I checked my phone for the hundredth time and took another look into the coffee. I had to tell Froehmer something. He wanted to know when we were delivering. I couldn’t ignore him much longer. I was hoping I could find Frank before I had to lie to Froehmer. I was sure I could find Frank; I only needed to think about it a little longer. I could figure things out when I needed to. Frank would always know where to find me, but could I find him if he didn’t want to be found? Maybe I hadn’t started at the beginning; maybe I hadn’t gone back far enough. Maybe it all had to do with that goddam horse. Maybe that’s why Frank left. He had figured that out, he said. He never told me what it was all about. I was way behind. I drank coffee and watched the girls. We left each other alone.

There were rows and rows of bottles behind the bar. I didn’t care. I looked at the coffee and I looked at the bar. It was impressive, twenty feet of oak, a lot more than a hundred years old, I bet. Impressive enough to warrant a page in any good guidebook. Depending on the manufacturer and the condition on the parts I couldn’t see, the bar could be worth as much as twenty thousand. I wondered if anyone else in the place had any idea of the value of the thing.

When I used to spend my time drinking there was a dive I used to frequent that had a Brunswick from around 1880 that still had the metal trough attached to the bottom rail. There was an ongoing argument as to whether it was a spittoon or a urinal. “They spat in it and maybe scraped their boots, but that’s it,” the bartender said, “but it wasn’t a urinal.” “No plumbing,” one of the regulars said, “and no women. Why wouldn’t they take a piss in the thing?” Every new customer started the argument all over again. I don’t think anyone ever wanted to figure it out. There’d be one less thing to talk about. The dive is gone now. The bar is gone, stolen for a song by someone who knew what it was worth, from someone who had no idea. And I’m stuck with coffee and lesbians and sitting in front of twenty thousand dollars that isn’t going anywhere.

I’d been staring at the cold cup of coffee for more than an hour. The tourists had taken their guidebook and were off to see the sights, and the bar was still there, and the mirror, and the miserable loneliness. The bartender came back around even though she knew I didn’t need anything, not anything she could give me anyway.

“You think she’s still coming?”