Free Seaweed on the Street by Stanley Evans Page A

telephone.” A lapel pin said her name was Barb.
    â€œThat’s right, Barb,” I said. “How did you know I was Canadian?”
    â€œEasy. Your accent is different, for one thing. For another, if you were an American you’d call that a Cuba Libre.” She placed the drink in front of me and leaned on her elbows.
    â€œBut if I was a real Canadian I’d have ordered rye and ginger. It’s the national drink.”
    â€œYou’re real, mister,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “That’ll be four bucks. You want to run a tab?”
    â€œI may not be staying long,” I said, putting a five spot on the counter.
    â€œCoulda fooled me.” She took my money to the cash register and rang up the sale. “Guy comes in packing an overnight bag, I figure he’s here indefinitely.”
    â€œThat’s what I like. A good-looking woman with brains. Uses five-syllable words. In-def-in-ite-ly. You working your way through college?”
    â€œNot me. I’m working my way through my second alimony settlement. Two losers I met in this very bar, sitting exactly where you’re sitting now.”
    Barb dropped my change on the counter and settled herself beneath a neon Stroh’s sign. I watched her fold her arms, and when our eyes met she smiled easily. “You want me to stash that bag where people won’t fall over it?”
    I passed my bag across the bar. “You’ve had two bad marriages. Want to try for third time lucky?”
    â€œNot until I know you better.”
    â€œHey, Barbie!” a slurred voice said. “You working or not? Get your ass over here, we’re dyin’ a’ thirst.”
    It was one of the hard hats. Barb rolled her eyes, gave me a menu, switched on a smile and walked down the bar.
    Louis was coming to the end of “Infirmary Blues,” laying the dead gambler out with a 20-dollar gold piece on his watch chain so the boys would know he’d died standing pat.
    Checking the menu, I learned that the club specialty was a Bessie Smith steak, but they had a Billie-Burger, a Nat King Coleslaw, a New Orleans patty melt. They were also plugging a Benny Goodman Surprise for dessert, and I knew what it would be — two scoops of vanilla ice cream with a stick of black licorice.
    Two middle-aged couples came in and took a table next to the dance floor. The women wore elaborate silk flapper dresses, silk stockings with garters, and carried umbrellas decorated with bits of coloured ribbon. The men had on straw boaters and elbow garters. The drunk with the fedora was crawling around the floor now, looking for his quarter.
    When Barb came back I said, “Are you expecting rain?”
    Barb pursed her lips as she watched the women with umbrellas. “They got a deal here,” she explained. “When the band leader figures everybody’s drunk enough, he breaks into ‘When the Saints Come Marching In.’ The women in flapper outfits parade around the room, twirling umbrellas and kicking up their heels, showing off their garters and lacy knickers. Guys follow, mugging with their hats. It’s a Dixieland tradition, don’t ask me why.” She pointed beneath the bar. “I’ve got the company umbrella stashed there. When the procession starts rolling, I have to join in. It’s in my contract.”
    â€œFun, eh?” I said.
    â€œYou bet,” she said, with good-humoured resignation. She watched the drunk find his quarter and reseat himself. “You want another rum and coke?”
    I shook my head. “Gimme a Cuba Libre this time.”
    A waitress dressed like a flapper appeared and started taking orders at the tables.
    Barb leaned closer. “You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œVancouver?”
    â€œVictoria PD.”
    â€œYou going to make life hard for Ray Smith?”
    â€œJust the opposite. If he can tell me what I need to know, there