by Etta Faire
Terrance laid their coats on a stool and allowed his girlfriend to pull him closer to the radio. Flo easily swayed into dance moves, and Terry awkwardly snapped his fingers and tried to move along.
Flo caught Feldman’s eye, staring a second longer than I expected her to. Then, she winked at us.
“You’re kidding. You and Flo?” I asked.
“Sure, a little. Once. Who can blame me?”
“Probably your brother and your girlfriend, that’s who,” I said. “And your girlfriend seems very nice.” I was mentally making notes of all the people this man had cheated, the people who might have wanted to see him under the table later.
“Everybody does it. You have someone you care about and you get a little careless on the side.”
Flo danced with Terrance but glanced over at Feldman more than a few times to make sure he was watching her. He was.
I continued. “That’s why you think he killed you. You were sleeping with his girlfriend.”
“It’s not like they were gettin’ married. C’mon. But yeah, he might’ve had some reasons.”
“So, your brother had a motive and your girlfriend too. Doc could’ve found out you were cheating him at business. Anyone else have a reason to do you in?”
“Everybody did,” he said, casually. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Never said your work was going to be easy.”
Chapter 11
Half an Hour
While his brother danced, Feldman went behind the bar with the doctor. Doc had shoe-polish black hair with only odd streaks of gray around the temples, and his face was a little ashen for a man in the health profession. He pulled down a couple beer glasses from an overhead rack and filled one from the beer tap. He gestured toward the dance floor while handing the beer to Feldman. “How’d your brother get someone like that, anyway? She deserves better.”
“You mean like a doctor?”
He poured himself a glass too. His smile was large and yellow. “Yes, of course that’s what I meant. Or a businessman like yourself.”
“I’m happy with what’s-her-face,” Feldman replied, sipping his beer. “Besides, you know who that is, right? She’s a Donovan right there.”
“No kidding. So, she’s slumming then?”
Feldman laughed. “Except most people in the slum are bright enough not to take such a high-risk offer. Not my brother, though.”
The Donovans had the same reputation now. Rich and powerful.
“And to think, in high school, they used to say Terry was the bright one in your family.”
“Before the war, maybe he was. He’s changed now. He’s drinking me out of a very lucrative business, running with the wrong crowd, acting like there’s no tomorrow. I’m only selling for him.”
“When you gonna tell everyone,” Doc asked, sipping around the foam, scrunching his face up like it was awful.
“Probably tomorrow evening, at the end of the weekend. No sense putting a damper on things now.”
“You’re talking about the bar?” I asked Feldman in our head as Drew walked out of what was probably the kitchen followed by her tour group. “So no one knew you were selling the bar until this weekend? That’s kind of interesting. Don’t you think?”
“I kind of suspected Terry would go crazy when he found out, and I was right.”
Drew’s voice interrupted him. It was low and soft, even though she was obviously trying to project it. She was standing in the hallway with her tour group. “The cook here is famous for his chicken,” she announced to the whole club. No one listened. Most were watching the dance floor where Flo and Terrance had hands all over each other.
I went back to talking to Feldman in our collective head. “Why did Terry get upset? I thought you said you sold this bar for him.”
“I did, but it was also for me. I was a terrible businessman when it came to this bar. I couldn’t refuse my own brother, drinking on the house. My own friend, Richie the sheriff over there, taking a cut of my business so we didn’t get raided. Oh yeah, and he also drank on the house. And my friend, Doc, wanting more of a cut for his prescriptions. I had way too many cuts already. I wanted out.”
Drew was still talking like she had everyone’s full attention. “I… I had the cook make some chicken for us. If anyone’s interested. I’m heating it up.”
The place went to the smells of chicken warming in the oven, and my stomach rumbled. I’d forgotten to eat before the channeling again.
Feldman’s eyes scanned over to Chance. I could tell he didn’t trust the man. I couldn’t stop staring whenever Feldman’s viewpoint gave me the opportunity. Chance had that “quarterback look.” He definitely stood out in this crowd.
