BAD TIPS AND ROWDY DRUNKS ASIDE, BEING ACCUSED OF MURDERING A CONGRESSMAN MAKES IT A REALLY BAD NIGHT FOR A BARTENDER
Praise for Matthew Nunes’ New Novel LAST CALL
“With intriguing characters set amidst the backdrop of an old-money summer in Newport, Last Call is like the drinks (and customers) Paul serves: classic, with a twist.”—Connie D., BFA, MBA, MLS (Master of Liberal Studies,) Asst Prof Humanities, Retired
In Matt Nunes’ first novel, “Last Call, Paul Costa is flawed and vulnerable — but he’s also dangerous. Costa is a graduate of the US Naval Academy, but he also has street smarts that do not come from books. Following the death of his wife, Costa has become a bartender to find anonymity and solitude. But now he’s been hurled into the headlines when he’s accused of the murder a U.S. Congressman in the men’s room of the very bar where he works. Dana Kilroy is an FBI agent and she’s been tasked with pinning the murder on him. Primal heat develops between when they collide and Costa steps outside of the law to negotiate a world of strip bars and Washington, DC, elites. The novel is peopled with unlikely heroes who help Costa along his way, and malevolent villains who have raped, murdered, and plundered their ways to power.
Nunes’ story is a refreshing throwback to the old detective stories with flawed protagonists and vulnerable women. It ran itself like a film noir, in my head, as I read it. accompanied by interior monologues from the main character. If they had made his novel into a movie in the 1940s, Humphrey Bogart would have been Paul Costa.—John Silviera, past senior editor of Backwoods Home Magazine and the author of Danielle Kidnapped and TheDevil You Know
LAST CALL is the first of a series of mystery novels featuring former Naval Officer Paul Costa, a man who thought he was seeking a quieter life for himself and his daughter in civilian life, only to find the biggest threats still lie ahead.
Trouble has a way of stalking Paul Costa. But when the latest trouble comes in the form of a very dead Congressman with a knife in his ear, the same knife Paul was just using, the same Congressman Paul just neatly ejected from his bar, he knows trouble's notjust passing through, it's come home to roost.
Paul had tried to retreat from life, and from pain, raising his young daughter, Marisol, alone after the death of his beloved wife. The former JAG attorney and Naval Officer needed roots, and time to heal, and his daughter needed a father who would be there for her, always, just as he promised he would be.
But being the prime suspect in a high-profile murder threatens to tear him from her. And that was something Paul Costa was not going to allow to happen, even if it means hunting down a killer who’s already got Costa in his sights, and who knows the way to reach him is through Marisol.
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LAST CALL
Matthew Nunes
Moonshine Cove Publishing, LLC
Abbeville, South Carolina U.S.A.
First Moonshine Cove edition March 2020
This eBook is also available in print (ISBN: 978-1-945181-79-5) at quality book stores and online retailers. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author and publisher.
½ Copyright 2020 by Matthew Nunes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or any other means, without written permission from the publisher.
Cover and author image by Grove Schaffner; cover and interior design by Moonshine Cove staff
Former Merchant Marine Officer and bartender, with a short story appearing in Suspense Magazine, Matt Nunes spent years mixing drinks and keeping confidences, like his protagonist, Paul Costa. Last Call is the first in a series of mysteries, relying on Costa’s unique blend of skills and experiences. Look for his next book, On the Rocks, coming soon.
www.matthew-nunes.com
To the real-life Marisol, thanks, Muffin, for putting up with me.
Acknowledgment
I owe a huge debt to my agent, Gina Panetierri of Talcott Notch Literary, for her commitment and persistence in keeping the story alive. She knows that there’s nothing as pathetic as a storyteller who can’t get an audience to read his story. Thanks to her, that pathos will be looking for new accomodations.
Thanks to Grove for exactly the cover I hoped for. You did your best for the author’s photo, the face is what it is, old friend.
I’d like to thank the Downings of Taunton, for employment in their bar and some wonderful anecdotes. As well, I’d like to thank their customers for the same. It wasn’t always fun, but it was never boring.
To those who think they see themselves in some of the characters, maybe you do, because knowing you enriched my life, and added something I thought would be special to the story.
Writers of fiction are essentially thieves, forgoing permission and borrowing this bit of a person, this snatch of conversation, this piece of reality, a first name here, a last name there, things that we wished had happened, or building on what really did occur. If I can claim to have a skill involved, it’s bringing them into one big “what if,” and taking the leap of faith. If I get the chance to have readers jumping with me, so much the better. Lots of people are involved, usually without knowing about it, and to them, I want to say thanks.
A special thanks to Annie, for always believing.
LAST CALL
Prologue
He stumbled into the men’s room in the bar. If he could just make it to the toilet in time, he knew that he’d feel better. He was sweating, trying to fight the pressure he felt and the pain in his arm. It seemed as if there wasn’t enough air on earth for him to breathe. The man used a partition to hold himself up as he stepped into a stall, and tried to balance himself to lower his trousers.
