Greg was in his basement office reviewing the night’s receipts. It had been a pretty busy dinner at Nathan’s and Greg’s eyes were blurred looking at the numbers. As the General Manager, he usually arrived early in the morning and managed the staff through the lunch hour leaving around six or seven in the evening, but today was different.  Sean, his night manager, had scored tickets to a rare Redskins Thursday night game and had begged Greg to cover for him.  Being that it was 10 PM, Greg had been on the job since seven that morning and he was dead tired.  He was on his third pass through the Visa charges and so far none of his totals matched.  As he reached for his cup of coffee, he heard a loud thud hit the floor just above him.  Dust sprinkled down on his head and onto his desk from the building’s 100 year old floorboards.  As worn out as he was, he climbed the stairs two at a time and within seconds was in the bar area where he figured to find the disturbance.

Nathan’s Bar and Grill is a Georgetown institution.  It has graced the coveted corner of Wisconsin and M Street for decades.  Once a pretty rough bar in the heart of a rowdy part of town, where a shot and a beer was the usual call, Nathan’s hadn’t experienced a bar fight in years.  Over time Washington had changed from a swampy backwater where foreign diplomats were awarded hazard pay, to a sleepy southern city with a ragged edge, to a cosmopolitan metropolis fitting of the most important city of the most important nation on Earth.

Georgetown was a neighborhood of D.C. where tourists descended after a day of traipsing through the city’s museums and monuments for a bit of shopping, a bite to eat, or a beer or two or three.  Along the way, Nathan’s had mirrored the city’s evolution and presented a much softer image in its current rendering.  It now had beautiful paintings and photos of famous sailing yachts on the walls (the owner was a big sailor), and it was the kind of place where you would meet a friend before heading out on the town over a glass of chardonnay and an order of crab cakes.

The main dining area was separate from the saloon that sported the original gorgeously maintained mahogany back bar dating back to the 1880s.  The bar was just starting to get crowded, and most of the patrons were gathered in front of the large bay windows overlooking one of the best corners for people watching in the city.   Stepping into the bar area, Greg noticed a man trying to pull himself up from the floor.  There were three couples, mostly in their late twenties that were somewhat standing over the man as he slowly stood up.

As Greg approached the fracas, he quickly surmised that the man on the floor had had way too much to drink.  Greg put his hands on his hips and slowly turned toward the bartender with a “how could you “ look on his face.

The barman innocently raised his hands as if to surrender and said, “Not a drop from this bar boss.”

The couples had been trying to help the man sit down on a barstool when for some unknown reason he took a wild punch at the nearest person, lost his balance, and fell to the floor.  Greg being only five foot six was easy to overlook, and none of the couples noticed that he was the manager.  They ignored him and began all talking at once.

“Look at him now, he doesn’t seem like he’s going to cause much trouble”

“I can’t believe he took a punch at you, he’s so baked he can barely see”

“He’s absolutely bombed, let’s try to get him into a cab and send him home”

“We can’t help this guy, just look at him, he’s a disgusting mess.”

“Yeah, he couldn’t even tell us his address

The man was sitting on the floor blankly staring up at the group towering over him when he suddenly raised his hand and shouted, “Hold it!”

Everyone had stopped talking and stared down at him. He slowly blinked as his eyeballs rolled back into his head.  When he reopened his eyes.  He then loudly called out to no one in particular, “3415 Cathedral Avenue.” There was a long pregnant pause until the drunken man began singing The Beatle’s “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band” with all the words jumbled up.

Just as Greg readied himself to escort the guy out of the bar, a woman came towards them wedging her way through as the crowd parted behind her.  It was strange until Greg saw who was following her.

“There he is officer. He took a swing at us and has been bothering us for the last half hour.  You’d think that a place like this wouldn’t put up with people like that.”

“O.K. lady, take it easy.”  John and Kevin were the Georgetown beat cops that worked most nights.  Greg knew them well but hadn’t seen either in quite a while.

Kevin went over to get the drunk man up on to his feet as John walked up to Greg with a smirk, “Well, well, what has you working on a Thursday night, I don’t think I’ve seen you in seven or eight months.”

