Last Call Lounge (8 page)

“Jacob,” I said, tapping a finger on my cigarette pack. “He’s four.”

“Wow,” she said again. “A son. You’re a father.”

“Is that weird?”

“It just sounds like such a grown-up thing to do.”

“Only if you do it right,” I said.

“Who’s the lucky mother?”

“Sarah,” I said. “My ex-wife.”

“Zowie, two-for-two. You’re much more full-of-surprises than I remembered.”

“I wasn’t this full of surprises when we were together,” I said. I picked up my shot. “I was full of something, but never surprises.”  She laughed and we drank our bourbons.  I was aware of her knees near my knees under the table.

“How did marriage go? I can guess that it didn’t go too well, or she wouldn’t be your ex-wife.”

“About how you’d expect,” I said. “Sarah tried harder than I did.”  There was a lot to that, a lot I wanted to say but couldn’t. A lot about how I had failed and how I knew I was failing as I was doing it. There were things I had thought about, when Sarah left and I was in my father’s house alone. “I was never very good at commitment,” I said.  “Well, as you know.”

Ruby held her beer in both hands. Her gaze floated somewhere between us.

“What's she like?” Ruby asked.

I drew in a long breath, chewed on my lip.

“She's beautiful,” I said. “Really beautiful. I looked like an ape standing next to her.”  Ruby laughed, a small, hazy laugh that gave me chills. I picked up my cigarette pack, put it back down. “She's still beautiful, even after all the shit I put her through.”  Neither of us said anything for a moment and the silence hung there, like a cloud around us.

“How about you?” I asked after a few minutes. “What’s new?”“Well,” she said, sitting up straight. Ruby had been an actress, a glowing beast on high school and college stages.  It was frustratingly impossible to tell when she was acting. She had a thousand mini-personas, little acts she would put on in the course of a conversation. This was one of them – she’d sit up straight and answer a question like she was a schoolgirl in a spelling bee. “I don’t have any children. Strictly speaking, I suppose that isn’t ‘new,’ as I didn’t have any children before.”  She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, composing her thoughts. “I’m not married, but I did live as though I were, in San Francisco with a man who isn’t worth mentioning. Currently, I’m unemployed, living off my savings, and have little to show for my efforts but a rather rotten track record and a decent collection of soul CDs.” She bowed at the waist and I applauded politely. She cupped her chin in her long, white hand and sighed. “I am sorry about Big John,” she said, looking up at me from under her stray bangs.

“I know,” I replied. “I know he meant a lot to you.” 

She let out a long sigh and her eyes teared up, just a little.  Then she let her eyes take in the room.

“This place hasn’t changed,” she said.

I looked around, tried to see what she saw. Six years and Mitchell was still behind the bar and Tim was still in front of it. The juke box flipped over to a Gary Stewart song. Framed pictures lined the wall, of Dad, of oil derricks, a signed, yellowing eight-by-ten of Earl Campbell. I pulled a cigarette out of the pack and offered it to her. She looked at it for a long second, then accepted it. I lit it for her, lit one for myself.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “I guess I haven’t done much around here.”

“It’s good,” she said. “It’s a good thing. Some things shouldn’t change. Honestly.” 

I felt a flush of warm embarrassment across my face and I tried to think of something I could point to, something I could show her. Six years and I was still the same guy she moved away from.

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?” I asked. It was all I could think to say. “I work during the day, so maybe like seven?”

Ruby paused, drew in a long breath. Then she shrugged.

“Sure,” she said. “Dinner would be nice.”

“We could pretend to be newlyweds,” I said. “See if we can eat for free.” 

A smile crossed her face. Then, abruptly, Ruby stood.

“I have to go,” she said. Her eyes were unfocused, as though she were trying to remember something. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped.

“Okay,” I said.

“I really do have to go,” she said. “It’s not just an excuse – I made plans earlier.”

“Okay,” I said.

She finished one last gulp of her beer.

“We’ll catch up more tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I said.

She picked her purse up off the booth and held it under her arm as she looked around the room. When her eyes came back to me I realized she was waiting for me to walk her out. I stood and we walked to the front door. Out on the sidewalk, she sighed and looked up at the square front of the building. The glow from the lights inside fell in a rough rectangle at our feet.  I took a chance, held out my hand. She hesitated, turned her shoulder toward me, then took my hand in hers.  Standing that close to her, I could feel heat coming off her in waves.

