sections of KL. But on the breakfast menus you’ll find a reference to ‘bacon substitute’. You know what that is?”
Ralph said immediately, “No.”
“Well, it’s thin strips of veal, strips fried up like bacon. And delicious, but more expensive than bacon.”
“Not many things more expensive than bacon lately,” Suzan said.
“Right you are, pet. Right you are. This place shows me nothing. Who recommended this place?”
“We’ve got to finish our beer and wait our nine minutes,” Singleton said.
“The hell we do,” Waldo said.
“Well, we ought to,” Singleton continued. “The experiment has to be fully done and completely replicable.”
“I like that word, replicable,” Suzan said, savoring the syllables. “Rep lick ah bull.”
“In the barracks on Batam Island the workers sleep in hammocks, sometimes four tiers high,” Waldo said.
“Tiers?” Ralph asked.
“Tears indeed,” Suzan answered. “You should hear him and see his tears over the exploited workers of Batam Island.”
“Okay,” Waldo said, getting up. “We’re outta here.”
“I paid for the beer,” Singleton said.
“Tell me at the end of the evening,” Waldo said.
“Tell you what?”
“How much you shelled out to keep this crew fat and happy.”
“We’re not so happy,” Walling said.
“We’re outta here,” Waldo said again.
“Maybe we should try some place with Huns around,” Singleton suggested.
“Maybe you should wait for your orders,” Waldo said.
“Yes!” added Ralph, draining the beer pitcher.
In the van Waldo said, “I’ve got one more place recommended. On Park Avenue. Maybe a kind of immediate ‘post-college’ place. Called the Foo Bar.”
“I know it,” Singleton shouted.
“Oh, he knows it,” Waldo echoed. “But I’m worried we’re losing our focus. We’re not just going to bars. We’re trying to find the toughest bar in Worcester. Isn’t that what we’re trying to do?”
“Who cares?” said Suzan.
“Our readers, pet. The ones who keep us in Bermuda when we need it most.”
“Like now,” said Walling.
“Oh, not like now,” Suzan continued, “certainly not now, when we’re collecting all this important data about tough bars in Worcester.”
“Yes,” said Ralph.
“I like you,” Suzan said. “You’re affirming.”
“One from the scrum is always affirming.” Walling said.
The Foo Bar had a dark red glow. The bar stools were filled, but the occupants seemed too well dressed for toughness, and too pre-occupied with the Red Sox game on the two large television screens bracketing the bar. The noise level, however, was promising. Demi shout filled the low ceilinged room and the red lamps with their translucent red shades supplied the proper motivation for fisticuffs.
“We can get something going here,” Singleton said, drawing extra chairs to the tiny round table beyond the left end of the bar.
“You’ve got it backwards and I’m getting tired of pointing that out,” Waldo said.
Suzan said, relaxing back into the chair Singleton pushed further under her, “Tell us about Batam Island. You know about the sleeping arrangements.”
“Don’t get cute,” Waldo said. “It’s not you.”
“Oh, but it’s you,” Suzan sing-songed back to Waldo.
Walling brought over gin and tonics. “Imagine it’s summer,” he said.
“Beer and gin doesn’t work,” Singleton said.
“Let’s see,” Suzan said. She took a long drink. “Yes, it can work.”
Ralph finished his drink in one long swig, and went to the bar to get another.
“Let’s go back over the criteria,” Waldo said, slumping a bit in his chair, scuffing a bit his Timberlands along the chocolate, stained and worn carpet.
When he got back and before he sat down, Ralph said a bit too loudly, “I hate the Red Sox.”
Singleton smiled and nodded at Waldo.
“You’ve got to remember the criteria.” Waldo said.
“If it’s not around, you’ve got to make it happen,” Singleton answered.
“The Red Sox suck,” Ralph said, again too loudly. A few bar stools spun slowly at the sentiment, turning away from the spring-training, pre-season game.
4.
A distant segment of the bar lifted up and a burly fellow in a grey sweatshirt slowly walked through the opening.
“Here it comes,” Singleton said, joyous at the prospect.
He came to within a foot of their table. “You nice people see Roadhouse with Patrick Swayze?” the burly fellow asked, taking off his baseball hat and holding it politely with both hands in front of his waist.
“Yes,” Walling answered.
“Then you remember Patrick’s little suggestion to his bouncers–‘be --nice’. So I’m in my Patrick Swayze ‘be-nice’ phase, just asking you to tone it down. Keep it down, since there happen to be a lot of Red Sox fans here, as you might expect, wouldn’t you? Anybody might expect that.”
“Yeah, there are dicks everywhere,” Ralph said, smiling.
“I’m going to be ‘be-nice’ and overlook that disappointing observation.”
“Up yours,” Ralph said.
“I can tell you want me to leave my ‘be-nice’ persona and become mother-fucking Steven Seagal, is that it?”
“Sure,” Ralph answered.
“In Out for Justice mother-fucking Seagal puts a cue ball in a handkerchief and slugs teeth all over the pool table. And I like that a lot. All the time he’s shouting ‘This is your trophy,’ holding up his badge. I like that mother-fucking Seagal.”
“Hey,”
