3 Women Walk Into A Bar

by Linda Sands

  Barbara tapped the envelope Tommy had given her at the hospital. Thinking it was something to do with Chamonix, she’d sent a text to Mick asking him to meet her at the house, said it was important. She poured a glass of wine and waited for her husband.

  Mick tore open the envelope and slid out the DVD. An old movie. He set it up, then took a seat beside his wife on the couch. They sipped their wine without saying a word as the opening credits to Leave Her to Heaven rolled. Sometimes even husbands know when to be quiet.

  At one point, Barbara reached out and took Mick’s hand in hers.

  In the film, when Richard Harland said to Ellen, “When I looked at you, exotic words drifted across the mirror of my mind like clouds across the summer sky,” Mick spoke the words with him.

  And when Ellen said, “‘I’ll never let you go. Never, never, never.’” Barbara spoke them to Mick.

  Sometimes good-byes are also hellos, and sometimes you figure out the piece of you that was missing has been sitting beside you on the couch the whole time.

  Barbara reached for Mick, and before they knocked the remote to the floor, before the TV clicked off, they heard, “There’s nothing wrong with Ellen. It’s just that she loves too much.”

  In the aftermath of your death, many people will touch your body and your things. If you’re a person who believes in the spiritual realm, you may want to find something else to do, someplace else to hover, in the seventy-two hours after your passing.

  Sometimes, people are lucky enough to die quietly at home in their beds, lying next to a loved one, someone who will make sure that even in death you’ll fool the whole world into thinking you were perfectly wonderful, with no secrets or devious habits. If you aren’t lucky enough to die that way, you need to be prepared.

  In the case of murder, preparation goes out the door. No one knows when it’s coming, even if they say later they had a “feeling.” Roxie, Cress, and Chamonix? When James told then to stand there and close their eyes, that he had a surprise for them? There was no way they could have known what was coming, that the surprise was an automatic handgun, fully loaded and recently imported from Germany.

  The invasion of their homes, their closets, drawers, and computer files—that all came later. Their right to privacy was ceded with their last breath. And for those girls, lying on the floor of Flannigan’s, the first interaction with their lifeless bodies came not from a gentle hand or an intelligent mind, but from a simple janitor.

  He’d worked for Flannigan, but stayed on for Smith. This was his last stop before the sun rose. He lived alone, hated the cat that slept under his porch, and if you asked his mother, he also drank too much. But that wasn’t the point. The point was, he found the bodies first. Being a curious guy, he took a few minutes to probe pockets, poke breasts, and in one case, slip a hand up a tiny red skirt to see if she really did have that tattoo.

  It was a powerful thing to own, a quiet moment surrounded by death. The feeling that it could have been you—but it wasn’t. As you pick up the phone and make the call, it hits you. You have to bite back panic and swallow your fear. Hopefully, you’re able to take away from all of that a sense of entitlement, a new appreciation for life.

  Soon more hands would touch those bodies. All with a different purpose. The cops to the medical examiner to the people from the morgue. Parents and loved ones would want to view the bodies when they claim them. They might remove a ring or a necklace. The funeral director, his staff, and even some guests at the wake, they’d all lay a finger on cool skin, stroke a perfectly shaped cheek, kiss lips that had been stitched together.

  In the homes of the deceased, things would be thrown away, donated, stored, and mulled over. Questions would be asked about one’s choices, desires, secret dreams. No one would be there to answer. Answers come from perceptions. Most are wrong.

  The coffee table is more than a table. It’s a tableau of misery punctuated by wine glass rings, full ashtrays, unopened bills, and travel magazines addressed to the neighbor. The nightstand drawer, the back of a closet, or a bathroom cabinet might tell your story with depilatory creams or Viagra, with extra-strength mouthwash to dandruff shampoo. It speaks of hidden imperfections.

  When you die, your door is opened to strangers. Your money, possessions, the secrets you thought no one would ever know all become public. Alive, you might excuse away the extraneous bits that make up a life. Dead, there’s nothing you can do about it.