Whatever he’d eaten, he’d never felt it come on like this before. He was still fumbling for his belt when his legs gave way. One moment on his feet, the next lying on the floor of a public restroom. Rising to his feet crossed his mind, until he realized that it wasn’t possible. Too tired, too much pressure and a burgeoning pain radiating from his midsection to his shoulders and back made it unthinkable. He sensed darkness closing in from the sides, until he could only see what was directly before his eyes. Just before he flickered out, he looked through the louvers at the bottom of the outside door, seeing the shadow of two legs. The door swung open. Maybe help was on the way.
He died thinking that it was a ridiculous place for a man with his position to be found.
Tuesday Night
“Whiskey sour, two Gimlets and a Tom Collins, please and bill it to my room” he said into the button just below my bow tie.
“Yes, sir,” reaching up for glasses, down for mixing cups and the ice scoop, waiting for his eyes to meet mine. As they did, I shifted to one side, and his eyes followed without head movement, making it okay to serve him. A little older than I, he had an expensive haircut and a carved wedding ring. His college ring had gold Greek letters embossed into the stone. “Phi Kappa Delta.” I saw three women and two other men at his table, talking quietly. They wore expensive, casual clothes, slightly rumpled and sagging from a full day of leisure. The men wore no socks, and their wives wore sandals with low heels or wedge soles.
They seemed to be three affluent couples, enjoying a vacation. Afflu
ence was a common condition for a Newport summer. I imagined them golfing, or shopping at the waterfront, looking through the tiny upstairs art galleries on Bowen Street. One of the couples, their backs to me, was holding hands under the table. I swallowed against a suddenly tight throat. . Nothing to indicate that he needed watching. The man had perfectly groomed graying blond hair, and gestured with his free hand as he spoke. The hand he was holding belonged to a slim woman seated facing away from me, as well. None of the couples showed any signs of overindulging.
It was my first upscale bar in one of the hotels on the waterfront. The bar was decorated to look like an old passenger liner, including porthole frames surrounding mirrors and prints. The tables were glass set on old-fashioned ships’ wheels. Ships’ brass sidelights were converted to give soft, indirect lighting. A huge row of windows looked out onto Rhode Island’s largest collection of yachts, most covered in decorative lights, reflected in the still water. The royal blue carpeting had a gold colored border of decorative signal flags and anchors. The other side of the bar had windows over the hotel’s atrium, showing glimpses of a railing that looked as if it belonged on a cruise ship.
Still, it was just a bar and I was just the friendly bartender, holder of confidences and dispenser of non-advice. My patter was down to an art. “I’m not sure, sir, what do you think?” They’d compliment me on my wisdom. My tip jar would fill, and I would hobble to bed with sore feet.
I tossed the mixer cup up behind my back, caught it, slipped it over a glass, pushed down, twisted it, and shook the Tom Collins three times before adding a cherry. The gimlet and sour were ready when he returned from his first trip.
The customer getting his table’s drinks worried Sarah, the waitress. She was new and thought she’d made a mistake. I smiled and shook my head. She smiled back and turned away, bending to another table, somehow without exposing herself in her short skirt.
I kept my attention on my customers, moving around enough to see the whole lounge. I listened for loud voices and watched for women edging away from men. Without thought, my eyes swept the entire room every few minutes, as well as looking up and down the bar for empty or nearly empty drinks. Whenever my glance met a customer’s, I smiled.
I took a quick step towards a raised voice, until a woman’s laughter started. An “instant couple” headed upstairs. His hand was well up her dress and one of hers rested on his thigh. I remembered the slippery feel of lingerie and smooth nylons under my palm in a distant way.
While I considered that sensation, slowly rubbing my hands together, a man at the far end slapped the bar for attention. Along with whistling, that entitled a customer to suffer a thirsty death. Still, I was paid and tipped for my manners, not his, so I ambled down to face him and check him out. With three Pearl Harbors inside of a half an hour, he needed checking.
“Yes, sir?” making a question of it, I moved just out of his view. His head started to turn, stopped and he pivoted his body to face me.
“’Nother,” and then he let out a peal of giggles. The waitress and a few of the customers glanced up. I was checking his eyes, watery blue and wandering from just below my chin to a point over my left shoulder, into the mirror, then back to my face. His rigid movements and lack of focus were clear warnings to any bartender. No more for this guy.
I hesitated and he reached over the bar and seized my sleeve, just above the cuff. Crossed my DMZ, and his own Rubicon, all in one motion. He shook it back and forth. “I said, I want another one,” in the singsong voice of a nasty, teasing child. Then, he ordered, “Chop- fuckin’- chop.” He scanned the room, as if expecting applause. He scowled at me, drawing his eyebrows down and in towards the middle, trying, I thought, for the appearance of resolve and authority. He looked peevish instead.
I twisted my wrist and pulled my left shoulder back to slip free, taking half a step away. I leaned closer, bending from the waist and beckoned to him to lean in. He had to support himself with both hands on the bar, and I could smell melon liqueur and cologne. His head swayed. “Sir,” I murmured, “I think that it would be better if I fixed you a soft drink or a coffee, and ordered you something to eat.”
