d put down. His shoe mashed with an out-pushed chair leg and he leaned deeply to his right, regaining his composure with violent movements. The men watched his approach with a kind of startled awe, as if witnessing a living corpse rather than a drunken salesman. The wristwatch glimmered for a moment before vanishing into his pocket. He sat down between the two promoters, faced Thad.
            “How are you, Leonard?” Thad asked innocuously. A fragile pleasantness grew in his eyes.
            The liquor salesman stared at him. His face was cold and empty. He raised a cigarette to his lips and sucked at it, looking at the men one by one, eyeing the cards and the drinks in their hands.

            “You want in?” the pool shooter asked. “I think you know everybody here,” Thad said. “We’re playing—“ “I want a drink,” the salesman said. His voice was high, tight, and fierce. “You don’t think you had enough, my man? You seemed to have some trouble walking over here,” the first promoter said.
            “I don’t care how I seemed,” the salesman said slowly. He drew a black cigarette case out of his pocket and positioned it on his fingertips with the manicured poise of a magician organizing a trick. Inside lay three long cigarettes and a penknife. He slid a cigarette out of the case, placed it on the table, and severed it in half with the penknife.
            “Who you buying from now?” he said to Thad.
            Thad’s face soured. “Don’t do this now, Leonard. Take it easy. We’re just trying to play—“
           “It can’t be as good as what I sold you. Look around, man. This place is dead. You must serve some bad sauce.”

            The salesman lit his half-cigarette with an air of triumph, stubbing the other one into an ashtray. The stout man took a drink and gathered his cards in front of Thad, but Thad did not pile them together immediately. He gazed at the liquor salesman pensively.

            “Just quiet down,” he said at last. “If you ain’t gonna play with us an’ be civilized then I don’t want you sittin’ here.”

            He brought the cards into a shuffle but jerked viciously as the salesman’s hand fell on top of them. “I asked you where you’re getting your stuff,” the salesman scowled. He raised an empty shot glass to his nose and sniffed it with an exaggerated deepness. The bartender arrived at his side with a drink. He snatched it away and swallowed it sharply. Without turning to the bartender, he said, “Another.” “That ought to be enough,” Thad said. “I’m not finished.” “That’s enough. What do you want to hear, man? You think I don’t know how you feel? I let you come in here and drink, let you hang around all night.” “That’s an outstanding gesture of charity. I think buying your liquor from me, though, would be more agreeable.” “Goddamn it. You bring the wrong crates, you don’t make deliveries on time. You get drunk. It’s simple as that. The way you’s actin’ you’re a long way from getting back in business. Now—“ The salesman pushed up from his chair and loomed over the men. His face was no longer worn but alive with his anger. He aimed a savage finger at Thad.

            “You told me. You told me you told me. ‘Leonard,’ you said, ‘you’re my guy. Month after month. Yours is the best, the best whiskey, the best gin, best bourbon.’ For years, man.”

            He stumbled back, tipping the chair over. His arms swooped to seize balance. Thad snapped his fingers. From the front door two men, dressed in thick gray suits, hurried over and stood behind the liquor salesman. They put their hands firmly on his shoulders and began turning him toward the door. He looked around wildly, like an inmate overwhelmed by guards. “You gotta go, man,” Thad said. His face was stern now. His eyes steadied under the light. The salesman jerked, though, and with flippant rage launched his cigarette at Thad’s chest. Thad pushed away from the table and swore as the other men watched the liquor salesman being hustled to the front. Something fell from his clothes as he twisted. The cashier woman opened the door as the two men ejected him from the entrance. He tripped over the curb and spun around, raced to the entrance and shook the door when he found it had been locked. Above him a neon sign reading “Beer” blinked off. He began pounding rapidly against the glass, screaming and causing people to slow on the sidewalk. Thad watched him. His hands met under his chin in a fist and he rested his head there. The salesman continued to rage until, exhausted and weighted down by drink, the protest faded. His jacket and tie dangled like rags from his throat and shoulders. His arms collapsed to his sides and he stood still with the solemnity of a few minutes ago returned to this face. Thad’s eyes lowered and he looked away from the window altogether.

            There was a brace of empty shots remaining at the salesman’s place at the bar, a congested ashtray showing his long hours there. Now returned to his post, the bartender cleared them away and gave the bar a mechanical swipe with a towel, smearing away the ghosts of glass bottoms and the dust of ash. The pool shooter glimpsed the object that had fallen from the salesman. He turned to Thad and pointed.

            “What’s that?” he said.

            Thad leaned close, looked once again to the window, and then stood up from the table. He walked around the men and stepped among the small empty tables, picked up the object and dropped it in his shirt pocket. The liquor salesman was gone. He sat down again at the table and took a long deep drink from a glass of water. “It’s the watch,” he said.

            “What are you gonna do with it?” the second promoter asked.

            “I’m just gonna hold on to it,” Thad said. “Think he’ll come back for it?” the first promoter said. Thad touched the small bulge beneath the cotton of his breast pocket. “He might,” he said softly. “And I’ll let him come back in for it.”