What’s New at NuNu’s?
NuNu’s is a throwback bar – same booths (newer Naugahyde skin notwithstanding), same bar configuration, same mirror, same cheap colored-glass pool-hall light fixtures, same dark film-noir ambience as it had in the 1960s. A look at the old photos on the “wall of fame” in the back confirms it. You could shoot a scene of Mad Men there if you were careful to avoid the televisions on the wall and the bartender’s order screen.
Like the bridal dress code, along with something old, there is always something new at NuNu’s. This afternoon, it comes in the form of a murder mystery.
I duck into NuNu’s at about 4:15. A short space – not wide enough to be called an anteroom, not long enough to be called a corridor – leads to a blackout curtain, affording a moment of twilight before darkness falls.
I feel the regulars’ eyes giving me the once-over. I take a seat at the bar and order a well margarita. Three dollars. I was paying that for a happy-hour cocktail 20 years ago. Like I said, the place is from a different time.
My visit starts out as ordinary as you would expect. A woman three stools away is having the stereotypical pour-your-heart-out conversation with the kindly bartender. He knows his job: listen to the person who needs you, but keep an eye on the other patrons’ drinks.
Jeremiah’s responses, left out here, are unfailingly patient, expertly moving the confessor toward her own conclusion, sounding helpful without ever actually giving advice. He could be a trained psychologist who just does the NuNu’s gig for a little extra money. Here are some snippets from her quest for direction.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
“He thinks I’m doing it to escape.”
“I’ve known him a long time. I used to date him after I broke up with that other guy. We all lived in the same frickin’ area within a couple blocks of each other.”
“I just want a change. I’ve been here since May 2006 when I left New York.”
“The thing is, I need to make a decision as soon as possible.”
Somewhere in the midst of my second margarita, her issues take a back seat to a bigger drama. A strong, well-built woman in her 30s enters and walks purposefully toward the barkeep. “Can I have a business card?” That’s unusual, and not just because I can’t imagine why a bar would have a business card. The more peculiar thing is her manner – brusque and demanding. Though phrased as a question, it sounds more like a demand.
“I’m sorry, I don’t. I’m all out of cards.” Either Jeremiah is trying to sound accommodating, or bars really do have business cards. I suppose they might need them to give to liquor distributors, or maybe they enclose one in the envelope of protection money they hand to the local beat cop. I am starting to feel like I’m in an episode of Route 66 or The Twilight Zone.
“What about a menu – something with the address and phone number on it?”
A NuNu menu is a single sheet of heavily laminated paper, meant to last for years, as though prices never change. It is not something to be given away.
“What about a napkin with the name and address written on it?”
At this point, the woman’s manner is annoying the bartender and me. She is amped up and beyond assertive. She hasn’t introduced herself, given a reason why she couldn’t just take the address off the door and look up the phone number, why she was being so damn pushy.
“The address is 3537 5th Avenue,” comes Jeremiah’s response. He backpedals to a safer distance, his body language communicating irritation. But he continues to be polite.
“What about a general manager? Has he been here for awhile?”
“He’s been here about a year.”
“What about someone who was here six or seven years ago?”
Jeremiah shoots her a look that says, “You’re asking a lot of questions.” She misses the cue. An awkward silence ensues. I can’t take it anymore. I turn to her – she is just steps away – and pointedly ask, “What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to solve a homicide.”
That’s it. No tale about how a relative or a lover came to San Diego and disappeared one October night six years ago. No claim of being a private detective. No explanation at all. She simply walks out.