“Thanks for coming back tonight, Ruby.” I said.

She squeezed my hand slightly.

“That is the third time you’ve said that,” she said.

“Then I must really mean it,” I said, willing myself to look her in the eye.

She gave my hand another light squeeze, then turned and walked to the parking lot, swinging her purse at her side. I watched her pour herself into her car, a small red Toyota, then I went back inside.

Tim was still sitting on the other side of Oscar and I could tell the slide into drunkenness had gone faster than most Saturdays. He was squinting and rubbing his glass between the palms of his hands. He muttered something to himself and laughed. I sat down next to Frank. Oscar stood and moved to shake my hand. He was on his way out.

“That one,” he said. “That was your girlfriend.”

“Love of my life,” I replied.

“You gotta watch out for those,” he said. He smiled, but his eyes stayed drowsy and flat. “You lose the love of your life, that's gonna hurt like hell.”  He looked around the room, as though he might see someone he knew, someone who might convince him to stay. Then, nodding to himself, he turned and left.

Frank stood up to give me back my seat.

“You mind working the door the rest of the night?” I asked. “I feel like being alone for a while.” 

Frank sat back down, looking pleased.

“I think I know that guy that just left,” Frank said. “But I can't think of how.”

“Well,” I said. “Mexicans all look alike.”

In the office, I pulled out the grenade-shaped bottle of Blanton's and poured myself a generous shot. Ruby had left me rattled, confused by the fact that I felt a little hope. I knew it was foolish, but I couldn't help it. For years, I'd dreamed about her coming back, and now she had. Since she had left, part of me had always felt alone, even with Dad or with Sarah or with Jacob. I finished the shot and put my head down on the desk.

When mom died, I was still pretty young, and sometimes Dad would have to bring me up to the bar while he worked. If it was early and the bar was kind of slow, he’d let me stay out front and shoot pool with his friends or wash glasses for him. When it got later, I’d go back in the office and read or do my homework. Eventually, I’d fall asleep with my head on the desk. Dad would wake me up after he’d closed up. He’d lead me, bleary and mussed, out to the car and home.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I lifted my head, the music was off and I could hear Mitchell yelling last call. I rubbed my face, lit a cigarette and opened the door. The bar was washed in the bright yellow house lights. A few teetering stragglers stood at the bar, closing their tabs with Mitchell, while Frank pumped through a small pile of dirty glasses. I went behind the bar to grab the broom and dustpan. Mitchell waved me away.

“Frank swept already,” he said, entering a tab into the credit card machine. “All we have to do is stock the beer and count the drawer and we’re done.” 

I made a count of the beer and went back to the stockroom. When I came back out with a couple cases, the place was empty. The house lights were off, the music was off. Mitchell was counting the drawer and Frank was wiping the bar, watching the hurricane coverage on the TV above the bar. When he saw me, he took the cases and I went back and got the rest.

When we finished stocking, Frank and I sat at the bar while Mitchell finished counting the drawer. Mitchell then counted his tips, pulled forty dollars out, and handed it to Frank.

“Here,” Mitchell said. “Thanks for the help.” 

Frank nodded without looking up. He folded the two twenties carefully and slipped them into his front pocket. Mitchell poured us a round of shots and we drank in silence.

“Come back tomorrow,” I said to Frank.  I looked to Mitchell and he gave me a shrug that may have been a nod.  “If you want.  We could use the help.”

“Sure,” Frank said, trying not to grin.  “Sure.  Thanks.”

Then I was standing next to Frank as Mitchell locked the front door. The streetlights made yellow circles on the sidewalks. The street was empty.

“You need a ride, Frank?” I asked.

Frank was tired, rocking from side to side a little to try to stay awake. A bar towel was tucked, forgotten, in his back pocket, but I didn’t bother to point it out. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m staying just around the corner.”  Mitchell turned from the door.

“Okay,” I said. “Good night.” 

Mitchell and I turned to the parking lot.  Frank was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, looking up and down the street. Then he set off slowly, shuffling down the sidewalk in his cracked shoes.