“You’re a fuckin’ bartender,” he said, loudly, “so tend the fuckin’ bar and get me a fuckin’ drink, you little prick. Otherwise, I’ll have your fuckin’ job.”
I bit down on my back teeth and forced a smile, “Sir, I have to ask you to moderate your language since there are ladies present. You may feel free to speak to the manager, but I won’t serve you anymore tonight.”
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“No sir. I can ask around, or call the front desk for you if you’ve forgotten.” He blinked a couple of times, and somebody laughed. He didn’t like that.
“Fuck you, the manager, and that hot little waitress, waggling her titties at me and every man in this place. You doin’ her? She any good? She a natural blonde? I’d give her a toss, but they always want more,” with that giggle I was learning to hate. He gestured me closer, as if to confide a deep secret. “Y’know how you can tell if they’re hot?” he asked. Then without waiting for an answer from me, “you check their nipples, and if they’re bigger than a dime—” I put up my hand to stop him.
“That’s it, sir.” Formality, the bartender’s ever-handy shield, kept me from grabbing his sloppy hair, and slamming his face into the bar two or three times. Formality kept me employed. Formality made sure I could pay the huge mortgage and tax bill.
“I’m a customer, I’m a shitpot more important than you think I am, and I want a fuckin’ drink.” He poked me in the chest with one finger.
I looked down and slowly brought my eyes back to his face. I wasn’t smiling any more. He pulled his hand back and smirked.
“I’m afraid, sir, that I have to ask you to leave the bar, and not come back tonight,” I said, no longer keeping my voice quiet. “Please allow me to get the door, and I’ll be happy to serve you tomorrow or during your next stay.” I slipped under the trap and stood on the customer side, careful to be close, but not crowding him. I turned slightly to one side, and had my hands loosely clasped in front of my chest.
Two of the three couples at table two were staring at us. The man facing away, the one with graying blonde hair, held a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. One woman brought her hand to her mouth, staring at Sarah with the understanding that women have and men should. No longer the confident and lovely young woman who’d started the shift, Sarah held her tray against her chest under her folded arms, like a shield. She had her back against a wall. Her cheeks and neck were flushed, with blotches starting to show on the skin of her chest.
“Fuck tomorrow, you little prick. Not going anywhere.” He pressed his hand flat against my chest and tried to shove. I swayed back and reached across the back of his hand with my own. I held onto his wrist and twisted it behind him. When I stopped, he was leaning forward with his hand nearly between his shoulder blades. I had my free hand on his shoulder to keep him from turning. He was under control, but I’d wanted him to leave, quietly and quickly.
“Please don’t touch me, sir. It’s definitely time to go. You see that, sir?”
He nodded and mumbled. I lightened up and moved closer to his side. Except from behind, an observer would only see two men walking to the door.
At the door, I released him and stepped backwards into the bar. He turned to face me. His eyes were unfocused and he started to speak when the door closed in his face. I didn’t expect to see him again. I was careful to stroll to the bar, smiling at the customers. I murmured apologies to those I passed. I slipped under the trap, and called Sarah over. “Sarah, let’s start an order for a round on the house, and give them the hotel’s apologies, et cetera. Right?”
“Paul?”
“Uh, huh,” I mumbled, slicing a lemon.
“Did he say anything? At the door, I mean.”
“I’m sure it was ‘Farewell,’ because he was starting the ‘eff’’ when the
door closed.”
She smiled uncertainly. “Yeah, ‘Farewell’. Paul?”
“Yes?” I raised my eyes to show I was listening. “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have gone that far. My fault.”
“It’s okay,”
She took a deep breath. “When I first started here, I’d heard a little about you, but it was hard to picture. One second, the guy’s being a jerk, the next he couldn’t move.”
She was a nice young woman, probably nicely brought up. I couldn’t count the number of violent acts I’d seen, or taken part in. I doubted that she’d seen one before. “I messed up, trying to keep it quiet. He was too stupid to back down. Bar 101: If it starts, it has to end, right then, you know?”
She nodded. “Fun job, huh?”
“Usually.”
“How about you, Paul? You okay?” she said over her shoulder as she walked away.
I shrugged, and wiped the bar down, emptied and wiped some ashtrays, busy work. In a few minutes, she came up with a full set of drink orders, so I tossed the knife and cutting board into the bin with the other dirty dishes and silverware.
We caught up to the bar’s orders, and I slipped the voucher for the round into my drawer. Catching Sarah’s eye, I gestured towards the men’s room. She nodded. After I finished, I had an illegal cigarette, popped a breath mint and washed my hands. I stopped in the back room for a new bottle of gin, and returned to the bar.
A few minutes later, she came up to the gate, the waitress position at the bar, put down her tray and looked at me. I straightened from “the lean” against the back shelf and stepped towards her.
“Paul, I’ve been thinking about the talk.”
“The talk?”
Last Call Page 1