The night before, Robert sat taking in the evening cacophony, alone on the front step of his rundown Pebbly Beach quonset. Music too playful to be contained by walls swelled from the open doors of Mexican neighbors on either side. Across the street, bluegrass riffs hung above the Buffalo Nickel Bar. Children on bikes yelped as they flew up and over a makeshift ramp. He thought about his own grown children, four of them from three different mothers, the women he had loved and cast away. In a couple of months his daughter, Bonita, would make him a grandfather and a new generation would begin. Padre pulpero, hijo caballero, nieto limosnero. Three generations from shirt sleeve to shirt sleeve.
He stepped onto the street and headed toward Lover’s Cove, walking with a distinctive springy hitch that looked exuberant even though he wasn’t. The thought of the beach party bartending gig depressed him, but there was always the chance that he’d meet an interesting lady. Maybe fulfill the Island’s promise of romance; maybe meet Circe of the lovely hair, the temptress. Yes, a temptress would be nice.
The party was a fundraiser for Trey Scheinheilig, U.S. Congressman, and an outspoken conservative who’d gained popularity by promoting the Strengthening Our Borders Act. To Robert, Scheinheilig represented both a claim to fame and a reminder of everything that he was not. They’d known each other for years, as people do on the island, and Robert seemed to be the Congressman’s favorite example of the “common man.” Scheinheilig actually named him in a campaign speech about “improving and protecting the quality of life for the common man.” Robert’s stomach knotted at the memory. Even worse, the glamorous Mrs. Scheinheilig, nee Toni Larsen, had been Robert’s first true love. A smart and sassy twenty year old, she still twinkled with wit as an elegant, mature woman. She had chosen Trey Scheinheilig and Robert still felt dejected every time he thought about it.
At the beach across the harbor, Hot Licks, a Rolling Stones cover band, ripped out a reasonable rendition of “Under My Thumb.” Gentle waves rolled onto the rocky shore and a few colorful knots of people in Hawaiian prints stood around drinking and smoking at the outdoor bar. Laughter drifted in from yachts garishly decorated with club burgees. Robert guessed these loyal supporters would soon come ashore to venerate the Congressman. He slipped behind the bar claiming a position at the blender. Women love blended drinks and he was a self-proclaimed master of the mango margarita and the frothy, potent Buffalo Milk.
Robert acted busy as he watched Scheinheilig approach the bar.
“Robert, my man! You’re still working two-bit jobs in Paradise? How long has it been?”
Robert winced at the voice and the heavy hand that slapped his back.
“Trey. Good to see you,” he said flatly.
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