Free Dark Mondays by Kage Baker Page B

tried it in the padlock on the front door; the lock was a chunk of rust, however, and after a few minutes he drew back and shook his head.
    “You ain’t never getting in that way, buddy,” said Tom. “You don’t know beach winters.”
    The developer went back to his car and, opening the trunk, took out a hammer. He struck ineffectually at the lock.
    “Look at the sissy way he’s doing it,” jeered Mr. Bright. “Hit it
hard
, you dumb son of a bitch.”
    The padlock broke, however, and the chain dropped; it took three kicks to get the door open, to reveal inky blackness beyond. The developers stood looking in, uncertain. The spectators in the Chowder Palace all shuddered.
    “There has got to be serious mildew in there,” said Charlie.
    “And pipes rusted all to hell and gone,” said Mr. Bright, with a certain satisfaction. “Good luck, suckers.”
* * *
    But the developers seemed to have luck. They certainly had money.
    Work crews with protective masks came and stripped out the inside of the Hi-Ho Lounge. There were enough rusting fixtures to fill a dumpster; there were ancient red vinyl banquettes, so blackened with mold they looked charred, and clumped rats’ nests of horsehair and cotton batting spilled from their entrails.
    When the inside had been thoroughly gutted, the outside was tackled. The ancient stucco cracked away to reveal a surprise: graceful arched windows all along both street walls, and a shell-shaped fanlight over the front door. Stripped to its framing, the place had a promise of airy charm.
    Mr. Bright watched from behind the counter of the Chowder Palace, and wondered if there was any way he could sue the developers. No excuses presented themselves, however. He waited for rats to stream from their disturbed havens and attack his customers; none came. When the workmen went up on ladders and pried off the old HI-HO LOUNGE sign from the roof, he was disappointed, for no one fell through the rotting lath, nor did sharp edges of rusted tin cut through any workmen’s arteries, and they managed to get the sign down to the sidewalk without dropping it on any passers-by. Worse; they left the neon martini glass up there.
    “It
is
going to be a bar,” said Leon in satisfaction, crumbling crackers into his chowder.
    “Shut up,” said Mr. Bright.
    “And a restaurant,” said Charlie. “My brother-in-law works at McGregor’s Restaurant Supply over in San Emidio. The developers set up this account, see. He says they’re buying lots of stuff. All top of the line. Going to be a seafood place.”
    Mr. Bright felt tendrils of fear wrap about his heart and squeeze experimentally. He rolled himself back to his cubicle, took two aspirins washed down with a shot of bourbon, and rolled back out to make life hell for Julio, who had yet to clear the dirty dishes from booth three.
* * *
    The place opened in time for the summer season, despite several anonymous threatening calls to the County Planning Department.
    The new sign said CALAMARI CURLS, all in pink and turquoise neon, with a whimsical octopus writhing around the letters. The neon martini glass was repiped a dazzling scarlet, with its olive once again winking green.
    Inside was all pink and turquoise too: the tuck-and-roll banquettes, the napkins, the linoleum tiles. The staff, all bright young people working their way through Cal State San Emidio, wore pink and turquoise Hawaiian shirts.
    Calamari Curls was fresh, jazzy and fun.
    Mr. Bright rolled himself across the street, well after closing hours, to peer at the menus posted by the front door. He returned cackling with laughter.
    “They got a
wine list
!” he told Jesus, the dishwasher. “And you should see their
prices
! Boy, have they ever made a mistake opening
here
! Who the hell in Nunas Beach is going to pay that kind of money for a basket of fish and chips?”
    Everyone, apparently.
    The locals began to go there; true, they paid a little more, but the food was so much better! Everything