Stop looking, Carly. You love Justin.
Feldman laughed at me in his head. I forgot he could hear a lot of my thoughts. “Ms. Perfect isn’t all that perfect either, eh?”
“At least I know my boyfriend’s name,” I shot back, mocking him. “I’m fine with what’s-her-face.”
“I knew her name,” he said in a faraway voice. “I was just playing it up for the guys. I should’ve been better to that kid. I miss her, actually. Look at her, taking our guests around. She was sweet.”
I took a second to replay my own thoughts from earlier: Had I really just said I loved Justin? Did I really love him? Did that make me desperate to love him so early? We’d only been dating a few months.
“Yes,” Feldman said. “That is pretty desperate.”
“Focus on your own memories, please,” I snapped, kicking myself for getting lost in personal thoughts and inviting a stranger in to comment. I focused my attention back on the memory in front of me.
The woman Doc had brought with him had her mink coat draped across her arm now, her hat off. She fluffed up her blonde curls and leaned into Chance, laughing at something the quarterback said while they stood in the doorway with Drew. As if feeling Doc’s glance, she looked up at him and blew him a kiss before the tour moved on. He took a long sip off his beer and picked his pipe back out of the golden naked-lady ashtray he’d set it in on the bar. “I need a new girlfriend.”
“Is that what your wife told you this morning when you left for your weekend of debauchery?” Feldman asked.
Doc flicked a match and lit his pipe again, puffing out smoke that circled Feldman’s head. “In the end, there’s only one story that matters in life. The one you tell your wife. Speaking of which, Pamela is dying to know how you liked your incredibly thoughtful birthday present. She had it sent special.”
Feldman coughed on the smoke. “It’s not my birthday.”
“What are you talking about? That’s why we’re all over here, celebrating, or at least that’s the story I told Pamela.” He winked. “You’re turning the big 4-0. Congratulations, for the second time.”
“So you and Pamela were the ones who sent me that weird horse bank over there?” He motioned toward the back of the bar.
And I finally got to see it. The horse bank. It was about the size of a small loaf of bread, a brown race horse with the number 3 on its green blanket, and what looked like a red blanket around its neck. Its painted metal eyes were the spookiest part, like they could see right through you in a blank, dead kind of way.
“Oh. That is a beauty.” Doc whistled and picked it up. I tried to pay attention to every angle, not just the horse, but the way the doctor was looking at it too. “We didn’t send this. Pamela would rather have died than send something so tacky. We sent the cheese basket with fruit from Hank’s grocery.”
Feldman thanked his friend for the cheese. “If you didn’t send the bank, I can’t figure out who did. It’s not my birthday. And there was no return address on the package when it came last week. No card. Nothing. Drew said it was probably a metaphor. Somebody’s trying to tell me they’re going to make bank this weekend.”
“An expensive metaphor,” Doc said. “Or, it’s someone trying to tell you we should save our pennies and go to the Kentucky Derby again. Why’d we
stop going there, anyway? It must be… seven or eight years.”
“We all got old. We have wives, girlfriends, and businesses now…”
“Some of us have all three.” Doc set the bank back on the bar and toasted his glass to his own comment. “I thought your friend from New York was coming. The writer. Jeremy.”
“He couldn’t make it.”
“Writers are busy now, huh?”
“More like writers are poor now, in particular that guy,” Feldman replied. “I guess Golden Promises wasn’t the hit he needed it to be.”
Flo danced over to the bar at that moment, sweat glistening around her face, making her look even more beautiful. Sweat never did that to me.
“I read that book,” she said, chest heaving as she caught her breath from dancing. She turned to Doc. “Pour me a drink, will ya? Gin and tonic, easy on the tonic.”
Doc puffed harder on his pipe as he brought down a glass.
She continued. “Jeremy Somebody-or-rather. He certainly hates rich people and women. A bit of a hack, I’d say, especially that last book.”
