The Barkeep (18 page)

“Zenzibar isn’t a dive.”

“But it’s not the Supreme Court either, is it? And the guilt that pushed you off course is all bullshit. Because she knew, Justin. She knew from the first, and nothing you could have told her would have changed anything. Think about it. How could she have not known? She had a sixth sense. She knew what we were up to, always. Remember that time with the ink and the carpet.”

“We moved the table an inch to cover it and she saw through it right away.”

“She knew everything. She was just like that. And she knew what Dad was up to, too.”

“He was more devious than we were.”

“Not too devious for you to learn about his girlfriend.”

“He wanted me to know.”

“Because she knew. And she was happy about it.”

“Don’t be sick.”

“Because they had an arrangement. That was what their marriage had become. He had his affairs, and she had hers.”

“Fuck you, Frank.”

“It’s hard to fathom. Believe me, I know.”

“It’s a lie. From Dad. And I don’t want to hear anymore.”

“I didn’t learn it from Dad. He didn’t mention it at all until I found the letters.”

“What letters?”

“Letters to Mom.”

“From who?”

“We don’t know, but they are worth reading.”

Frank leaned forward and opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a few pages of copy paper and pushed them across the desk. Justin stared at them for a long moment, not wanting to see them, not wanting to know anything about them. And yet at the same time not able to look away. He slumped down into a chair, as if his legs had given out, and kept staring.

“Go ahead,” said Frank as he pushed them a bit farther. “See for yourself.”

25.

MUDSLIDE

J
ustin could barely read the pages. He shielded his eyes as if the letters burned white-hot and it hurt to even gaze upon them. He wanted to stop reading, but he couldn’t stop. He wanted to throw the pages onto the ground, but he couldn’t let them out of his hands. He felt he was doing something deeply perverse, violating his mother’s privacy and invading her deepest-held emotions, even as he kept reading on and on.

No child ever wants to know the raw details of his parents’ marriage. Whatever lies at that marriage’s heart, whether it be derangement or joy, is best kept far away from the children, like household chemicals or prescribed narcotics. Children live in a world of myth, and fight to hold on to these myths at all costs, not because they are sweet and safe, but precisely because they are myths. Some things, even if beautiful, are better left unseen. Who wouldn’t rather imagine their parents locked together in some silent and bitter misery then to actually see them blissfully fucking?

Especially blissfully fucking someone else.

Dearest E,

I’ve been thinking about you, about all you said, about your kindness and support.

—A

Dearest E,

You know the situation I am in, the vile power she has over me, you know how hard this is. But also, your love almost gives me enough courage. I think of your words, your kindnesses, your touch. If you can make the choices you have, suffer the pains, and come through it so beautiful and giving and perfect—yes, perfect—if you can do that, so can I. You know I love you, you know I need you, now more than ever. I think of you night and day, and each day I get closer.

—A

Dearest E,

Liberated. Empowered. Full of life. I was dead before you gave me your healing touch. Now I know love, and longing, and desire, and pain, and loneliness. Now I know life and I owe it all to you. We’ll be together, I know it.

—A

“Where did you get these?” said Justin, after he stopped himself from reading the rest and slammed them facedown on the desk. The letters were forcing him to confront more facts about his mother that he didn’t want to know. First there was the bile-ridden rant of Aunt Violet, and now the apparent love affair with A.

“They were in Mom’s closet,” said Frank. “Hidden in one of her shoeboxes, underneath the tissue beneath a set of red pumps.”

“Why weren’t they introduced at the trial?”

“Because I hadn’t found them yet. Cindy and I didn’t touch the closet for months, for years. We slept in the guest room. How could we sleep in the master bedroom? It was still their room. I sometimes dreamed that Mom was sweeping back into the house, saying hello and reclaiming everything. So for the longest time, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about her clothes. But when we decided that we might stay, Cindy said it was time, that Mom would rather the clothes be worn by someone than just sitting there to feed the moths. And she was right. So I packaged everything up for Goodwill myself, as a final gift to Mom. And as I did it, I found the box, and opened it to check that the shoes inside were matched, and there they were, underneath the tissue paper.”

