Men of the Mean Streets

by Greg Herren

  *

  Robert Bryce’s faith was on the carpet in the middle of the simple classroom.

  “Smaller than a breadbox,” I said.

  “That’s it?” he said, looking down at the floor. He hadn’t made a move to touch it.

  “They wouldn’t have been able to move it,” I said. For me, it glowed with a golden radiance. To Bryce it was just a small white feather. “The only soul normal folk can touch is their own.”

  I knelt. When I reached for the feather, Bryce shook his head, and said, “Stop.”

  I stopped. I wondered if he was worried I’d get it dirty. The priest knelt beside me, and with a trembling hand, he reached out and touched the feather with one finger. It melted away into nothing, and he gasped.

  I watched the golden glow surround and permeate him.

  And then the glow faded away.

  He rose. When he looked at me, his eyes were full of strength and peace.

  “Feeling better?” I stood up.

  “My own flock,” he said, and then swallowed. “It will be hard for them, to accept me.”

  I stared at him. Hard? They’d tried to ruin him—not to mention murdering Russ Maxwell and planning the same for me. “After what they did to you, you’ll still lead them?” I shook my head. “And the bishop?”

  Father Robert Bryce smiled at me. “With faith, anything is possible.” But there was sadness in his voice. “They’ll find forgiveness in God if they repent.”

  “Some of them are going to go to jail,” I said. “For Russ.”

  He nodded, but took a deep breath. “I have a lot of work to do.”

  I decided not to say anything. Seemed wisest.

  *

  Outside, the rain had finally stopped. I pulled out a cigarette, hesitated, and put it away again.

  I felt the soul before I could see it. When I turned, the spirit of Father Raymond Clayton shimmered into being. I nodded at him.

  Deal with the Devil. His words were full of sadness.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Sorry about before. I thought you were talking about me.”

  The priest’s soul shivered. I could almost hear laughter. No. Not you. You turned him down.

  “Don’t go spreading that around,” I said. “I got a reputation to keep.”

  The priest nodded, looking back at the church again.

  “They’re in good hands now,” I said. “You should probably…well. Move on.”

  The priest regarded me for a moment, surprised. I raised my hand.

  He nodded.

  I pushed, and the old priest’s soul went wherever souls went.

  I checked my watch. If I went to the station I could give Detective Carter my statement about Russ’s death—I’d have to think of something plausible—and deal with the break-in. I rubbed my eyes, exhausted by death and faith. At least Carter wasn’t prone to philosophy. Come to think of it, Carter also liked gin, and I happened to have a bottle at home with my name on it.

  But I could share.

  Patience, Colorado

  Rob Byrnes

  He wasn’t sure exactly where or how he’d lost the highway. He’d pulled off Route 80 somewhere in Nebraska for gas and it had disappeared behind him in the pounding rain, and when he backtracked he’d missed the entrance. But he was in no particular rush to get to wherever it might be he was headed, so he just kept following signs pointing west across the flat, dreary expanse of nothingness.

  The radio had been steadily losing the signal of the only station he’d found that didn’t preach at him, and as the sky darkened from gray to black he lost it altogether. He listened to the static hiss for a while, then shut it off, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he tried to syncopate random tunes in his head to the dull thwack of the windshield wipers.

  Now, when he could read the road signs through the rain and darkness, they offered directions to towns that meant nothing to him—Holyoke, Haxtun, Sterling—and a dull pain began to throb behind his eyes. It was time to get off the road for the night. In the morning, maybe he’d drop a few bucks on a map and try to get back on track. Maybe the weather would even cooperate. Maybe not. He really didn’t care much either way.

  He passed a sign that announced WELCOME TO PATIENCE, and, in smaller letters, “It’s a Virtue!” Ahead a telltale blink of red neon told him he’d found his bed for the night.

  The car rolled across a twin set of railroad tracks embedded in the asphalt and he followed the neon into an empty parking lot filled only with puddles. The sign—reading only “Motel”—bathed the interior of the car in red as he rolled to a stop in front of the office.