Feldman shrugged. “A talented hack who told me he made a nice chunk of change.”
She nodded to Doc when he handed her the drink then chugged it. “I’ll never know why. His poems are all right, but the women in his stories are all fools.”
Doc chuckled. “Well, my fool of a wife loved it.”
Flo didn’t seem to hear him. She was still talking about the book. “It made me feel sorry for them, how they were constantly concerned with whether or not they seemed clever to their men. Which because the stories were always written from the male perspective, they never did. Try as they might. Poor fools.”
“Do us all a favor and go heavier on the tonic,” Feldman said, through clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry. Wasn’t that comment clever enough for you, darling?”
She took another gulp then left to dance with his brother again.
Doc leaned into Feldman. “I tell you, I like her. She speaks her mind.”
“Yeah, ain’t nothing better than that,” Feldman said. “Except maybe tuberculosis.”
Doc went on. “But I have to agree about that book, for different reasons, though. It put a bunch of useless ideas into Pamela’s head. I swear it was right after reading Golden Promises that the woman started talking nonsense, about how we needed to support each other’s dreams like they did in the books.” He sighed. “I told her the only dream I had was winning at horses and getting a divorce. And she was more than welcome to support me on both of those.”
Feldman downed his beer and watched his brother on the dance floor. Terry kissed Flo on the cheek then broke for the bar. “Two shots of the finest, Felds,” he said to his brother. “And Flo’s thirsty too. Gin and tonic for her, easy on the tonic.”
Doc shot him a look while Feldman started on the drinks.
“You sure you need two?” Doc asked the tall strawberry-blonde man in front of him. “And Flo just ordered that same drink not more than one minute ago.”
Terry’s lip curled. “You our dad all the sudden, Doc? This is my brother’s place. That means we have my family to thank for this weekend. Show a little respect, huh?” He downed one of the shots while staring right in Doc’s eyes like he was daring the older man to say something. Then he drank the other shot. “Leave the bottle on the counter, Felds. It’s too much work for you to pour it for me.”
Feldman looked at Doc, who was already shaking his head, before shrugging and leaving the bottle on the bar.
Terry went back to the dance floor carrying the drink for Flo.
“I’m adding water to that bottle when he’s not looking,” Doc said when Terry was out of earshot.
“Your place now,” Feldman replied. “Your call.”
Feldman went back to talking to me in his head. “My brother was by far the biggest reason I sold the Bear Bird. Sometimes in life you hit a certain point where, if success hasn’t come, you think it never will. And you give up. He was giving up, drinking himself crazy. I could see that. I was buying him an art studio. Nice, huh? He used to paint some amazing stuff back in the day.”
Richie and Boyd left the tour and went over to the bar, watching the dance floor where things were heating up as the dancers got drunk. Flo ran her hands over Terrance’s chest and down his back to the beat of the jazz song playing. She spilled a little drink on the back of Terry’s shirt and laughed as they twirled.
“Drew is a great tour guide,” Richie said to Feldman. He sat down in one of the stools along the bar. Richie’s thin, sunken cheeks seemed to cave in at unnatural angles. Feldman quickly grabbed a glass and poured him a beer. “But we ducked out early because I got thirsty.”
Boyd pointed to the display on the dance floor. “Plus, this is a lot more interesting than looking at Feldman’s office or the finest sheets you two got all the way from China. I thought your girlfriend said darkest corners.”
It was the first time I’d really heard the man who looked like Bobby speak. He sounded just like Bobby too. Bored and upset about most everything in life.
Doc slid the drinks over to the men.
“That pansy you brought better really be a pigeon, Doc,” Richie said. “You bringing a stranger in on a reunion poker weekend isn’t sitting too well with me. I’m surprised you okayed it, Feld.”
Feldman shrugged.
Doc rolled his eyes at him. “When Chance expressed to me that he’d never played poker before, I said ‘Perfect. Neither have we. Bring fifty bucks and we’ll figure it out together.’”