Justin grabbed the letters from the desk, glancing down again at them as he spoke, so his eyes were still hidden from Frank. “Do you have any idea who this ‘A’ is?”

“None.”

“What does Dad say?”

“He doesn’t know either. But he knew there was someone. He had a lover, and she had a lover, and everything was even, and everything was allowed. That was the life they created with each other, that was the arrangement.”

“Yet he didn’t bring it up at the trial?”

“He said he was trying to protect Mom’s reputation.”

“And you believe that?”

“I don’t know. I think the fact that Mom might have been having an affair could have been seen as
another motive, and to bring it up could be seen as just another attack on the victim, and so the lawyers decided not to go there. And because the letters hadn’t yet been found, there was no proof.”

“But there’s proof now,” said Justin. “These are copies. Where are the originals?”

“Dad asked me to give them to his lawyer in case they are needed in the hearing for a new trial.”

“I guess there’s been a change in strategy.”

“What would you have him do, Justin? Just keep rotting in there for something he didn’t do?”

“It sounded like a pretty good plan a few days ago.”

“But not anymore?”

“So the theory is that the affair that got Mom murdered was not really Dad’s but was instead Mom’s.”

“I guess so.”

“Could our family be more fucked-up?”

Frank lifted up his glass in salute. “To the Chases. We put the fun in dysfunction.”

Justin grabbed the pages off the table and stood up. “Can I take these?”

“Sure,” said Frank, finishing his drink. “Take anything you want. Look around, it’s all half-yours.”

Justin took a step back and then eyed the oppressive library, with the old books and the painting of that horse. He hadn’t thought about it, but it was true: this was all half-his, or would be once his father died. The books, the painting, the desk, the decanters, the whole damn house. Along with the business and all the assets that Frank had been living off for the last six years. And suddenly he knew why Cindy’s face was so tense, and understood the hushed “What does he want?”

Not all this, that was for sure.

“Don’t worry, Frank. I’m not throwing you out into the street. I wouldn’t touch a stick of this fucking place.”

Frank lifted up his empty glass, closed one eye, and squinted the other as he stared at Justin through the cut glass.

“What do you see?” said Justin.

“You don’t want to know.”

26.

HURRICANE

“H
e’s staying at the Parker,” said Cody while Justin whipped up a Hurricane.

“The Parker?” said Justin as he dashed a dose of light and dark rums into his tin. “I never heard of it.”

“It’s the very definition of a fleabag flophouse,” said Cody. “Shared bathrooms. Paper-thin walls. Meth busts. Fleas.”

“I guess our Birdie Grackle isn’t lying about needing the money.”

“I haven’t yet found out what name he’s checked in under; there is no Grackle in the book. But apparently he’s not alone.”

“No?”

“He’s got some muscle with him.”

“That’s disappointing,” said Justin. He threw orange juice into the shaker, along with some simple syrup, a squeeze of lime, and a squirt of passion-fruit nectar. Most barkeeps just used store-bought grenadine in their Hurricanes, but when Justin showed up at Zenzibar he made sure there was always a plentiful supply of passion-fruit nectar behind the bar. Without it, a Hurricane was more like a damp mist in Flint.

“He stays in most of the day,” said Cody, “but he spends his nights out.”

“Where?”

“Dirty Frank’s.”

Justin laughed as he shoveled in the ice. He worked the shaker before pouring the drink and ice together into a Collins glass. “I guess he found a joint where his fleas could stage a family reunion.”

“It’s close enough, which is convenient, because he’s pretty much a falling-down drunk.”

Justin slipped a sliced orange over the glass, popped in a straw, and slid it in front of Cody. “How’d you discover all this?”

“In these matters,” said Cody, lifting his drink and eyeing it appraisingly, “it helps to develop a source. And I found myself quite the interesting source at the Parker.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Four hours so far.” He took a long draw of his drink through the straw. “That’s nice.”

“Four hours?”

“Well, three and a half.”

“That means two.”

“And a half.”

“Fine. Want it now?”

