Deadly Anniversaries

by Marcia Muller

  Their diversity was one of the things that drew Harry to them. Another was the fact that he was on the road a lot and had plenty of opportunity to seek out new places. But the main reason was the array of interesting people he met in them, characters of both sexes and all ages, colors, creeds, and personalities—anyone who had stories to tell. You could say that dive bars had become a kind of hobby with him. (He found it amusing that the word dive had once referred to a disreputable watering hole, whereas now dive bar had become a term of mostly respectful appreciation. That was the evolution of language for you.)

  He figured he’d visited a minimum of two hundred different dive bars in the twenty-six years he’d worked for Sutherland Manufacturing. Some were more memorable than others, of course. One of his favorites was a tavern that had once been a flapper-era brothel and that the present owner and several customers swore was haunted by the ghost of the brothel’s madam, who every now and then could be glimpsed late at night checking the liquor supply. Another, an Irish pub, had on display a bar stool painted shamrock green that its oldest customer had occupied daily for sixty years. Best of all so far was a 175-year-old former country stage stop, whose low ceiling was thickly festooned with business cards and dollar bills pinned there for good luck by generations of appreciative customers—a tradition so long-standing, the present owner claimed, that if you were to search among the dusty, moldering bills you’d find a few old oversize greenbacks and even a Confederate States note or two.

  In a sense, Harry’s job was as old-fashioned as the taverns he frequented. He was a traveling salesman, one of the few remaining members of that dying breed—a sort of modern-day Willy Loman, he was fond of saying, but without that fellow’s emotional baggage. What he sold was Sutherland Manufacturing’s unconventional line of hardware items—doorknobs and door knockers, faucet handles, cabinet knobs, fireplace grates and tools. The company put out brochures and advertised on the internet, naturally, but Harry’s customers were hardware outlets and specialty shops in small, out-of-the-way towns and villages, their owners folks who wanted firsthand looks at product samples and who could be convinced to place an order they might otherwise not by an outgoing, friendly, low-pressure salesman like Harry Murdock.

  His territory covered all of Northern California and parts of Oregon and Nevada, so he was on the road two to three weeks a month year-round. But he didn’t mind the long driving trips. In fact, he relished them. He had neither wife nor family; his “home” was a nondescript furnished room in Oakland. There was nothing he enjoyed more than discovering a dive bar he’d never been in before, talking to the people who frequented it, adding fresh bits of lore and legend to his memory bank. All things considered, he was a genuinely happy man.

  Until he discovered Slattery’s Oasis.

  It was in a little town called Shelton, in the northeastern part of California near the Nevada line. He’d seen road signs for the town, but had never had occasion to go there until this particular trip. The former owner of Shelton Hardware & Building Supply hadn’t been interested in Sutherland’s products, but the place had changed hands and a company feeler to the new owner, Sam Peters, had elicited interest. So Harry went to see if he could sign Peters up for a new account. Which he did by showing his samples, making his usual soft sell pitch, and offering a 10 percent new customer discount on the first order.

  After they’d finished doing business, Harry mentioned his interest in “old-time local taverns.” (You had to be careful using the term dive bars, especially in rural areas like this, because not everybody knew or appreciated its modern meaning.) Sam Peters had told him about Slattery’s Oasis and where it was located. When Peters added that it had been in business since 1895, Harry was all the more eager for a visit.

  He checked into a local motel, emailed the Shelton Hardware Supply order to the company, and ate an early dinner in an adjacent coffee shop. It was a few minutes past six-thirty when he arrived at Slattery’s Oasis—a weathered wood frame building on the main drag but not quite downtown. Its name was painted on a big wooden sign across the front, and below the sign stretched a blue banner with white lettering that read: OUR 125th ANNIVERSARY. The only external neon was a Budweiser sign in one window.

  Harry knew it was his kind of place as soon as he walked in. Dimly lit, the illumination supplied mainly by old hanging miner’s lamps and neon beer advertisements. Long mahogany bar with a brass foot rail, carved Victorian backbar centered by a slightly wavy mirror, a row of high-backed wooden booths. In front of one wall was an ancient potbelly stove. That wall and two others were decorated with miner’s tools, old framed photographs, deer heads, a dusty moose head. Chunks of one set of the moose’s dendritic antlers were missing, the boards behind it pocked with half a dozen splintered holes that looked as if they’d been there a long time. The only modern touches, if you could call them that, were a TV set on a corner shelf, a 1950s era jukebox, and a shuffleboard game that shared space with a pool table in a side alcove.

  At this relatively early hour there weren’t many customers. Three men in one of the booths arguing good-naturedly about baseball, a man and woman with their heads close together in another. Only one of the red leatherette bar stools was occupied, by an elderly gent sipping from a glass of red wine. Harry’s practiced eye took him to be a regular. You could always tell them from the casual drop-ins; they had a kind of anchored look.

  Harry considered sitting next to the man, but he preferred talking to bartenders before approaching anybody else; they were often a font of information on their establishments. This one had the appearance of one who didn’t mind conversation as long as he wasn’t busy. Harry’s practiced eye again.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Draft beer,” Harry said, smiling his salesman’s smile. “Any kind. I’m not particular.”