“His name’s Chance. C’mon, Doc. Who’s conning who?”
Doc puffed on his pipe. “His last name’s Chance. I think his first name’s Michael, maybe. I don’t know. Pamela hired him. He’s doing work around the house for her.”
“I bet he is,” Richie said, raising his eyebrows and his glass. “Tell Pam I do good work too.”
Doc stared at the man like he wanted to rip his guts out.
Feldman talked to me. “They never liked each other.”
“I can tell,” I said.
Feldman reached across the bar and grabbed the bank, sliding it over in front of the guys. “Okay, ‘fess up. Which one of you jokers gave me this ugly thing?”
They both laughed when they saw it and shook their heads no. “I wish I could take credit for finding something straight out of hell like this, but you know me, I don’t shop, and I don’t buy,” Richie said. “If I spend any money, it’s here at the bar.”
Feldman spoke to me again. “He never spent money here. He made money here. He drank on the house and he got paid off. Richie was another guy who was none too happy to hear I sold the bar. Especially not to Doc. He knew there was no way Doc was gonna pay Richie even one thin dime for protection on this place. Doc already told me he wasn’t. He said he had enough on that crooked cop to already put him away and that’s what he’d do if he was pressured.”
“Interesting,” I said, over the sound of an alarm beeping in the background. It barely registered and kind of morphed into the man’s words. My shoulders shook and my eyesight went dark then light again.
The two men in front of me who were holding the bank and laughing flickered in and out with my own living room wallpaper.
“Carly… Carly.” It was my annoying ex-husband. I focused on his voice even though I didn’t want to, allowing it to lead me back.
His face was translucent, his color weak. I knew it took a lot out of him to move things in the physical world. He stopped shaking my shoulders as soon as my eyes opened fully. The alarm on my phone beeped annoyingly.
“I think it’s been going off for a while,” he said. “I’m not sure why I didn’t notice.”
And when I thought about it, it did seem like more than a half an hour had passed.
Chapter 12
Breaks With Reality
It was becoming harder and harder to return to reality after a channeling. Living in someone else’s mind was in
vigorating and intoxicating; I couldn’t even lie about it to myself. A different time. A different person. A different way of breathing and smelling and thinking.
I needed to do it again, and that was the part that was scaring me the most, probably because I wasn’t sure if I was starting to lose myself.
I wrote down everything into my notes about the channeling so far, even the part where it had seemed to be longer than a half an hour. I checked the clock on my phone. 10:30. Unfortunately, I had no idea what time I’d started channeling.
Feldman was nowhere to be found. Ghosts always needed time to rest after a channeling, so I couldn’t go over the case with him. And Jackson wasn’t interested.
“You’re on your own, Carly doll,” he said.
I stared at my notes while I downed the water by my side. “Feldman’s death must have had something to do with selling the bar,” I said to myself. “Sending a horse bank and then writing a note inside it was pretty planned out. Personal. Not a crime of passion.”
At least I had a lot to look up at the library the next morning. I guzzled the rest of my water then got up for more. Sometimes, water hits the spot so well it tastes better than ice cream. This time, it was like a hot fudge sundae with whip cream, chocolate sprinkles, and a little cherry on top.
“When are you planning your next channeling,” my ex asked, hovering beside me as I turned on the faucet and hiked myself along the side of the sink so I could drink straight from the water stream. He raised an eyebrow at me.
I climbed down and shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow. Why?”
“I think you should take a break,” he said.
I shook my head so hard, water drizzled down my chin. “Why? I’m fine.” I coughed on my own drool.
“You seem fine, for someone trapped in a clothes dryer.”
I wiped the drips from my chin, but didn’t answer him.
Light from my window woke me up the next morning, and I checked the time. It was almost 9:30. I hadn’t heard my alarm again. My eyes were heavy. My body ached. I was nowhere near ready to get up, but the library was already open. I had to get going before work.