  “Help you?” asked the clerk behind the counter as he walked in, a bell attached to the door tinkling to announce his arrival.

  “Got a room?”

  The clerk jerked his head in the direction of the parking lot. “What do you think? Not exactly a boomtown these days.” He waited for a reaction and sighed when he didn’t get one. “So…just one night?”

  “Just one.” He looked around the office. At the dusty blinds, the water-stained wall, the faded curtain with a fly strip hanging from one end of its rod. He figured no one stayed more than one night if they could help it.

  “Forty-five, plus tax.”

  He pulled some crumpled bills out of his pocket and the clerk pushed a registration book and pen in his direction.

  “So where am I anyway?” he asked, taking the pen in his hand.

  “You’re in Patience.”

  “I saw the sign. Am I still in Nebraska?”

  The clerk chuckled. “Colorado, Mr…” He looked at the upside-down signature. “Mr. Laughlin. If you want to be in Nebraska, you overshot it by about forty miles.”

  “Then it’s good I don’t want to be in Nebraska.” The clerk handed him a key with “19” etched into the metal. “So if this is Colorado, where are the mountains?”

  “Couple of hours west. You’re still in the eastern plains.”

  “I guess I had the wrong idea of Colorado.”

  “Well…now you know.”

  He took a battered suitcase from the backseat of his car and found Room 19 at the other end of the motel from the railroad tracks. A small placard on the battered nightstand read “Thank You for Not Smoking,” but the room already smelled of stale smoke so he tapped a cigarette out of his pack and lit up, using a plastic cup from the bathroom as an ashtray.

  He glanced at the clock keeping company with the placard on the nightstand. 8:32. Too early to try to sleep. Maybe there was a bar nearby where he could kill a few hours. He picked up the phone to call the office, and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t work.

  A few minutes later he was back in the office.

  “The phone in 19 doesn’t work.”

  “The phones go down a lot around here when it rains like this. If you need to make a call…”

  “Not really. I was just wondering if there was a place to get a drink around here. A bar or something.”

  “Last real bar closed about five years ago. But if they haven’t closed up for the night, you might be able to get a drink at the bowling alley across the tracks.” The clerk halfheartedly nodded in the direction.

  “Guess that’ll have to do.”

  Holding his collar tight in a vain attempt to stay dry, he made his way across the motel parking lot and over the railroad tracks, walking in the deserted roadway for a few yards to avoid the larger puddles. The bowling alley sat back from the road, interior lights almost invisible in the gloom, with only a few cars in the muddy, unpaved lot in front. He hoped they were still serving, or at least that they’d open up again for him.

  He pushed the glass door open. A sheet of rain followed him inside before it closed again. At one far end an older couple looked up from their score sheet, giving him only the quickest once-over before returning their attention to their strikes and spares. At the other end, he saw the darkened bar tucked next to an unattended shoe rental counter. He squinted, trying to find a
nyone on the premises besides the older couple, but saw no one.

  “Excuse me,” he said, approaching the couple. They wore matching green sweaters. “Either of you work here?”

  “No,” said the woman. The man shook his head in silent accompaniment. “You want Tay. He’s around somewhere. Probably in the office.”

  “Thanks. I’ll wait.”

  He walked to the unlit bar and took a seat in what he hoped was a noticeable spot. A few minutes later a door behind the bar opened and a very young man walked out, spilling light into the dark corner of the bowling alley. He seemed surprised to see a customer.

  “Sorry. Didn’t know anyone was out here.” He offered up a shy smile. “Can I help you?”

  “You can pour me a drink.”

  He closed the door behind him and approached slowly, wringing a bar towel in his hands. He wasn’t much more than a kid, probably barely out of his teens. Not bad-looking, really. A bit on the scrawny side, and in need of a decent haircut, but otherwise more attractive than anyone wandering into a bowling alley in the middle of nowhere should expect.