“I can front you for it. I seemed to have stumbled onto an interesting opportunity.”

“Another piece of bogus information?”

“Something surer. Give me a few days and I’ll get my life and finances back to square.”

“That would be novel,” said Justin, grabbing his rag and wiping the bar to appear busy as Marson stared at him. “Now as much as I savor your company, I think it’s time for you to find a less classy joint to drink in.”

“I’m going to need hazard pay.”

“You’ll be fine. Just don’t, under any circumstances, insult the bartender. She’s great-looking, but she’ll squeeze your head like a lemon if you give her any sass.”

“I might like that.”

Justin looked up, saw a gang of lawyers in suits making their way through the door. One of them waved, and Justin gave a brief nod as he kept wiping. “Befriend the old guy,” said Justin out of the corner of his mouth. “Buy him some drinks, see what he has to say about himself, listen to his stories. He’s full of stories.”

“How’s his breath?”

“Not good.”

“Definitely hazard pay.”

“Find out where he’s been and where he’s going.” Justin took a wad of tips from his shirt pocket and peeled off a few layers. Just as he laid the bills on the bar, he eyed two men coming through the door behind the lawyers.

“What’s that for?” said Cody.

“The drinks you’re going to end up buying him. Now get on out of here, and you better be running when you do it.”

“What’s the rush?” said Cody as he pocketed the money.

“Those two guys that were looking for you?” said Justin. “They just walked in.”

27.

BLOODY MESS

C
ody didn’t turn around and gawk. He didn’t try to jump over the bar. Instead he stayed stock-still on his stool as his expression twisted from fear to terror before leaping the great void into sweet acceptance, as if he were relieved, finally, that the running and hiding was over. He lifted his drink with a shaking hand and took a long gulp as the two beefeaters—one tall and muscled with a golden tooth, the other short and wide—took spots at the bar on either side of him.

“Solly’s been looking for you,” said the tall one.

“And here I am,” said Cody, waving his glass in the air.

“What can I get you gentlemen?” said Justin.

“What’s he drinking?” said short-and-wide in a thick, nasally voice, a longshoreman in dry dock.

“A Hurricane.”

“Looks tasty. I don’t like tasty. Give me a rye. Neat.”

As Justin poured out a shot of rye, he said to the tall one, “And you?”

“A Bloody Mess.”

“I don’t know that cocktail,” said Justin.

“Well, this is what you do,” said short-and-wide. “Lose a thousand dollars, go double or nothing on the Lakers giving
twelve, lose that too, and then disappear. That’s how you end up with a Bloody Mess.”

“And I’ll have one more of these,” said Cody.

Short-and-wide slugged down his rye, slammed the glass into the bar with a belch, and said, “No time for that. Give me another quick bolt, and then we’re taking a ride.”

“No, thank you,” said Cody.

“Oh, we’re going, Cody boy,” said the tall one. “Easy or hard is your only choice.”

“Unless he wants to stay,” said Justin.

“Shut up and pour,” said short-and-wide.

“That is normally my motto,” said Justin, reaching down and pulling up not the bottle of rye but a baseball bat, which he slapped on the mahogany with a home-run crack that shocked the bar quiet. “But not tonight.”

“Who the hell are you,” said the tall one, “Chase fucking Utley?”

“I’m the barkeep,” said Justin, “and you’re both outta here.”

“It’s all right,” said Cody, “I’ll just—”

“You two have till three to get your asses out of my bar,” said Justin.

“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” said the tall one.

“Three,” said Justin as he lifted the bat off the—

And at that very moment, as if it were a magic trick, short-and-wide was jerked away from the bar and began to rise like a helium balloon into the air, his shot glass falling to the floor with a shatter. The pack of suits parted as short-and-wide floated toward the entrance. It took a moment to realize that someone big and burly and as tattooed as a sailor was hoisting him, seemingly without effort, out of the place.

Larry.

The tall goon started reaching for something in his
pocket, but his arm was grabbed and he was spun around until he was face-to-face with Marson.

“The bartender said you’re flagged,” said Marson, his jaw jutting like a fist. “Take it like a man.”