The Magnificent Seven

Otto leaned in again and whispered in my ear: ‘He had a special towel boy.’

‘A what?’ I said, almost spitting out my Holts.

‘A towel boy. To keep his head glinting in the sun. Rub-a-dub,’ said Otto, miming the movement of a towel being wiped on a head.

‘And don’t talk to me about Bronson!’ he said, throwing his beer in the air.

I realised I was lapping all this up. Hanging on his words – I was clinging on for dear life. I just couldn’t help myself and asked: ‘What about Bronson?’

‘He shaved off his moustache, stuck the hairs in a roll-up and smoked it. Smoked it up, puff-puff,’ Otto said, raising his glass.

‘No! Surely he could afford a bit of baccy?’

‘That’s Bronson!’

We stared at the bar towels.

‘What happened to your brother?’ I asked.

Otto stared down at the bar.

‘He went to Germany. I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Did you go to his funeral?’

I’d Googled Horst to within an inch of his life (and death) after the quiz.

Otto started: ‘Funeral? I didn’t know, he’d… oh, of course.’

He dropped the piece of paper with the names of the actors onto the bar.

I looked down and notice Horst was spelled Horsed.

I pointed to the paper, looked up at Otto and said: ‘Horsed?’

He winked at me and said: ‘Well, it was a Western.’

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