  Across town in a half-empty office at a half-empty newspaper in a half-empty building that had seen better days, Sam Cheever finished proofing the day’s shoot from the dog park. There was something equally sweet and pathetic about the photos he captured. The redheaded girl with the toppled ice cream cone, the spotted puppy licking the remains. The crying black boy whose ball had been stolen by the yellow lab and the dorky guy with the bug-eyed Chihuahua who looked like he only read the first part of the dating guide: Get a puppy, you’ll be a chick magnet!

  Sam pushed his chair back and stretched. The job was wearing on him.

  What the fuck had he been thinking? As if Seattle hadn’t been gloomy enough. He ended up in Syracuse? What a dumb ass.

  Sure he’d come for the girl, but if she hadn’t noticed him in high school, what the hell made him think she’d give a shit twenty years later? And seriously, why had he believed that she was even available? Of course she wasn’t. That was the problem with virtual romance. You only had to be semitruthful, and you got to pick which side of “semi” you wanted to embrace.

  Fuck it. He was done with this. All of it.

  Last night, he’d watched one of those survivor-man episodes, where they drop a dude out of an airplane with a knife and maybe a flint and tell him they’ll pick him up in a week. That kind of shit looked pretty good right about now.

  The computer behind him dinged, announcing another e-mail, another interruption. Somebody else needing something he wasn’t willing or able to give.

  He spun his chair around and rolled up to his desk. One hand on the mouse woke the monitor. It was a request from his boss to add a photograph to the follow-up story on the three dead girls in the bar. He’d read the article they’d run on Chamonix, Roxie, Cress, and the two James John Smiths. It was front-page news. He remembered how pretty they’d been, even dead, and how he’d mentioned to the detective that the scene sounded like a joke, like a bad headline for a fake newspaper.

  He sat drumming his fingertips on the desk, listening to the noises of an empty building. Then he clicked on the browser, opened a new window, and typed “Samuel Michael Cheever,” then hit Return.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the many people who made this book possible. To the crazy people who seem to be drawn to me, I told your stories well. To the members of my old writing group: Don, Jackie and Barbara, we did this together. To my agent, Josh Getzler who was one of my first readers, thank you for continuing to believe in me and the voices in my head. To the Kindle Scouts who voted for 3 Women Walk into a Bar, without you none of this would be possible. I truly hope you like the rest of the book as much as you liked the opening pages. Huge thanks go to my editor Stacee who axed my commas with vigor and got most of my jokes. Of course endless thanks to my family (M, C, P) for their love and support, but more than that for putting up with me all these years, especially when I put words and paper before people.

  Linda Sands is the author of the Southern Gothic novel and Kirkus Star recipient Not Waving, Drowning, the internationally published legal thriller Simple Intent, and a multitude of award-winning short stories and essays published in magazines, newspapers and anthologies around the globe. Linda is represented by HSG Agency and lives in the suburbs of Atlanta with her husband, two kids, fast cars, and furry things. Follow her at lindasands.com, on Facebook as LindaSandsAuthor or @lindasands on Twitter.

  Find more books by Linda Sands online at Amazon, of course. (http://www.amazon.com/Linda-Sands/e/B00596OLLY)

  Chapter
1

  OUR GIFT TO YOU: A FREE PREVIEW OF LINDA’S NEXT BOOK

  Grand Theft Cargo

  We were parked on the shoulder of a busy highway in Sulphur, Louisiana, red reflective triangles set out like an SOS, in case you missed the blinking hazards on our custom Peterbilt or the double rows of orange chicken lights running down the side of a fifty-three-foot-long trailer.

  “Remind me again, Jojo,” Boone said. “Why do we love this so much?”

  I stepped out of the sleeper unit’s shower, drying my long hair with a towel, and slid up behind my boyfriend. He was sitting at the dinette/office staring at the blank screen of a phone we were hoping would ring, signaling the arrival of road service. I wrapped my arms around him and nuzzled his neck, inhaling the scent I loved so much—pine and man.

