Free One Foot Off the Gutter by Peter Plate

million illegals, but he didn’t have the money. Bellamy knew he had a bit of nerve asking her to ride with him considering how bad the back seat smelled. But he was nonchalant. That was part of his charm.
    â€œWhere do you want to go?” he asked her.
    She tossed a glance at him.
    â€œBellamy, right?”
    â€œThat’s right. My name is Bellamy.”
    â€œWell, I’ll tell you, Bellamy, I don’t care where we go.”
    He drove them to another bar in the Mission. The joint was called The Dovre Club. It was his favorite watering hole. It was a pleasant cavern that always had Sinatra caterwauling on the jukebox. There were photographs of baseball stars, torch singers and popular criminals on the walls. It was an Irish bar on Valencia Street that didn’t conceal its sympathy for the Republican cause. The ambience was perfect for a player like Bellamy.
    He got them a couple of seats, some napkins and three drinks; one for her, two for him. Then he went to work on
her. He unleashed several weapons from his arsenal of intimacy. A smile here and an ingratiating, winning laugh there. He plied her with more questions, getting her drunk on their profusion. He ran his campaign to get her into bed like it was a job interview.
    â€œHow did work go today?”
    â€œIt was tolerable,” she said.
    â€œYou like the job you do?” he asked.
    â€œNot particularly,” she replied.
    Bellamy didn’t feel like he was getting anywhere. She wasn’t saying much. So he approached the situation from another angle.
    â€œHow many kids you got?” he asked.
    â€œWhat are you, some kind of wise guy?” she grinned.
    â€œNah,” Bellamy simpered. He played with the cocktail napkin on the table. He kept his eyes lowered to his drink. He acted coy but serious. All the chicks loved it when you affected airs like that. Women thought you had integrity and a sense of humor. That was important stuff, if you wanted to make it with someone.
    â€œI think kids are a great idea,” he said. “It makes people feel better to have a couple around, you know? But that’s only my opinion. Myself, I’ve never been married. And kids? I ain’t never had any, no sir.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    Her name was Doreen. That seemed to fit with the color of her eyes. They were brown, near as he could make out through the cigarette haze in the bar.
    â€œI guess I haven’t met the right woman yet,” Bellamy replied. He took his time answering her, trying to sound
world weary and sophisticated. He couldn’t front himself off as a young stud, not at his age.
    â€œWhen you get to where I am in life, it would be better if I met a woman who already had some kids. That way, I could become an instant father.”
    Bellamy knew he’d touched down somewhere near her core when he saw the look she gave him. Bingo, he smiled to himself. Tell them you want to be a daddy, and they’ll follow you anywhere.
    â€œI’ve got two girls,” she said.
    â€œNo shit?”
    â€œI’m not kidding you.”
    He started to warm up to the subject. It was kind of kinky to him. He’d never thought of himself as a father to a bunch of rug rats.
    â€œHow old are they?”
    â€œThe youngest one is four and her sister is seven. The baby goes to preschool at Saint Anne’s. The other one is in the second grade over there.”
    â€œA good Catholic school?”
    Bellamy scrunched his eyebrows together. The gesture caused his transplant to ripple across his scalp.
    â€œYou know it,” Doreen said.
    She leaned across the table to get a better look at him. In the dark, Bellamy was almost handsome. His hair transplant seemed natural. His acne scars were hardly noticeable. By the time the second round of drinks appeared in front of them, she was getting relaxed with him. They were settling down into a friendly conversation. Bellamy told her about his