Do You Promise Not to Tell? by Mary Jane Clark Page B

who left lousy tips.
    “Twenty-five cents? That’s what your mother gets for making out with the sailors when the fleet’s in.”
    There was nowhere to sit and B. J. was reminded of a packed subway train that stunk of stale beer, cigarettes, and cheap cigars.
    “Two PBRs,” he called to a bartender over the din.
    “Wow, you’re a sport, B. J.,” Meryl remarked. “Pabst Blue Ribbon . . . mmm.”
    “Come on, Meryl,” B. J. laughed. “Get with the program.”
    The bartender popped the tops of the two cold cans of beer and plunked them down on the bar. “Now, you gotta get three shots with that, bud.” She poured three jiggers of tequila, immediately swallowing her own. B. J. followed suit and grinned at Meryl expectantly.
    Without blinking, Meryl put away her shot neatly. “I thought it was illegal for bartenders to drink on the job,” she related earnestly.
    B. J. answered with an impish shrug of his shoulders, as if to say,
Who cares
?
    “What’s that over there?” She pointed. A pole with barbed wire at the top stood next to the bar.
    “If you can scale to the top, you get a free shot of tequila,” B. J. explained.
    “Clever.” Meryl took a long drink of PBR.
    “Come on, Mama,” the megaphone called. “Get on up here and drop that bra.”
    She’d heard about this place, read about it in the newspaper. A lot of young movie stars came down here to party with abandon. The bras of some of the biggest Hollywood box-office draws hung over the Hogs and Heifers bar.
    “Come on, now, yo! You, China girl. Get on up there and show off what your Mama gave you.”
    B. J. was watching Meryl for her reaction. Her face remained passive as she tried to ignore the megaphone’s demands.
    The bartender wasn’t giving up.
    “Come on, baby, we’re all friends here. Share the wealth with your friends.”
    Meryl chugged back the rest of her beer and resolutely placed the empty can on the bar. She hoisted herself up on the bar, and before B. J.’s admiring eyes, she began to sway in rhythm to the country-rock music. As the tempo increased, so did the gyrations of Meryl’s hips and the cheering of the crowd. From beneath her black wool sweater, she wiggled free ofher bra and swung it over her head to the audience’s delight.
    When they left Hogs and Heifers an hour later, the stench of dead meat hung in the night air, and packs of moldy bacon lay strewn before them on the sidewalk. Meryl seemed not to notice, and B. J. knew this chick had passed the test.

Chapter 39
    First Sunday of Lent

    It had been a long time since Farrell had been to Mass at blue-bricked St. Andrew’s Church, and she found it comforting this Sunday morning. Things may be unsettled in her life right now, but the church she had gone to growing up was pretty much the same as it had always been.
    Farrell crossed herself with holy water from the font at the entrance, said a silent prayer, and took a seat in a pew at the back of the church. As she rubbed and blew on her icy fingers, cold from the several-block walk from Pat’s house, she looked around. Nope. The old place hadn’t changed. Farrell could picture all those Sunday mornings that she and Robbie, uncomfortable in their good clothes, had been marched in by their parents. They alternately sat quietly and fidgeted, eager for Mass to end so they could get their reward at Purity Bakeshop, Farrell always getting the thick crumbcake, Robbie always choosing the chocolate creme-filled donuts.
    Chocolate had been Robbie’s passion even back then. Thirty years later, his breakfast of choice was Cocoa Puffs or Cocoa Krispies, cereals which he’d readily accept as lunch or dinner courses as well.
    Robbie. He seemed to be doing better, Farrell thought, relieved. Maybe the worst was over. Maybeit had just been an isolated episode. She prayed so.
    The purple-shrouded crucifix over the altar would stay that way until Easter Sunday. Then the cross would be uncovered, symbolic of Christ’s resurrection