Everybody Comes to Rick's
No one knew much about the café. All sorts of people seemed to end up there, with secrets to hide and sorrows to drown, usually not even knowing how they had found it. And though most carried away with them a hazy impression of comfort and camaraderie and warmth, no one seemed able to describe the place after they had left.
Late one night, when the café was almost empty and soft, wistful notes drifted from the piano, a man in a light-colored riding coat, his hair hanging loose about his face, nursed a bottle of wine at one corner of the bar. It was not his first bottle of wine that evening. The bartender kept a wary eye on him, but the man kept his own eyes on his bottle, and showed little interest in causing trouble, or indeed in anything else.
"You might give a girl a drink, mister," came a hoarse voice from a few feet away.
The man lifted his head and appraised the speaker with eyes oddly clear and cool for one in his state. The girl huddled in the too-large coat gazed back at him openly, her expression a mixture of defiance and curiosity.
"You?" the man said shortly. "You're a child."
"Old enough to drink," the girl flared. "Old enough to have someone to drink over."
A corner of the man's mouth twisted, as if the argument appealed to him. He caught the bartender's eye and made a slight motion. Wordlessly, the bartender handed him another glass, which he filled and handed to the girl with a courteous if somewhat unsteady air.
The girl took it with a curt nod, then threw her head back, downing most of its contents in a gulp. The man watched with a raised eyebrow.
"A deep grief, yours," he murmured, filling his own glass again.
"Deep as yours, perhaps," retorted the girl, with a lift of her chin.
The man stared down into his glass. He said nothing, but a faint flush rose in his cheek. The girl's fierce dark eyes, fixed on his face, softened a little.
"Well, here's to better days for both of us, eh, mister?" she added impulsively, raising her glass.
The man gave a small smile, which failed to lighten his somber expression. "For one of us, at least," he said cryptically, touching his glass to hers. He turned away before adding, to himself, "As for the other . . ."
He trailed off, and drank again.
A dark-haired man in a white coat had just come in and was watching the impromptu toast with an inscrutable face. The bartender caught sight of him and came over, opening his mouth to speak, but the other held up a hand.
"On the house," he said, briefly.
Knowing better than to argue, the bartender went back to his work, with only a quick shake of his head. The owner watched a moment longer as the two at the bar sat there, together yet solitary, finishing what was left in their glasses.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world," he muttered, "they all walk into mine."