  I said, “Well, Mr. Tyler Boone, it sure as hell isn’t because of predicaments like this.”

  “Predicaments, huh?” He laughed and reached for me, managing to both kiss me and capture me on his lap in one sweeping motion.

  “Well, maybe it is . . . a little,” I conceded, leaning in to the kiss and wondering whatever we would be able to do to pass the time until help arrived.

  “I like being the boss,” he said, running his finger down my arm. “And all the benefits that come with it.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Wait. You’re the boss?”

  Outside, cars raced past on the highway, four-wheelers changing lanes without a care in the world, winding in and out at seventy miles an hour, like dots on a video game, except these drivers would not be given second lives with a Restart button.

  I climbed off Boone’s lap and cleared the dinette area as he dropped the table down and pulled out our bed.

  “I’ll tell you why we love this life,” I said. “Why we don’t own a house or a car or a lawn mower and patio furniture. It’s because we love freedom. Driving long haul is more than a job, it’s a lifestyle. We’re road cowboys.”

  Boone kicked off his shoes, rolled onto the bed beside me, and closed his eyes. “Road cowboys. I like that. Go on.”

  I put my head on his chest. “It’s the way the sun rises over the hood, right after you’ve shined and waxed Old Blue. The way it glints off that silver pig hood ornament, the fat chrome pipes.”

  “Thought you hated my silver pig,” Boone said.

  “Oh shush,” I said, kissing his neck, tucking my hand inside his shirt. I thought about the best part of driving: the rumble of the engine, the hum of the highway, the way I felt like God, riding high in my hydraulic seat. “It’s the sight of clear blue sky peeking through as we climb a mountain pass, and the relief we feel making it safely down the other side.”

  Boone sighed.

  I said, “It’s the image of steam coming off wet asphalt, as if Hell itself might be rising, that shimmer of black pavement, a dreamy false oasis.”

  I ran my hand from his stomach up to his chest and laid it on his heart. “But mostly, it’s us together, experiencing the weathers of three seasons and the climate of two countries in one working day, then pulling over, drawing the curtains and locking the doors, getting ready to do it all over again with no expectation of what tomorrow will bring.”

  It was my turn to sigh. I tilted my head to see Boone’s face—slack, relaxed, asleep.

  I whispered, “That’s why we love it.”

  Boone had fallen into trucking the way I had fallen into him—hard and fast—with no regrets. He was from a small town like me, and even if he was a Texan, I forgave him. You can’t pick your momma, or your birthplace.

  Southeast Texas had enough Louisiana in it that we could understand each other. It wasn’t like a Yankee and a Southern Belle, or a Scotsman and a Brit. We drank our beer ice cold, craved the same spicy seafood, and enjoyed mixing our classic rock tunes with some Zydeco.

  Boone might have gotten a head start as a trucker, with his father bringing him into the family business at eighteen, but I was a quick learner. And now? There wasn’t much he could do on the rig that I couldn’t. Old-school truckers still gave me shit at truck stops and loading docks and, hell, whenever they could—granted, it would trail right off when Boone stood up beside me. He was an impressive figure; a muscular six foot five, almost too broad-shouldered for the driver’s seat, with tattoos in all the right places and a face that might have appeared in a magazine, grimace and all. He was just the kind of bad-boy pretty that I liked—a lot.

  My father, Manny Boudreaux, wasn’t sure about Boone or this lifestyle for me.

  When I called him to tell him we were on our way home to Louisiana, planning on taking a few days off, he’d said, “You tell that man of yours it’s time to think about settling down. You could make a nice home here on the plantation. I’ll even put in a pond for fishing. What do you say, Shâ?” he said, sinking his point home with the Cajun endearment.

  I lied to the first man I’d ever loved. “That sounds great, Père. I’ll talk to Boone about it.”

  Sitting in the cab, sipping coffee and waiting for the road service crew to finish changing our blown tire, I told Boone what my father had said and how I couldn’t keep putting him off forever.

  “Is that what you want? To get off the road and build a house back in Bunkie?”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “I’ll admit. It sounds nice. Not dealing with DOT, dispatchers, the rising cost of diesel. Not to mention all these new rules and regulations.”

