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“It seems like a stretch,” I said. “Did he ever say anything that would make you think he killed the two Bogart men?”
“Not directly,” Bertie said, “but he hated Bogart Bars. He said they were his father’s idea, and Bogart stole it. And he said he had a plan to get even. He said that a lot. Personally, I think he turned that Bogart worker into a Bogart Bar to torture old Harry. And I think one day it’s going to be Harry Bogart who gets dipped in chocolate and nuts.”
“You should be a detective,” Grandma said to Bertie. “You have this all figured out.”
“People talk to bartenders and barbers,” Bertie said. “Occupational hazard.”
“What about the man who was frozen today?” I said. “He wasn’t turned into a Bogart Bar.”
“Yep,” Bertie said. “That presents a dilemma.”
“You’ll have to ask Kenny about it when you see him next,” Grandma said.
My experience is that drunks aren’t especially reliable. Fact and fiction tend to intermingle, stories get inflated, emotions run amok. So I wasn’t going to immediately decide Kenny Morris was a killer. I wasn’t going to dismiss it either.
“How often does he come into the bar?” I asked Bertie.
“Couple times a week. Always on Saturday night. Guess that’s a low point in his week since he’s not seeing the Bogart girl.”
Bertie had his plate heaping with food, and he poured gravy over everything.
“This gravy rocks,” Bertie said.
“The trick to good gravy is that you have to burn the meat,” Grandma said. “Only
on the bottom, of course. That way you get the nice dark color.”
“I was married once,” Bertie said. “Seems like that marriage went on forever. When you have kids you stick it out even if it makes you sick.”
“Did it make you sick?” Grandma asked.
“Gave me an ulcer. She was always talking, talking, talking.”
“I don’t talk all that much,” Grandma said. “Mostly I watch television.”
“And she couldn’t cook,” Bertie said. “Couldn’t make gravy. Couldn’t come close to this gravy.”
“I bet her gravy had lumps,” Grandma said.
“Yeah,” Bertie said. “It had big, ugly lumps. Disgusting.”
My father had his head up. The conversation was starting to interest him.
“Edna is a great cook,” he said. “Some man is going to be lucky to get her. She makes French toast.”
“It’s one of my specialties,” Grandma said. “I use real vanilla and a touch of nutmeg.”
“See, that shows you take pride in your work,” Bertie said. “You add that extra touch of nutmeg. I’m like that when I tend bar. Every drink is special. Like when I make a mojito I use a mortar and pestle so I get the mint leaves just right.”
“Gives me goose bumps when you talk about it,” Grandma said.
“Me too,” my father said. “You want more pot roast, Bertie?” He looked down the table at my mother. “Maybe you need to reheat the gravy for Bertie.”
Grandma jumped up. “I’ll do it. I’m real good at reheating.”
“So, Bertie,” my father said. “It sounds like you have a real job and everything. I bet you even have a house.”
“The wife got the house,” Bertie said. “I have an apartment over the bar.”