I stopped at Mitchell’s car and pulled out my cigarettes. Mitchell’s eyes followed the cigarette as I put it in my mouth and lit it. He was tempted, so I took two quick drags, then dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the toe of my boot.

“So, do you think Frank took Pancho?” I asked.

Mitchell looked down the street where Frank had gone. A car drove past, the tires chunking over a pothole.

“I don’t know,” Mitchell said. He scratched his leg. “I don’t know.”  He nodded, a slow long nod, then unlocked his car and got in without another word. I leaned against my truck and watched him drive off before I pulled out my cigarettes.

The yellow-orange sodium lights of the parking lot made everything look gray and black. I lit a cigarette, but it made me kind of dizzy, lost in my head, so I just held it between my fingers. I heard voices from a window down the street, laughter above music.  For a brief moment, I thought about calling Tracy. The idea of an empty house felt crushing and impossible. I breathed in deep, through my nose, until my head cleared. I lifted my cigarette to my mouth, but it had gone out. So I lit another, climbed into my truck, and drove home.

SATURDAY

EIGHT

I got up early on Saturday, showered and made myself breakfast. I was feeling less hung over than usual, less ragged. I worked the day bartending shift on Saturdays, my only shift behind the bar. I complained about the shift to the other bartenders, about how slow it was and how little money I made, but, in truth, I liked it. I liked being in the bar during the day, sitting at the bar and reading the paper as sunlight fell in through the front window and found the dust in the corners. Saturdays were my days for catching up, doing the little things. Cleaning behind the counters, dusting under the bottles. Little tweaks and fixes that made me feel like the place was mine.

The drive to the bar was slow, the streets full of cars.  The sky was clear and flat grey-blue.  The trees along the street were green and full and lush.  The sun was out and warm and except for some windows covered with blue tape or with scrap wood, it was easy to forget about the hurricane.  I found myself humming a Hank Williams song and drumming my hand on the steering wheel.  In the cracked parking lot of the bar, I leaned against the warm hood of my truck and finished my cigarette, watching the grackles land on the peaked roof of the store across the street.

I turned the key in the lock and yanked the door open.  There's a squeak the front door of the bar makes, the old wood of the door grinding over the metal of the threshold. The bar was dark, filled with still air and the bitter smell of yesterday's smoke.  As I turned the corner to step behind the bar, something on the floor caught my eye.  A quarter, shiny against the black floor mat.  I stepped toward the light switch and saw another quarter, then another.  Then my foot came down and slid across a pile of quarters.  Something in my head couldn't put this right and I stood staring at this loose mound of coins.  Then I saw the drawer from the register, lying face down on the ground, and panic surged across my skin.

I flipped the light on.  Quarters were everywhere, along with paper clips and rubber bands and everything else that had been in the cash drawer except the cash.  The lock box under the counter had been pried open.  It gaped, sickeningly empty, the cash drop from the last two nights gone.

I ran to the office and threw on the light.  The beer cases and the trash can were undisturbed, but the rest of the office was chaos.  The drawers of the desk had been pulled out.  Papers and pens lay scattered over the floor.  The bottle of Blanton's had been smashed in the middle of everything and the room was filled with the woody-caramel scent of whiskey.

I dropped to my knees by the desk and thrust my hand into the trash can.  The gun metal was cool and oily.  Fear and relief mixed and I pulled my hand away, left the gun where it was.  I crawled on my knees to the beer cases, unstacked them and opened the bottom one.  The money was there, untouched.  I closed the box, stacked the other on top.

The file cabinet had been knocked over and the top of the safe lay open.  I stared at it while I tried to think of why that was important.  Then I remembered – my own money.

The safe was empty.  The backpack was gone.  The blue bank bag was gone.  My $12,000 was gone.

I righted the chair and sat down.  Real revulsion, real nausea washed over me.  My stomach churned as I thought about it, about someone here, in my office, touching my things.  Worm had told somebody.  Fucking Worm had told somebody and they had come looking for their money.  I lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, deep into my lungs. 

I sat for a long time, thinking and smoking.  Worm had told somebody and they had come looking for their money and hadn't found it.  A flash of anger as I realized that Worm had sold me out.  I picked up my phone and called him.