  Their eyes met for a few seconds until the kid broadened his smile and looked away.

  “I was just closing up,” he finally said. “But there ain’t nothing going on, so I suppose no harm in serving a man.”

  “You’re a saint, kid.”

  “Tay. Call me Tay.”

  “Tay?”

  “Short for Taylor.” He set down the towel. “So what can I get you?”

  “Vodka and anything.”

  The kid made the drink and set it on the bar, squeezing a lime over it and dropping the fruit on top of the ice. “Vodka tonic. That work for you?”

  “It does. Thanks.” He took a sip. It was strong. That was good. He looked up at a small chalkboard on the wall, where someone had once scrawled TODAY’S SPECIALS and nothing else. “Any chance of getting food?”

  “Food?” The kid followed his eyes to the chalkboard, and he laughed. “Kitchen’s been closed for…well, let’s see, I’ve worked here two years, so at least two years. If you want, I can see if we’ve got any chips or pretzels in the back.”

  “Never mind. Won’t be the first time I drank my dinner.”

  The kid leaned forward from his side of the bar, grinning. His voice was soft, almost a purr. “You’ve got a three-course meal in front of you.”

  “I do?”

  “Vodka, tonic, and a lime for dessert.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “In that case, I guess I don’t need dinner after all.” Tay laughed at his joke, too, even though he wasn’t really joking.

  “So, got a name, mister?”

  “Conor.”

  “Nice to meet you, Conor.” He smiled again. “Sorry if I’m acting a little funny. Just not used to customers at the bar. Not many, anyway. But it’s nice to have some company.” He glanced around the bar. “So not used to it that I forgot to turn the lights on. Excuse me for a second.” Tay ducked back behind the door and flicked a switch. A single light suspended over the bar came to life, enhancing shadows more than visibility.

  He was back seconds later, still grinning.

  “So this is Patience, Colorado, huh? Is it really a virtue, like the sign says?”

  The smile vanished from Tay’s face. “Ain’t nothing virtuous about this place. Every day it dies a little bit more.” He furrowed his brow. “Hope I’m not scaring you, mister.”

  “Conor.”

  “Right. Conor. Got a last name?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tay smiled. “That’s cool. This is a town where no one needs to know your last name. They want to know everything about you, but they don’t need your last name.” He paused. “Anyway, I hope I’m not giving you the wrong impression about Patience. It’s just…”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just passing through.”

  Tay sighed with relief. “Good to hear. I really got to watch myself when I’m bad-mouthing Patience. Got to live here, after all.” He started wiping glasses with the rag, and Conor figured it had to be to remove dust, given the lack of patronage.

  “I hear you.”

  “So…just passing through, huh? Where you from? Where you going?”

  Conor smiled. “Lots of questions tonight.” He looked at his glass—suddenly almost empty—and added, “Get me another drink and maybe I’ll tell you about it.”

  As Tay poured, Conor continued. “Without getting into all the dirty details, let’s just say I had to get out of New York in a hurry. Not sure where I’m going. Probably San Francisco.”

  Tay brightened. “I knew you must’ve come from a big city. You don’t look like you belong around here.”

  “I don’t?”

  “It’s just…I dunno. The way you carry yourself.”

  Conor smiled. “The way I carry myself. All right, I guess.”

  “Maybe I’m not explaining myself…”

  “No, that’s fine. I think I know what you mean.”

  “So you’re traveling. Got a wife?”

  Conor gave his well-rehearsed non-answer: “Nope. I can barely take care of myself. How about you?”

  “Ah, heck no.” Tay looked up as the older couple in their matching green sweaters slowly walked toward the door. “’Night, Lester. ’Night, Doreen.”

  “’Night, Tay,” she said, and he, again, mutely nodded in agreement.

  Once they were gone, Tay looked at Conor for more than a casual amount of time. It was a look Conor had seen before. Once it was the sort of look that made him uncomfortable. But he was much older now.

