As the day wore on, Balthazar became increasingly aware that he did not want to do this interview after all, and he didn't know why. Trouble was, it was ten minutes away and he was already at Tin Can. There did not seem to be any backing out now.
"You look like you're going rounds with the Terror Twins," Andy Triplehorn told him, confidentially, whispering into his ear like it was a conspiracy. Andy was his wingmate at the bar, the guy Balthazar could always depend on. He was in his early twenties, a good ten years Balthazar's junior, and seemed every bit the young man he looked, until he was called upon to serve a drink or otherwise direct a customer's needs. He became the consummate businessman then, the professional who knew exactly what to do, and did it with remarkable flare, like a showman. Other times, he seemed unfocussed, which was why Balthazar was surprised that Andy was paying such close attention at the moment.
"I'm fine," Balthazar said. "Nothing to worry about."
"You're something of a hero, you know," Andy said. "That's why they're here, not because Tin Can is turning silver, which on the whole isn't really that special. I've been to bars more than a hundred years older, in Ireland."
"You've been to Ireland," Balthazar said.
"Yeah," Andy said, "Sure. Who hasn't?"
"People without passports, I suppose," Balthazar said. "People who aren't interested."
"Everyone's interested in Ireland," Andy insisted. "But the bars aren't the reason I went. That would be blarney."
"You kissed it," Balthazar said. "Didn't you?"
"As a matter of fact, I didn't," Andy said. "Didn't get around to it. Not that I wouldn't have liked to."
"Hanging out over a ledge," Balthazar said. "Not my idea of fun."
"Come on, old man," Andy said. "We all know you have a sense of adventure. It's in your eye. Maybe it's just been a while. Kick the cane from under that hand, and you'll be sprite again, I say! Just like the Dahl story. You know, or something."
"Yeah," Bathazar said. "Or something. You've got an imagination, Andrew."
"Andy," Andy said.
"I don't like to use nicknames," Balthazar said.
"You call Max Fischer Greenwood," Andy said, "Don't you?"
"Greenwood is an exception," Balthazar said. "There are always exceptions."
"I'd like to understand that someday," Andy said. "And find out where the heck 'Greenwood' came from."
"Nothing very interesting, I assure you," Balthazar said.
"You have a funny idea about what's interesting, Bill," Andy said. "Oh, I'm sorry. You probably don't like me calling you that."
"It's fine," Balthazar said.
"We're ready for you," an assistant to the Tracks reporter announced.
"Twenty-five years, Mr. Romero," the reporter, Ted Geyer, remarked. "Of course, you haven't been around that long, have you?"
"Has it already started?" Balthazar said. "I thought you'd say 'action' or something."
"Oh, no," Ted said. "Just making friendly banter, to get you warmed up. Yeah! We haven't started yet, old boy."
Ted was another man who happened to be younger than Balthazar, but he spoke as if he were older. Must have grown into the job early. "That's a relief, I guess," Balthazar said.
"I'm sure it is!" Ted boomed. "The place looks nice, like something I'd go to. As I understand, you had a lot to do in the refurnishing."
"Maybe a little," Balthazar said. "Are you sure we're not ready?"
"Deathly," Ted said. "Believe me, I know when to start an interview, fire up the old recorder."
"I'm sure you do," Balthazar said.
"Hot damn! Classic!" Ted roared. His enthusiasm, for this time of the day, was distracting, but it didn't phase any of the regulars, who didn't seem to notice anything was going on. Few things interrupted pub life. They'd have to be more entertaining. Balthazar was well-loved, but he wasn't adored. He took comfort in that as he tried to tolerate Geyer. Andy, from behind the bar, beamed at Balthazar as he poured a draft.
"We may be ready now," Ted said, switching on his recorder.
"Good," Balthazar said. He watched as Ted's demeanor transformed, to something somehow more ebullient.
"Twenty-five years for Tin Can," Ted began, "and I'm sitting in front of Balthazar Romero, bartender for nearly five months here now, the man responsible for one of Traverse's most famous renaissances. What's it like to be at the head of something like this, Bill?"