“And it’ll be twelve months before you see me again once I’m done getting payback from Sean!”  Knowing the question coming next about Sean his Night Manager, Greg added, “He’s at the Skins game tonight.”

John led the drunken man by his neck over to where his partner was talking with Greg, “So what do we have here,” he asked them?

The group of couples began telling what had happened.  As they were talking, the man tried to take a halfhearted swing at Greg, but John held him at a harmless arm’s length away.  Greg backed away a few steps to take a better look at the man.  He seemed to be about fifty, and his hair was sticking up in all sorts of directions held askew by the gel that he obviously was very fond of using, based on the amount in his hair.  He was dressed in what looked to be a super expensive Armani suit that had large mud stains smeared over one whole side of his body.  He had a Hermes tie that was barely hanging off his neck and a kerchief that was stuffed clumsily into the lapel pocket.  Half in and half out of the side pocket of his suit coat was a women’s brassiere and panties, and hanging out of just about every other pocket were large chunks of fresh grass and weeds.  Greg noticed that the man was also wearing a Rolex Oyster on his wrist.

Something didn’t add up.  He was definitely a mess, but underneath all of the mud, weeds, grass, and drunkenness there seemed to be a pretty substantial foundation.  Maybe it was Greg’s years of working in the restaurant business that prompted him to find the best in people.  There were so many times that he had covered for men out on dates without their wives or business executives interviewing for better jobs under the noses of their bosses that he was prone to protect and serve.  Maybe not like the police, but it was effective at times in helping make the world go round a bit more smoothly.

Greg walked into the middle of the couple’s explanation to the police, and with a wan smile on his face, imitating the drunken man he held up his hand and shouted, “Hold it!”

Everyone stopped and looked at Greg.  He walked over to the bartender and said, “Give me two Jacksons.”  The bartender opened the register and handed him two twenty-dollar bills,  “…and crack open a bottle of Cliquot for these six people on me,” as he pointed to the three couples.  He then walked over to the cops and looked John in the eye, “This is your lucky night.  I’m about to save you two hours of paperwork.  You can thank me when you see me again…next year.”  With that, Greg grabbed the drunken man by the arm and yanked him through the crowd and out onto Wisconsin Ave.

A cab immediately pulled up and Greg pushed the man into the back seat.  He leaned through the front passenger seat window and told the cabbie, “Take this man to 3415 Cathedral Avenue.  If he asks you to take him any place else ignore him. Here’s a twenty for the three dollar fare, and another twenty for your trouble, and this is my card, if there’s any problem, call me.”  As the car pulled away he thought that it was probably not such a great idea to give him his card, but it was too late to worry about now.

…

“I told you not to sign any of the liquor orders without fully checking everything on the invoice.  How many times do I have to tell you not to do this? Just go upstairs and polish something, will ya?”  Greg was in a foul mood from the minute he stepped into the building.  He slept all of three hours the night before and had been snapping at everybody.  He hadn’t thought at all about the events of the night before.  He had experienced just about everything in the past fifteen years in the business, and it was his nature to quickly turn the page from past events.  It seemed to help keep his life from becoming too monotonous.

After a while, Greg went upstairs to get his eighth cup of coffee of the day.  On days like this, he would go through ten to fifteen cups and half of those were usually double espressos.  He ambled into the bar area looking to find the steward.  He wanted to let him know that he really wasn’t mad at him about the liquor order and that he should try to ignore any future venom that Greg may toss his way before the end of the day.

The steward wasn’t there, but Greg couldn’t help but notice a beautiful antique Bentley parking right in front of the restaurant.   An impeccably dressed man carrying a leather briefcase got out of the back of the car and came right into the restaurant.  He wore a very conservative three-piece suit that was accentuated by the sheer size of the man.  His hair had a touch of gray around the temples and he possessed a neatly trimmed mustache to top off his very distinguished presentation.  Towering over Greg, he walked up, handed him a card, and in a very deep voice asked, “Could you please fetch me this man?”  Greg looked at the business card and noticed it was his.

Greg looked up at this man and asked, “What should I tell him is the nature of your business?”

“That would be a personal matter between Mr. Dougherty and myself.  Please be a sport and tell him there is someone here to see him.”

