On a blustery March day, Mort Soapinski walked through the door of the Crawlback Inn. He stopped for a few seconds, studying the unadorned wall by the front entrance, and headed toward the TV and Rude leaning against the bar.
“Good Lord, Man,” he said. “What are you putting into your mouth?”
Rude shrugged and looked mournfully at the salad and cottage cheese on the plate in front of him. “Isobel wants me to look good in my tux. She’s got Ethyl Esther in cahoots with her.”
“Well,” Mort said, somewhat reluctantly, “Isobel is a good woman. That’s what they do. And the house?”
Rude’s brows lowered. “Papers go through next week. She’s gonna live there first. Fix it up.”
“See, that’s nice. You’re gonna feel okay when you get there.”
“Makes me nervous. It’s too far away, what if something happens?”
“But it’s only two blocks,” Mort said in his most reasonable tone “And look, you’ll have a lovely wife and a comfortable place to put your feet up. You’ll even have a real shower, not just a hose and drain in the bar bathroom. How much better can it get?”
“I just keep getting the shakes,” Rude rumbled. “Seven and Seven?”
“Sure thing. You’ve just got wedding jitters, she does too, and she probably has better reasons.” Rude gave Mort a dirty look, but he laughed.
“Sooo,” Mort said, letting out a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about this wall here. Got any plans?” Rude turned his eyes away from the television. “You know, I get itchy when you act like you’re starting to think too much.”
“Well, isn’t Jube’s old room behind there? What’s happening with all his stuff?”
“You know good-and-well that Isobel is excavating everything down to the bare dirt, maybe even
lower. You’ve seen her working. Just - tell me what’s on your mind - spit it out.”
The smile-lines at Mort’s temples crinkled even deeper than usual and he gave a little chuckle. “Well my friend …” he began.
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