  The bartender drew a pint of Heineken. He was in his forties, heavy-set, his expression good-natured. His hairline had receded two-thirds of the way back on his scalp, leaving a little patch of hair up front like a brown islet in a pink lagoon.

  “Don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” he said as he set the mug down.

  “My first visit to Shelton,” Harry said. “Nice place you have here. Sam Peters at the hardware and building supply store recommended it.”

  “Did he? Good to hear.”

  “Yessir, just my kind of watering hole. The banner out front says you’re celebrating a hundred and twenty-five years in business. That’s really something.”

  “Oldest tavern in the county by far. Continuous operation since 1895, except during Prohibition.”

  “The Ignoble Experiment,” Harry said with a chuckle. “Still owned by descendants of the founder, by any chance?”

  “Up until about 1970 it was. My dad bought it when the founder’s grandson died. He didn’t see any reason to change the name. Neither do I. Jack Zaleski’s my name.”

  Harry introduced himself, handing Zaleski one of his business cards. “Old taverns like yours and their customers and histories fascinate me,” he said.

  “Nothing too fascinating about this one,” Zaleski said. “Not anymore. No excitement to speak of in the past fifty years, other than a few brawls that didn’t amount to much.”

  “I happened to notice those holes in the wall behind the moose head when I came in. They sure look like bullet holes.”

  “Well, they are. I guess you could call how they got there a historic event. Happened just after Repeal—”

  “Hey, Jack. Empty down here.”

  Zaleski excused himself, went to refill the elderly local’s wineglass. Two other people came in just then and also had to be served. Harry sipped his beer, waiting patiently.

  “About those bullet holes,” Zaleski said when he came back. “Shelton used to be a mining town, and one night after Repeal a couple of hardrock miners packing pistols did a little too much celebrating and made a bet to find o
ut which was the better shot. They picked that moose head for a target and started plinking. Fired half a dozen rounds, chipping off pieces of the antlers before anybody could stop ’em. The Slattery who owned the place back then left the holes unfixed as a warning that he wouldn’t stand for any more shenanigans.”

  That was just the sort of anecdote Harry liked to hear. He asked a few more questions about the Oasis’s early days, before and after Repeal, but Zaleski didn’t have much else of interest to tell. And business was starting to pick up to keep him busy. The elderly local was still anchored on his stool and the one next to it was still vacant, so Harry picked up his mug and moved down there.

  It took a little gentle prodding and the offer of a wine refill to get the old man to talk. But once his verbal faucet had been turned on, anecdotes and reminiscences poured out in a steady stream. His name was Greer; he’d lived in Shelton all of his seventy-four years and worked for Southern Pacific Railroad for forty of them. His stories were entertaining. Informative, too. He identified the ancient potbelly as a Vogelzang cast-iron coal stove, one of the type that once had been a staple in railroad stations across the country.

  Harry sat with him for nearly an hour, until Greer decided he ought to be getting on home. When the old man walked across to the door, he was as steady on his feet as though he’d been drinking water instead of wine.

  Slattery’s Oasis had filled up by this time. In the alcove, the pool table and shuffleboard game were both in use; the click of balls and the thump and rattle of metal tiles added to the sounds of conversation and laughter, sporadic jukebox music, a baseball game on TV that somebody had wanted turned on. Most of tonight’s crowd seemed to be couples and small groups. Only one of the few solitary drinkers Harry made overtures to was responsive, a slatternly middle-aged woman, and she had nothing to say worth hearing.

  Harry finished nursing his third beer, debated having a fourth. Four was his self-imposed limit; any more than that made him fuzzy headed and led to a mild morning-after hangover. He was still debating when the gray-haired man came in alone.

  The newcomer stood for a time looking around, the way Harry had when he entered, then made his way to the bar. The only two empty stools were around on the far curved end; he claimed the closest to the wall. While he waited for service, he did some more looking around. A local scanning for someone he knew, or just another newcomer inspecting his surroundings?

  Harry’s appetite for camaraderie was still keen. He waited until Zaleski had served the gray-haired man a bottle of Coors Light, then called for a fourth draft. When it came, he went to see if he could strike up another worthwhile conversation.

  The gray-haired man glanced at him when he slid onto the adjacent stool, but didn’t acknowledge Harry’s nod and friendly smile. The fellow was about sixty, he judged, dressed in a nondescript sport coat and brown slacks. Average height, average weight, average features. The gray hair, clipped short, appeared to be the dull color of tarnished silver. He had large hands; otherwise there was nothing distinguishing about him.

  No, that wasn’t true. He did have one other distinctive feature. When he felt Harry’s gaze on him, he turned his head again and their eyes locked. His were deep-set, thick-lashed, penetrating; the irises reflected the backbar lights like polished black stones.

  “Something you want?”

  “Just wondering if you’re local,” Harry said, still smiling.

  “Why?”

  “Well, I enjoy talking to locals, hearing what they have to say about all sorts of things. I’m not one myself. Local, I mean. My first time in Shelton, just here for one night—passing through on business.”

