Rhonda reached Pomeroy's an hour later. The pub was just around the corner from home, but she'd taken some time to prepare. The nurse was clad in the simple blue dress Tommy most loved and looked amazing.
When she entered the dining area, Tommy was sitting with a rugged looking man of about 50, dressed in work boots, worn blue jeans, and a t-shirt. There was an old green army field jacket draped over his chair. The stranger seemed to recognize her right off, because he jumped up before Tommy even noticed she was there.
"Hellooo..." the man said in a strong and deep voice, drawing out the word as she approached the table. He seemed more than just a little pleased to see her as he opened his arms in greeting.
The gesture touched her, and the lump in her throat from meeting an old friend of Tommy's began to grow. "It is so, so nice to meet you, Sam. I'm Rhonda."
"So, I can see," he said, showing her the first glimpse of the devil in his grin. Sam immediately rounded on Tommy. "She's too good for you."
"She's too good for both of us," Tommy shot back. "And yet, here she is, sweet enough to class up this gathering of fools. Try not to bite the hand that feeds."
Sam howled.
About that time, two pitchers of beer showed up. Food soon followed. It warmed Rhonda even more that Tommy new her habits well enough to time the order to her arrival. It was the little things with him. Of course, he'd ordered her favorite, as well as two of everything else, or so it seemed. Both Tommy and Sam talked, ate, and drank like there was no tomorrow. And it dawned on her that Sam was like Tommy.
As if reading her thoughts—God, I hope that's not his Gift—Sam turned to her.
"You know, I first met this grisly motherfucker back in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and seventy-one, two weeks after I got back from Viet Naam." He contorted the country's name as many Vets did. "My first thought was, who woulda thought to shave a bulldog's ass and glue it on the shoulders of a human being?"
Rhonda screamed. "I thought it was only me.".
"Nah, nah," growled Sam in his raspy baritone. "He is plain difficult to look at, ain't he? If he wasn't so damn good in bed, I would've dumped him years ago."
Poor Tommy buried his face in his hands and tried to control his laughter.
Rhonda squeezed Tommy's hand. "So, how did you two really meet?"
Sam took another drink of beer. "Mm mm ... like I said. It was San Francisco back in '71, I was just back from Viet Naam, and I was broke."
"Broke, broke," added Tommy.
"Broke, broke," agreed Sam.
"So, how broke is 'broke, broke'?" she asked.
"Well, I had some trouble in Viet Naam," he said confidentially. "Legal trouble ...."
"... he tried to shoot one of his team members in the face," interjected Tommy.
"It was a misunderstanding ... that racist bastard," finished Sam. "Anyway, I ended up spending almost 10 months in country past my original 14-month tour, so I had a pocketful of dinero when I got mustered out in San Francisco."
"When I met Sam, he'd been out of the army for less than two weeks and had not a single penny to his name ...."
"They didn't pay service members for shit back then," pleaded Sam, somewhat testily. "Two years back pay ain't as much money as it sounds."
"So, you ate, drank, and whored your way through two years' pay in what? Two weeks?" asked an incredulous Rhonda.
Sam sat there, his animated face twisting as if he had just eaten something bitter. "Well, it was a very pleasant two weeks," he replied with as much dignity as he could muster.
"More like a week or 10 days," said Tommy. "Before I met him, Sam already was trying to raise money by fighting in bareknuckle fights over near the naval yard, which was actually a good idea. Back in those days, this young lad had shoulders like a linebacker and fists like granite blocks. Unfortunately, his first fight, against this 260-pound biker....
"A 260-pound racist," Sam corrected.
"... ended after the first punch. Sam hit the guy so hard it put him in the hospital.".
"Ha-ha! And his skinhead grandkids are still screaming in pain!"
"Yeah," continued Tommy. "And for his effort, Sam earned 20 dollars."
"Twenty-seven dollars," the vet crowed. "Best money I ever made!"
"But Sam hurt the guy so bad, nobody wanted to fight him after that. So that was the first, last, and only money Sam Babington ever made as a prizefighter." Tommy paused to chuckle. "So, when I met Sam, it was at a bar near the Presidio. He was letting drunks punch him in the gut for a dollar a pop, with few takers."
"It was a noble cause," growled Sam, before taking another drink of beer. He then smiled angelically at Rhonda. "I was trying to raise enough money to get back to Chicago."
Tommy piped in. "He walked up to me and bet me 100 dollars I couldn't floor him in three punches to the stomach. I didn't think he had that much money, but I took his bet anyway. And even though I suspected he was tougher than he looked," which Rhonda presumed was code for Gifted, "I still took it easy on him—that first punch at least. It was like slugging a wrestling mat. So, the second punch, I put my knees into it, and he went down like a sack of potatoes."
"Oh, goddamn, I thought you ruptured my spleen."
"Sam started moaning and screaming that I killed him, and he demanded I buy him a final meal before he died."
"Well, it was the fair thing to do," Sam argued, suddenly the very picture of reason, "seeing as how your man was the cause of my impending doom ... and I hadn't eaten in days."
"Ah, but he didn't die," said Tommy, exhausted from laughter. "I ended up buying him two pizzas and a steak dinner that night, paid for all his drinks, and took him out for breakfast the next morning."
"Well, as I recall, you were in funds at that time, my good man," Sam replied, now even more reasonable than before.
"You could have put out ... my good man."
"What sort of person do you think I am? On the first date?" Sam began working on a cheeseburger.
"You know," said Tommy wistfully, "I never saw that 100 dollars."
Sam continued to eat as if he hadn't heard.
Their banter went on throughout the evening and long into the night, first at the pub and later, after Tommy settled the tab, back at their apartment. The two men ate and drank copious amounts to no obvious impairment. Slowly, throughout the course of the evening, Rhonda pieced together that Tommy and Sam eventually had driven cross country together from San Francisco to Chicago. The two men had kept in regular contact since.
Sam had stayed in Chicago, taking up residence on the Southside neighborhood of Bronzeville, where he was raised, making a living as a community organizer. He was also something of a local problem-solver who stepped in when others wouldn't. The older man was a gifted raconteur, and many of his outrageous stories involved the local Chicago toughs and heavies he'd managed to outwit, outfight, or best in some other way. His oratorical skills were splendid. A mutual friend of the two men, according to Tommy, had once described Sam's speaking style as, "One half North Carolina farmhand, one half Chicago alderman, and one half P.T. Barnum." It was a perfect fit.
And Rhonda also got the sense Sam's being Gifted was an open secret in Chicago. Indirectly, she asked as much.
Sam's response was as forthright as any she'd ever heard. "It ain't a popular thing to be these days," he said. "If folks don't like that—if they don't like me—I ain't a hard man to find."
It was the only time all evening Rhonda felt her emotions run high. She adored the man.
Unexpectedly, at a little after 6:00 in the morning, Sam rose and announced his departure. He poo-pooed their insistence that he stay longer, asserting that he had important business to which to tend in the Windy City. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and promises about visiting again soon—though, this time, all parties meant them.
Sam took Rhonda in his arms for a bear hug. "Gimme a call if you ever decide to shed that 200 pounds of unsightly fat. You're always welcome in Chicago."
Rhonda sniffled and managed to fight back a tear as she saw the two men to the door.