Greg paused and looked up hesitantly into the man’s face and finally said, “That won’t be necessary as I’m Greg Dougherty.  Are you interested in holding a private party here at Nathan’s?”

“I’m afraid not, but I really must insist that I speak with Mr. Dougherty and Mr. Dougherty only.”

“I assure you that I am one and the same.  What is this all about?”

“Very well Mr. Dougherty, allow me to take a little of the mystery out of my visit.  I represent a very grateful individual that appreciates a man who understands what a true sense of discretion can mean.  Although he is not prone to exhibit poor judgment often, my employer recognizes that at times it’s possible to find oneself in a compromising situation.”

“You work for the frustrated groundskeeper, from last night.”

“An interesting choice of words Mr. Dougherty, and although they wouldn’t be my choice, I can see how they might be appropriate.  Yes, Mr. Dougherty, I represent Lawn Mower Man, but let’s keep that between us shall we?”

“No problem.  Tell your employer that I accept his thanks, but that he might want to choose a few other nightspots for the immediate future as D.C.’s finest won’t be as lenient next time.”  Greg offered to shake the man’s hand in an effort to end the meeting and get on with the day, but the man merely ignored him.  He looked over his shoulder and loudly snapped his fingers in the direction of the Bentley.  As Greg watched through the window a man in a uniform with a chauffeur’s hat got out of the car, walked back to the trunk and pulled out an enormous bunch of long stem roses, and brought them into the bar handing them to Greg.  There were at least four dozen.  Embarrassed, Greg placed the bouquet on the bar.  The chauffeur removed his cap, reached into an inside pocket of his coat, and pulled out an ornate envelope, handing it to Greg. Without saying a word he clicked his heels together and tilted his head in Greg’s direction and strode out of the restaurant.

“I trust that you will be able to maintain your high level of discretion concerning this matter for a long time to come.  Thank you and have a good day.”  With that, the tall man followed the chauffeur out to the Bentley, and it quickly pulled away.

Greg stood staring out the window for quite a long time trying to digest what had just happened.  He was standing there when one of his favorite wine salesmen, Patrick, walked in to get the week’s order. Patrick was more than a professional acquaintance to Greg.  They had a lot of the same friends and hung out together outside of work.

“Man Greg what’s up with you?  You look like you’ve been sitting with five fat women in a Volkswagen.” Patrick had said this same line about a hundred times, but each time he’d laugh at himself in a way that was more fun that his silly comment and usually others would chuckle along. Realizing Greg’s mind was elsewhere, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine but the damnedest thing just happened to me.  Did you see that old Bentley just pull out?”  Greg went on to tell Patrick about the tall man, the chauffeur, and the events of the night before.

Patrick eyed the ornate envelope and listened to the story getting more agitated by the minute as Greg slowly relayed all the details of what happened from the night before and into the morning. Eventually, he couldn’t stand it any longer and blurted out, “So open the letter already for Christ’s sake!”  Greg looked at Patrick a bit hesitantly, not sure what the letter’s contents may contain, but he gingerly pulled back the flap and pulled out a piece of fine parchment.

Dear Greg,

I can’t thank you enough for your help last night.  Without your actions, my life and career would have been in severe jeopardy.  It is men such as yourself that help maintain a high level of valor in this world. 

I want to do something more for you than a simple thank you. Taped to the inside of the envelope that Karl left, you will find a key. 

If you proceed approximately 50 miles east to the village of Annapolis and go to slip 213 at the Harbor Marina, Switch will be waiting for you.  The key will let you in.  I have not seen Switch for over three years and have no future plans to do so.  She is yours to use at your leisure.  She’s a fine girl, a 40 foot C&C racing cruiser, and I’m sure you’ll be pleased with her.

Thank you again and good luck,

Fritz 

They both looked at each other and began to howl.

After a few minutes, they calmed down and both sat on a stool with their backs to the bar. Greg rolled the key to Switch between his fingers in thought. Then he asked Patrick, “I’ll be off at 3, can you meet me here?” Not waiting for an answer and in true manager mode, he added, “And tell Mike, Rick, and K.C. to come too, after 3 years we’ll need help scrubbing the deck?