“Worm, you stupid son of a bitch,” I hissed when it went to voice mail. “You told them I had the money, didn't you?  Well, it's mine now, you sorry sack of shit.”  I hit end and threw the phone down on my desk. 

I lit another cigarette and thought some more.  The panic and anger began to shrink and things started to seem better.  Worm had told somebody, they had come looking for their money, and they hadn't found it.  They would assume Worm was lying.

I was off the hook.

I got the money out of the case of beer and spent about five minutes carefully counting out $12,000.  I bundled this separate from the rest and stuck it all back in the box, then stacked the boxes again.  I called Worm again and it went to voice mail again.  Worm almost always let voice mail take his calls.  I left another, calmer, message, explaining that my savings had been taken, that he was welcome to come get the difference, and that I didn't really think he was a stupid sack of shit.

“Come get the money and the gun,” I said.  “I'm done with all this.”

Then I called Mitchell.

“They must have jumped the fence, then pried open the back door,” Mitchell was explaining to Allen.  Allen had his metal clipboard out.  Mitchell had on a plaid, short-sleeved shirt and his damn black socks and white shoes and had a new spiral and the Pancho folder under his arm.  We all drank coffee.  Mitchell turned to me.  “When was the last time you made a deposit?” he asked.

“Friday, I guess,” I said.  “Friday afternoon.”

Mitchell turned back to Allen.

“So,” he said, counting on his fingers.  “They got the drop from Friday, the drop from Saturday, and the money from the till.” He added it up and the total came to about $2,000.  I made a mental note to subtract that amount from anything I returned to Worm.  Allen turned to me.

“Anything else?” he asked. 

I hesitated just a second.  “Well,” I said.  “The office is pretty trashed, but they didn't take anything.”

“Let's take a look,” Allen said.  Mitchell marched us to the office. 

We stood in the doorway as Allen scratching notes on his report.

“I didn't know that safe was there,” Mitchell said.  He was looking at me with a little hurt in his eyes.  I pushed past him and sat down. 

“We don't use it,” I said.  “It doesn't lock.  Never has.”

“Was there anything in it?” Allen asked.

I frowned and rubbed my nose.

“No,” I said. 

Allen scratched his pen on his clipboard. He turned and sat down on the stack of beer cases. He crossed his ankles and tossed the clipboard onto the desk. Mitchell stood in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest.

“Have any idea who might have done this?” Allen asked, scratching at his neck with the palm of his hand.

I chewed on a knuckle and shook my head.  What I was thinking was that I was free of this shit, that for the first time since Frank had walked in, I was clear of all of it.  The break-in was reason enough for me to make Worm take his shit back. Worm would quit the dealing in my place. Fuck him. I’d be done with him, too.  He sold me out to drug dealers and I could have been killed and now I didn’t have to put up with his stupid, shaky self any more. I got my quiet little bar back and the only price I had to pay was a new lock for the back door and a new bottle of Blanton's.

“No,” I said.  “No idea.”  

Allen tugged at an earlobe, looked up at Mitchell.

“Mitchell seems to think the kid Frank had something to do with it,” he said.

“Frank?” I said.

“Maybe he was scoping out the place,” Mitchell said.  “Seeing where we kept the money.”

“Huh,” I said.

“Mitchell tells me he's the dealer you kicked out of here the other night,” Allen said.

“Yeah,” I said.  “But he told me he quit dealing.”

“He told you,” Allen said.

“Look,” I said, leaning forward. “I know it's stupid. But I felt sorry for the kid.” 

Allen nodded, his palms on his knees.  He scratched at an eyebrow.

“You know how to find him?” he asked.

I shook my head.  “He's supposed to come back tonight.  To barback.  I don't have his number or anything, but I could probably get it.”  I looked up at Mitchell, then back to Allen.  “I guess he could have done it,” I said.  I thought of the first night, of Frank trying to return the money to Jeremy.  “But I don't know.  I just don't think he would.”

Allen tapped his foot, puffed out his cheeks.

“Let's do this,” he said.  “Let's see if he shows up today to work.  It adds up to a couple thousand dollars.  If he took it, he's not coming back.  If he doesn't show up tonight, we'll see if we can't find him.”  Allen looked to Mitchell for approval.  Mitchell chewed on his lip and gave a half a nod.  My phone rang.  It was Worm.  I hit ignore quickly and stuck the phone in my pocket.  Allen was watching me.