  “I’ve always wanted to see San Francisco,” the young man finally said. He gave a toss of his head, and his hair shimmered under the light of the fixture. “People around here, well…you can probably guess how they are. They hear San Francisco and all they think is, well…” He looked away. “You know.”

  Conor understood. “They’re the same kind of people who’d probably think you and me sitting here alone in a dark bar is leading up to something, right?” He caught Tay’s stare and lowered his voice. “One dim light…no one around…”

  “Ol’ Lester and Doreen are probably already talkin’.” Tay laughed and added, “You make it sound like a setup for bad gay porn.”

  Conor smiled. His instincts were on target. He cocked an eyebrow. “I never thought I’d hear someone say something like that in a place like Patience.”

  Tay leaned against the bar, his hands spread palms-down in front of Conor, looking into his eyes. “I never thought I’d say something like that in Patience.”

  Conor brushed the back of one of Tay’s outstretched hands, a brief connection that could have been accidental. Tay didn’t react. He just kept staring until he finally said, “Guess you probably figured out I don’t belong around here.”

  “I did. So what’s keeping you? Hit the road. See the world.”

  He shook his head. “No money. Unless I rob the place and run, I ain’t never leaving Patience. And even that wouldn’t get me very far, as you probably figured from all the activity here.” His gaze swept across the now-empty bowling alley. “I’ll die here. I’ll die in Patience.”

  “A bit melodramatic, aren’t you?”

  “You call it melodramatic, I call it realistic.” He took one of Conor’s hands in his. “You’re gay, too, right?”

  “As a matter of fact…”

  “I figured. I felt that…connection when I saw you. I knew you were like me. And then not being married…”

  “Lots of people aren’t married.”

  “Yeah, but you and me aren’t those people.” He paused. “Ever since this kid—used to live in Haxtun and come bowling every now and then—since he left, you’re about the first gay person I’ve seen in the flesh.” He paused, and looked away. “I don’t suppose…”

  Conor took a gulp from his glass. “So how old are you, kid?”

  “Old enough.”

  “Meaning…what? Nineteen? Twenty?”

  Tay lau
ghed. “Close enough. Close enough to earn you another drink on the house.”

  “I won’t fight you over that.”

  Tay smiled warmly as he poured the clear liquid, only looking up when the front door snapped open, interrupting their privacy with the sound of rain and wind. It closed again, and heavy footsteps approached, led by a booming voice.

  “Tay Harkness, why in hell’s name is this place still open?”

  Tay’s hand had been hovering near Conor’s but was quickly retracted to his side of the bar. Conor half spun on his stool and saw a beefy middle-aged man enter, slick from the rain. His untucked plaid shirt was plastered to his bulging stomach and hung limply over shapeless jeans. The man’s eyes peered at Conor, went to Tay, and back again. He took two staggering steps forward before steadying himself against a paneled wall.

  Still looking at Conor, he said, “You ain’t from around here.”

  “Passing through.”

  “Good.” The man regained his balance and walked behind the bar, continuing into the office. “Close it up, Tay,” he snapped, slamming the door behind him.

  “Charming fellow,” Conor whispered.

  “That’s Pat. Pat Thursby. He’s the owner. Listen, I hate to rush you, but…” He cocked his head toward the office door.

  “I hear you, kid.” Conor stood and dropped a ten on the bar as the light was extinguished. “Keep it.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I am.”

  “Time to close up, Taylor,” growled the voice from behind the door. Tay frowned, but busied himself under the bar before handing Conor a paper bag with a bottle in it.

  “What’s this for?” asked Conor.

  Tay smiled. “Thanks for the tip. Sorry I can’t slip you some mixer, but it’s all on tap.”

  “I’ll manage.” Conor chuckled under his breath and felt for the key in his pocket. “And listen: after you close up, if you’re bored…want to talk some more…I’m in room nineteen over at the motel.”

  “Klein’s?”

  “I guess. The one next door.”

  Tay nodded. “Klein’s. Sure, I’ll try to stop by. I can’t make any promises.”