Bui his curiosity had a tight grip on his imagination and refused to let go.
He sat and nursed his empty glass and stared. Three legs hung over the edge of the shelf on which the object had been propped. Even within the integrated boots, the feet looked funny. Of the three arms, the right one was looped around the slim Frangeligo bottle, the left rested atop the Budweiser sign, and the one in the middle relaxed in what passed for a lap. Stiff and erect, the head and its reflective eye surfaces seemed to stare right past him.
“Excuse me?”
Responding, the bartender, who looked big enough to play pro football, ambled over. “What’ll you have, sir?” Siminowski instantly recognized the lazy Texas drawl.
Mesmerized by the figure seated on the back counter, the salesman took a moment to think. “Jack on the rocks.”
“Right away, sir.” Like a magician working the three-cup trick, the bartender made Siminowski’s empty glass disappear.
He returned a moment later with a fresh squat glass full of ice cubes stained brown, which he sat before the salesman on a clean, compact napkin.
Siminowsky extracted a five from his wallet and flipped it onto the counter. “Keep it.”
The bartender nodded appreciatively. “Thanks.” The bill vanished with the same facility as the previous glass.
“Just a minute.” Siminowski gestured and the big man paused expectantly. He wore a western shirt and black jeans. The buckle at his belt looked like it had been run over by a backhoe, not once but several times.
“Something else, sir?”
The salesman raised a finger and pointed. “What is that, anyway?”
“What?” The bartender turned his head and grinned. “Oh, you mean Jed.”
“‘Jed.’ Yeah, I guess I do.”
Ross Ed chuckled gently. “A lot of people ask that question, sir”
“Walter,” the salesman corrected him. “Walter Siminowski, Cleveland.” He extended a hand, which the bartender enveloped in his own.
“Just call me Ross,” the big man replied.
“Okay, Ross. Tell me about that thing. Where’d it come from? How long has it been here? Who does it belong to?”
As Ross Ed was formulating a reply a couple of younger business types claimed the stools on Siminowski’s left. Their ties were undone and the top buttons of their shirts open. There was no sign of their jackets. Probably left them in their car, Siminowski decided. Their accents marked them as local.
Apparently they’d overheard. “Shoot, man,” declaimed the one nearest the salesman, “don’t you know what that is?” The men exchanged amused expressions. “Thought everyone knew Jed.”
His companion accepted a draft beer from the bartender. “You told him yet, Ross Ed?”
The laconic Texas shook his head. “Why don’t you tell him,
“Sure!” Turning, the younger man grinned at Siminowski. His clothes smelled of El Paso, but his breath reflected the recent application of expensive deodorizer. “Old Jed there, he’s an alien.”
“That’s right.” His slightly older companion slugged his beer. “An alien.”
“’Course, he’s dead,” added the one called Jimmy.
“I see.” Siminowski turned back to the bartender.
“That’s right, Waiter. Jed’s a dead alien.”
The two beer drinkers were enjoying themselves. “Ross Ed found him. Didn’t you, Ross Ed? Right by the side of the road.”
“Yeah,” chortled Jimmy. “Hitchhiking, wasn’t he?” He let out a hoot of self-satisfaction. “Pretty easy with three thumbs. ’Course, we don’t really know if he’s got thumbs.” The young professional turned back to the bartender. “How ’bout it, Ross Ed? Does Jed have thumbs?”
“I expect he does.” Ross moved slightly to his left to take an order from a waitress named Doreen. The room was starting to get crowded.
Siminowski took the opportunity to question the two regulars. “So you think it’s a dead alien, too?”
“Shoot,” declared the first man, “what else could it be?”
“I don’t know.” The salesman considered. “I’ve never seen a dead alien before.”
“Neither has anyone else, honey.” The waitress favored him with a professional smile before melting into the crowd with her order.
Siminowski knew he’d have to leave soon, too, or else he’d have to wait for a dinner table. Like most of his brethren, he avoided room service whenever he had enough time to do so. The predictability of it was mind-numbing.
“Well, I just wanted to know.”
“And now you do.” Jimmy slid off his stool and gave the stranger a friendly whack on the back. “He can do all sorts of tricks, Jed can isn’t that right, Ross Ed?”
The bartender replied without looking up from his work. “That’s right.”
“Make him dance.” Jimmy’s friend conducted the conversation with his beer. “C’mon, Ross Ed, make him dance!”
The big man seemed hesitant. “I dunno, Jimmy, it’s gettin’ kind of busy.”