“Let me ask you,” he said.  “Do you really think it's just a coincidence that your bar got broken into the day after this kid starts working here?”

“I don't know,” I said, looking at my knees.  Allen watched me, waiting for me to offer something else. When I stayed silent, he sighed, stood up and picked his clipboard up off the desk.

“Okay,” he said, stretching.  “I'll make my report.  Let me know if anything else happens around here.”  He patted Mitchell on the shoulder and slid past him and out the door. Mitchell stayed put.

“What?” I said when Mitchell didn't leave.  He gave me a long look, then shook his head.

“I guess we should take a look at the back door,” he said.

The door had been crowbarred open, the metal of the frame pulled away from the latch.  Mitchell called a locksmith while I went inside and started setting up the bar.  Then I remembered the call from Worm.  I pulled out my phone, turned it on, and it beeped.  Worm had left a message.

“Little John,” he said quietly. Then there was a long pause, long enough that I thought the connection had been lost. Then, finally, “I'm sorry, Little John.”  I called him back, but his phone went straight to voice mail again. 

“Well,” Mitchell said, coming back in from the patio.  I stuck my phone back in my pocket.  “I found a couple locksmiths that could fix the door, but there's a really big surcharge for them to come out today or tomorrow.  Because it's the weekend and because of the hurricane.”  He moved behind the bar and poured himself more coffee.  He still had the spiral and the Pancho folder under his arm.  “What one guy suggested was that we board up the door until Monday or Tuesday,” Mitch said. He sat down next to me.  “I could go home and get my tools and some two-by-fours.”

“Okay,” I said.  “But let's not board it up until after hours, since it's the fire exit.  If you don't mind measuring and cutting it now, I'll come back up at closing tonight and screw it shut.”

Mitchell said sure, then hesitated a moment before setting the Pancho folder and the notebook on the bar in front of me.  He flipped the notebook open.

“This,” Mitchell said without looking up, “is a chart of everyone who could have taken the mask.” 

“Now, Mitch?” I asked.  “Really?”

Mitchell ignored me.  He shuffled the notebook a little, pulled it closer to me so I could read it better. Frank's name was at the top of the chart, followed by mine. “I've listed when they had the opportunity and how they could have gotten it out,” he said.

I stared at him, at the chart, then at him again.

“Am I really a suspect here?” I asked, tapping my name on the sheet. Mitchell looked up at me.

“I'm on there, too,” he said. His name was fourth, below Tracy. “I'm just trying to be thorough.” 

I sat down next to him at the bar.

“Well, Mitch,” I said. “What do you think?  Did you do it?” 

Mitchell ignored me. “The only thing I can really conclude so far,” he said, “is that no one can be ruled out yet.”

“Mitchell, seriously,” I said. “Somebody just grabbed the thing and ran when we weren't looking.”

He gave me a long look, then stabbed his finger at the page.

“That's one of the possibilities,” he said. 

“Jesus, Mitch,” I said. “How do you even know that the mask is real? How do you know somebody didn't just buy it at the tourist market in Nuevo Laredo?”

“I've done a lot of research,” he said, lifting the notebook. But then he dropped the notebook back on the bar and turned and looked up at me. “Besides,” he said. “It doesn't matter. The mask belongs here.”

“I can't see how this mask is of any fucking importance right now.”

“We should at least try to get it back,” he said.

“You think like Tim Cole thinks?  That Pancho protects the place?”

“No,” Mitchell said, looking at me like I was an idiot. “I think it belongs here and doing nothing is just stupid and lazy.”  He stood up and starting organizing his papers.  He may have wiped at his eyes.

“Go get your tools,” I said, trying to sound more annoyed than I felt.  “I'll look this over while you're gone.” 

Mitchell mumbled something like thanks and headed out the door.

I finished setting up the bar, filling the ice bin, restocking the bevnaps and straws.  The easy routine of it added to the feeling I was having, a feeling of comfort and reassurance.  Later, after work, I'd call Worm, give him the money and the gun and be done with all of it in time for dinner with Ruby.  I felt like whistling.