Nodding, Dean said, “Right,” and handed her a ten. She went over to the cash register, giving him the opportunity to note that her jeans were even tighter than the shirt, and while she was perhaps wider in the hips than he generally preferred, on her it worked. She rang him up and gave him five ones.
He left four of them on the bar. “Thanks.”
She tilted her head. “Thank you. ’Specially since you only tipped Harry a buck.”
“You’re more fun to look at than Harry.”
Jennifer made a noise like a pipe bursting. “Damn well hope so.”
Scottso finally finished “Freebird,” and then Manfred said, “We’re gonna take a short break.”
“Thank God,” Dean muttered as Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” started playing on the bar’s PA system.
One of Jennifer’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t like the band?”
“Uhm—well, the guitarist is good.”
“Yeah, Aldo knows his stuff.”
He was actually telling the truth there—the guitarist was the one bright spot. Called upon to re-create riffs by the likes of Eric Clapton, Jimmy Paige, Gregg Allman, and Ritchie Blackmore, he managed it brilliantly. His solos had been the only enjoyable part of an otherwise dismal musical experience. It’s too bad he’s stuck with these other losers.
Frowning at him, Jennifer said, “Thought you said you were a frienda Manfred’s.”
Dammit. “Well, yeah, but—let’s just say he used to sing better.”
The bursting pipe again. “Manfred’s been singin’ at this bar for long as I been here, and he never could sing worth a damn. And that’s ten years.”
Dean laughed, relieved. “I guess. I was trying to be nice.”
“’Sides, you couldn’ta heard him ten years ago, you were what, twelve?”
Defensively, Dean said, “Seventeen, actually.” Putting on his most sincere tone, he added, “Which can’t be older than you were at the time, so what the hell were you doin’ hangin’ out in bars?”
“Very cute, Dean, but I got food in my freezer older than you. Now I ’preciate the tips and the compliments, but you wanna hit on someone, there’s about a dozen girls come in here that might actually getcha somewhere.”
“Nah.” Dean took another sip of his beer. “Anybody comin’ in here’s gonna probably like the music, and that’s just something I can’t deal with. You, at least, I know aren’t here by choice.”
This time she laughed.
“Well, it’s about damn time. I was startin’ to think your smile muscles didn’t work.”
“Show me a bartender that smiles, I’ll show you a crappy bartender.” And then she smirked. “Or a bartender who’s being hit on by a cute kid.”
Dean held up his glass as if to toast. “Thank you.”
“And honestly, I don’t even hear the music anymore. I been doin’ this too long.”
“In that case, Jennifer, I envy you.” Again he held up the glass, this time actually sipping more of the beer.
She shook her head. “You ain’t like mosta Manfred’s friends, I’ll give you that. For one thing, you ain’t got enough hair.”
Thinking of Ash, Dean had to smile. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“’Scuse me, I gotta help somebody. You need anythin’, just ask, okay?”
Dean hadn’t even noticed the person who’d walked up to the bar. Jennifer went to take his order, which was apparently for an entire table. “Yeah, no problem.” He’d flirted with bartenders in the past, and he knew that you could only do it a little at a time or they couldn’t do their jobs. Bartenders lived off their tips, so he knew better than to do the long-form version of his methodology. Instead, he’d go for the gradual effect. When he finished this beer, he’d go back, ask for another, and find out what music she did like.
True, she was older than his usual, but she was also pretty and smart, and didn’t seem at all interested in anything beyond taking his compliments—and tip money. Dean decided to take that as a challenge. Food in her freezer, my ass.
Besides, he needed something to distract him from the music.
His plan in motion, Dean worked his way back to the table in the back where he and Sam had been sitting. The Park in Rear had a lot of nooks and crannies. When you walked in the front door, the bar was against the wall on your right. Right in front of you were a bunch of small bar tables and chairs, and then to the left was a raised section with tall tables and bar stools at them. All the way at the back was the stage, with a small dance floor in front of it.
There were support pillars all around, on which people had scratched even more than they had on the bar, and they made it easy to hide in corners. However, the bar’s PA system was such that one could not escape from the music on the stage—even if you had done as he and Sam had, and chosen the table in the corner of the raised section, the farthest spot from the stage that was still in the bar proper.
Sam was nursing a light beer—freakin’ lightweight—and studying the scratches in the table. “You know,” he said as Dean approached, “somebody actually scratched the words ‘Kilroy was here’? I didn’t think anybody did that in real life.”
“I think I’m startin’ to figure out who the spirit is,” Dean said as he sat in the stool opposite his brother.
