“Some of the greatest, they never retired,” said Billy. He looked to Helen, who was shuttling back and forth from the kitchen to the bar. For reasons unclear to him, Walter or Ike, she stopped and looked at Billy.

“Who?” she asked.

“Like Sinatra, right?” Billy waited for confirmation, some positive sign he felt he had every right to expect from the woman he lived with. “He never quit. ‘The Chairman of the Board’ kept singing until the end, right?”

“That’s true, Billy,” she said and waltzed back into the kitchen, showing little regard for, and even less interest in, whatever it was he was talking about.

“See,” Billy went on. “I told you guys. There’s plenty of the best who never give it up.”

“What about Joe Louis?” asked Ike, belching smoke from his mouth and nose. An unforgiving breeze blew it straight back at him. He looked every bit a smoldering fire and showed not a wit of concern about it. “The man never should have come back.” He followed that with a cough. Ike was coughing more than ever, thought Walter, who made little effort to hide the concern he felt. The hacking sound coming from Ike inspired Billy to berate him for the millionth time.

“Damn! For the life of me I don’t know why that shit hasn’t killed you already.” Ike paid no attention to either one of them. He just took another long drag and this time exhaled quite smoothly. No grimace. No wheezing or coughing. Victory was his. A big smile crossed his wrinkled face while his mind spun in sweet circles drenched in nicotine, inspired by the sudden increase of carbon monoxide in his lungs and heart and brain and everywhere else.

“Joe Louis retired a champ,” he said. His chest back to normal, he picked up where he left off. “Top of his game. Then, when he came back, couldn’t do it no more. Rocky whatshisname, beat up on him real bad. Beat up on his legend too. You hear that, Walter?”

“Willie Mays, too,” Billy added. “Quit and came back. Had nothing left. Punks who couldn’t get guys out in the Texas League were striking him out. Should have stayed retired.”

“Willie Mays only retired one time,” said Helen, not looking up at all. None of them had noticed when she came back into the bar from the kitchen. “He never came back either,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Am I sure, Billy? I am sure. He never tried to come back.”

“Well, he should have quit sooner then, because he had nothing in the tank at the end. A real shame.” Billy went back to wiping down the counter next to the old cash register. He was careful to move the rimless chalkboard and put it back in its designated spot when he was done.

“Sinatra didn’t have much left either,” said Ike. “Just a ghost of himself. But that didn’t stop him. People kept paying to see him. That’s why they call it show business, you know that. But it’ll keep for another time. I’ll go with the Brown Bomber. Quit. Came back. Shoulda stayed quit. Shoulda kept his money too, like Sinatra.”

“And I’m sticking with Willie Mays,” proclaimed Billy. “I don’t give a shit if he retired or not.” He glanced at the kitchen door looking for Helen who wasn’t there. “The Say Hey Kid was no kid anymore and all that ‘Say Hey’ was say-gone. You know what I mean?” Billy was satisfied with that. They both waited on Walter. But he said nothing. He just sipped his Diet Coke and continued reading The New York Times. At least he looked like he was reading it. They knew he heard every word. Finally, without looking up from his paper at either of his friends, he said, “Winston Churchill. Retired. Came back. Retired. Came back again. Saved the world from the fucking Nazis. Not bad for an old man.”

“How old was he, Churchill?” asked Billy.

“Just a kid,” laughed Ike. “No more than—how old are you, Walter?” Walter laughed too. Ike knew Walter wasn’t as old as Churchill. “‘Saved the world from the fucking Nazis,” said Ike. “That’s good. That’s very good. I like that. Had some help, though. I oughta know.”

“You want me to write it up?”

“Yes sir, Billy,” said Ike. “You write it. Walter? You see any Nazis around here? You want to check the men’s room? Maybe they all at Caneel Bay.” Again the old man laughed and this time he began coughing again.

Billy looked to Walter for the go-ahead. Walter nodded, and the pale-skinned, stubble-jawed bartender grabbed the chunk of blue chalk and wrote—Louis/Mays/Churchill—on the blackboard.

Just then, Helen opened the kitchen door, directly across from Walter’s seat at the bar. She emerged carrying a large plastic bottle filled with a pink liquid. She needed two hands to hold it. She put it down under the bar, near the small ice maker and cooler, looked up at Walter, like she knew something he’d overlooked, and said, “She’s got a great ass, but she’s no German.”