"Thanks for the gesture, first of all," Balthazar said. There were plenty of other things he might have said. "It's flattering, I guess, to have been able to achieve this. Tin Can has always been a popular establishment. I've only enhanced that popularity."
"Don't be modest," Ted said. "You've almost single-handedly boosted the city's economy. It's quite an achievement. Tell us a little about how you did it."
"I saw what worked and went from there," Balthazar said. "It's really that simple."
"The mayor doesn't hand out keys to the city for minor accomplishments," Ted said. "You've been doing innovative things, just remarkable acts of marketing."
"Networking, really," Balthazar. "But the interest was there already, the fire already stoked, you understand. I planned a few theme nights, opened the doors a little more to the community, capitalized on a few assets. Nothing, really."
"Marty Jennings winning the inaugural World Pool Cup in his hometown right here at Tin Can is no small fete," Ted said, toasting Tin Can with his recorder. A few patrons raised their glasses back, in Balthazar's direction. "Ladies and gentleman, Balthazar Romero, the consummate modest man. They'll be writing philosophy books on you, mark my words."
"I'm sure they will," Balthazar said. "Is that all?"
"It's enough, if you'd like," Ted confirmed, switching off his recorder and pulling out a pad and paper. He obviously planned to capture the mood of the place to pad out the article, get the impressions of the hero and the mood of the bar itself. "You did well. You actually looked concerned earlier. If you don't mind, I'll be sticking around for a bit."
"I guess I was," Balthazar said. "And by all means, go ahead. Plenty to see here, if not the pool champion, who never comes in on Thursdays. Something about prior commitments, when we all know what his true commitment is. Have a drink."
"It'll make a good story," Ted said. "Thanks for having me. One on the house?"
"Sure," Balthazar said, nodding to Andy. At least Geyer didn't seem interested in prolonging the suffering. He'd gotten what he needed and moved on, which was fine by Balthazar, who did not relish the attention, not one bit. If Andy hadn't insisted on it, he would never have consented to the interview in the first place.
Geyer bought himself a drink, an obscure label called Vintner's Rum that someone had once placed an order for which had ushered in an unending supply for no perceivable reason, as Balthazar watched him, eager to see him and his entourage off but mindful enough to let them leave on their own. The Old VM, as it was known, had become a popular staple of the bar, and only moreso since the bar itself had gain newfound popularity, so that the mysterious shipments never came fast enough. Geyer was now enjoying one of the few that were reserved for distinguished patrons. Balthazar also had an open policy that anyone who referenced Colinaude, to himself or any of the staff, received one on the house, but that bargain had thus far gone unfulfilled. The punk with the red cap would have gotten the whole supply if he'd been old enough, though. Balthazar couldn't figure him out. Twice he'd called the cops, and during one of these incidents he'd asked them if they knew Colinaude's whereabouts themselves. They didn't.
The man was a ghost, and like the Old VM, he was another part of the lore. He'd worked there and left not long before Balthazar's arrival, but the months in between appeared to be years in the recollection of those who should have known more. There was Alonzo Poland, but he had not seemed interested in making another friend in the few weeks their mutual employment at the bar overlapped. Poland now enjoyed life in a city called Bowie in Texas. His number was not listed and he returned no letters. In fact, every one of Balthazar's came right back to him. Greenwood was a friend, but Greenwood rarely talked about anyone but Greenwood. Andy? Didn't know anything.
He could care less about accolades. If they were foisted on him, Balthazar would not refuse them, but he had not sought them out. He would rather have avoided them. He wanted to leave Tin Can, slip away from the spotlight, but the place had grown on him. Even as his initiatives had started garnering attention and his instincts kicked in, Balthazar couldn't walk away. It was like home, and the more he did to improve it, the more he found he couldn't leave.
It was like a Chinese finger trap.
"Andrew," he called over to the bar, "if our guests would like to stick around for much longer, no matter how much more, let them. I'm headed out, but I'll be back in a bit."
"You're not even scheduled this week," Andy replied, shaking his head after doing so and laughing.
"I'm never in the books, Andrew," Balthazar said. "You should have realized that by now."
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