  The gray-haired man didn’t say anything.

  “Also just passing through, are you?” Harry asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “So we’ve got something in common right there. Ships that meet and pass in the night, as the saying goes. My name’s Harry Murdock. Mind if I ask yours?”

  “Why?”

  “Just being sociable, that’s all.”

  The gray-haired man poured beer from the bottle into a pilsner glass, carefully so as to keep the foam down. He didn’t say anything.

  “I’m in hardware sales myself,” Harry persisted. “Twenty-six years now. What line are you in?”

  “I don’t have a line.”

  “Jack-of-all-trades? Or what I wish I was, a man of independent means?”

  “Neither.”

  “Retired, then?”

  The gray-haired man drank some of his Coors Light. “Mostly,” he said. Then he said, “Pretty nosy, aren’t you.”

  Harry laughed. “I guess I am. But I like people and I’m just naturally curious. That’s one of the reasons I come to places like this.”

  “Dive bars.”

  “Oh, so you know the term. Yessir. Dive bars.”

  “So?”

  “Well, they fascinate me. You wouldn’t be a habitué yourself, would you?”

  “A what?”

  “Habitué. A person like me who frequents dive bars.”

  The gray-haired man slanted him another look. “What do you want to know for?”

  “Just wondering, that’s all,” Harry said. Somebody put a coin in the jukebox just then; the sudden twang of a country-western song made it necessary for Harry to raise his voice. “I guess you noticed the banner out front. Celebrating their hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary—that’s pretty remarkable. Of course, Slattery’s Oasis isn’t the oldest dive bar in the state. There’s a former stage stop down in Sonoma County that’s been operating for a hundred seventy-five years...”

  The gray-haired man wasn’t listening. He sat peering into his glass. Harry was about to say something else to try to draw him out when the fellow spoke again, almost as if talking to himself.

  “Anniversary of my own coming up pretty soon,” he said.

  “Is that so? Wedding anniversary?”

  “What? No.”

  “Business-related?”

  “You might say that.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Mine. None of yours.”

  “Well...can I ask how many years you’ll be celebrating?”

  No answer for several seconds. Then, “Thirty.”

  “Must be a special anniversary, whatever it is.”

  “That’s right. Special.”

  Harry tried another tack. “I’ve been in more than two hundred dive bars over the years, in three states. No kidding, at least that many, all of them different in one way or another. It’s sort of a hobby with me.”

  No response.

  “I’m always on the lookout for a new one. Like this place here. You’ve been in a lot yourself, have you?”

  “Plenty.”

  “As many as two hundred in three states?”

  “More. All over the country.”

  “No kidding? So that’s something else we have in common.” Harry was tickled that he’d found a kindred spirit, even a closemouthed stranger like this. “You must do quite a bit of traveling.”

  “I get around.”

  “What draws you to dive bars? The people, the ambience, the local color?”

  “No.”

  “What, then? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Another slanted look. “Why don’t you just drink your beer and let me drink mine?”

  “I didn’t mean to pry. Just being sociable, like I said. How about another round, on me? Or rather, on my expense account.” Harry chuckled. “I don’t usually pad it with personal expenses, but a few beers now and then—”

  “I don’t want another beer.”

  “You sure? I’ll be glad to buy—”

  “I said I don’t want another beer.” Abruptly the gray-haired man pushed away from the bar and slid off his stool. Harry thought he was going to
leave, but he didn’t, not just yet. Instead he leaned close. Even so, with the jukebox blaring and the other customer noise, Harry could barely hear him when he spoke again. “You know something, mister? You’re lucky.”

  “Lucky? How do you mean?”

  “I got more driving to do tonight. And I’m mostly retired now.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  Those dark eyes fixed on Harry’s with an intensity that stirred the hairs on the back of his neck. Seen up close like this, they were flat, cold, unblinking. Like a bird’s. Or a snake’s.

  “You wanted to know why I come to dive bars. All right, I’ll tell you. They’re good places for scouting, that’s why.”

  “Scouting? For what?”

  The gray-haired man leaned even closer, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He murmured two words into Harry’s ear, then immediately turned and walked away, out into the night.

  Harry sat motionless, stunned and shaken. He told himself he hadn’t heard right, but he knew he had. Just a joke, a sick joke. Only it wasn’t. Those creepy eyes, that spectral smile...no, it had been the truth.

  But what could he do about it? Give chase? He was no hero, and the gray-haired man would be gone by now anyway. Call the police? And tell them what, that he’d had a brief conversation with a weird stranger whose two-word exit line no one else had heard? He didn’t know the man’s name, or what kind of car he drove, or where he was headed. Couldn’t even describe him very well. The gray-haired man was aware of all this, too, or he wouldn’t have spoken as he had.

  Lucky. My God!

  Harry needed a drink now, a real drink. He paid for a double bourbon, drank it in one long swallow. Before he left the tavern, he made sure there was no sign of the gray-haired man outside. Then he drove quickly to his motel and locked himself in his room, those two whispered words and all that they and the thirty-year anniversary statement implied still echoing inside his head.