  “Change is everywhere, babe.”

  “I know. But it’s not always for the best. Remember what happened to Stroker?”

  “Hey, he never should have parked overnight there.”

  “C’mon Boone. No one deserves to get the crap beat out of them for pulling over to sleep. And then they steal his truck too? What the hell?”

  “Is that what’s worrying you? We’ll be fine. Trust me, Jojo.”

  “I trust you, Boone. It’s those other people out there I’m not so sure about.”

  Doubt. It was the one thing that kept me from being perfect.

  I was saved from his hero speech by the ringing phone. I checked the display, then tapped the Speakerphone key as our dispatcher’s name flickered across the screen.

  “Hey, Charlene,” I said, “How are you?”

  “Oh, Jojo, you know what they say. Same shit, different day.”

  I laughed. “You know that’s the truth.”

  She chuckled, deep and throaty—a sound that turned into a wet cough. A few seconds later she said, “Sorry to do this to you honey, but you and Boone are the only ones close enough with the clearances for the job. I know you asked for some time off. But, I’m in a bind here.”

  I looked at Boone, who shook his head. I rubbed my fingertips together, making the universal symbol for money.

  He gave me the dejected-puppy look, then nodded.

  I smiled. “Okay. What you got, Charlene?”

  “I’m sending it to you now. God bless you, Jojo. You saved my behind again.”

  “You remember that some day,” I said as I took the phone off speaker and went into the sleeper, where my laptop waited on the kitchen table.

  Boone climbed down to have a word with the road-service guy while I completed the paperwork, checked the weather, and searched the route for traffic issues before I went back up front. Boone handed me more paperwork, then buckled into the driver’s seat.

  I mashed my cheek up against his scratchy one and hung my arms around his neck.

  He kept both hands on the wheel.

  “Are you mad at me, baby, for taking that job? I know how much you wanted time off. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

  He shook his head, made a sound in his throat.

  “C’mon. It’s Texas, baby,” I said, moving in closer, running my hands down his chest. “You know how you love Texas.”

  He mumbled, “Everything’s bigger in Texas.”

  I grinned. “That’s right.”

  He pulled me in and kissed me, hard and long enough that I forgot abo
ut Texas. Until he pulled back and asked, “So, what’s the deal?”

  It was Boone’s way: maintain control, and as always, leave me wanting more of him.

  I said, “Driver left the warehouse in Michigan two days ago. No one’s been able to reach him by radio or phone. He wasn’t carrying a priority shipment, nothing perishable, but . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Destination is a pharmaceutical warehouse in San Marcos. Charlene says they’re concerned.”

  “As they should be.”

  Early on in my training I learned that some places are more strict on shipping than others, but whether you were in charge of a load of organic carrots or millions of dollars of computer parts, you needed to treat the contents the same.

  Boone asked, “Who is this joker?”

  “Guy named Edwin Dorsey. From what I’ve heard, his claim to fame’s winning a bacon-eating contest at The Waffle Shack a few years back. Not the most reliable driver. Charlene says he’s got a habit of disappearing and won’t GPS his company rig.”

  This news earned me a headshake from Boone. He was all about adding the latest and greatest to our truck whenever he could.

  “Apparently,” I continued, “the guy has quite a few habits—none of them good. Anyway, Charlene’s had everyone out looking for his Kenworth—finally found it this morning at a small truck stop in the Houston area. Missouri City exit, place called Southland Freeway Truck Stop.”

  Boone nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been there. What does she need us to do?”

  “Get there as soon as possible, disconnect the trailer, and take it to San Marcos. Keys are at the truck stop. We’ll have enough time to drop in on my father and see if we can leave our trailer in the barn.”

  Boone stared past me. “He’s not going to be happy.”

  “I know,” I said, sure of two things: Manny Boudreaux would not be happy about our change in vacation plans or about having a bulky trailer in his pristine barn. But he would, as he always did, manage to work things out to everyone’s benefit.