“Really?” Sam sat up straight.
“It’s the ghost of the DJ they named themselves after. He’s haunting Manfred in a desperate attempt to get them to stop desecrating his good name.”
Sam chuckled. “C’mon, Dean, they’re not that bad. I mean, they’re not that good, but they’re a cover band in a dive in Westchester County. Whadja expect?”
“Dude, did you hear what they did to ‘Cocaine’?”
Showing his total lack of appreciation of the finer things in life, Sam said, “Whatever. I assume you took so long ’cause you were hitting on the bartender.” He grinned. “He didn’t strike me as your type.”
“Funny boy,” Dean said tightly as he sipped his beer. “Nah, I got the girl this time. Her name’s Jennifer, and she has good taste in music. Or at least doesn’t like this music.” He looked over at the stage, where several women were practically throwing themselves at all five band members for no good reason that Dean could see, and added, “Which is more than I can say for most of the female population of this bar.”
Minutes later Manfred walked over, with a very short girl hanging all over him. She was wearing a sweatshirt that said iona college. “Hey there, fellas, you havin’ a good time?”
“We’re having a blast,” Sam said quickly. “This is a great place.”
“Yeah, I love this joint.”
The girl nudged Manfred in the ribs. “Freddie, introduce me.”
“Oh, sorry, baby. Sam, Dean, this here’s Gina.”
“Janine,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “God. You always get that wrong.”
Dean Winchester had spent most of his life pretending to be other people in order to hunt more effectively, and also had spent a lot of that time cultivating a pretty damn good poker face, and even with all that, it took all of his considerable will-power not to scream.
Sam, thank God, saved him by speaking before he said something that would force them to look for a hotel. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thanks! Isn’t the band just awesome?”
In a tight voice, Dean said, “That wasn’t the first word that came to mind, but it’ll do, yeah.”
“Hey, listen, fellas,” Manfred said, “we got one more set, then we head over to this place in Yonkers for a few drinks and a smoke or two—th’owner lets us light up, ’long as we stay in the back, and it just ain’t right smokin’ a cigarette standin’ outside.”
Dean was very grateful he was only talking about cigarettes. He didn’t think he could take these guys high.
“Anyways, you’re welcome t’join us.”
“You should come,” Janine said, “it’ll be fun.”
“You’ll be there?” De
an asked.
Janine let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes again. “Probably not. My stupid mother.”
“Don’t make funna your mother, baby, she’s the best cousin I got.”
Dean’s eyes went wide. “Cousin?” He let out a relieved breath, since the idea that this young woman—who couldn’t have been older than Sam—was hugging Manfred for sexual reasons filled him with a slightly queasy feeling. But he could live with simple familial affection.
“Yup. My uncle Freddie’s the best.” She extricated herself from Manfred and said, “I gotta go pee. It was so great meeting you guys.” With that, she flounced off to the restrooms in the back.
Manfred smiled his almost-toothy grin. “She’s a pistol, that kid. Hate when she calls me ‘Uncle Freddie,’ though—makes me feel old.”
He patted Dean on the shoulder, forcing Dean to resist the urge to punch him. Remember the record collection.
“I’m glad you fellas are havin’ fun.” Then Manfred looked up and saw someone. “Hey, Aldo, come over here!”
Dean winced for a second, then realized that it was the guitarist Manfred had yelled for. Aldo—who had hair as long as Manfred’s, but styled a little more carefully, and also still all dark brown—came over with a big smile under a rather large nose. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Aldo, these are the friends’a Ash’s I was tellin’ y’about. Sam and Dean Winchester. These guys’re a coupla pistols.”
Grinning, Aldo said, “Thought Winchesters was rifles.”
Dean gave that a sympathy chuckle. “Thanks. And congrats, you’re the one thousandth person to make that joke.”
“Haw haw haw!” Dean almost recoiled from the powerful sound of Aldo’s guffaw. Next to him, Sam actually jumped in his chair. “That’s a good one.”
“Uh, thanks. Hey, listen,” Dean said, grateful for the ability to say this to the one member of the band for whom it wouldn’t be a lie, “you sounded fantastic tonight. You really nailed those licks.”
“Well, thank you very kindly, Sam.”
“Uh, I’m Dean, he’s Sam.”
“Right, s’what I said, Dean. So you guys know Ash, huh?”
“Yeah, he—”
“That is one crazy-ass sumbitch,” Aldo said, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t know to look at him he went to no MIT, now wouldja?”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, we thought that was a little weird, too. Can’t imagine he fit in all that well there.”
“Hell, I can’t see him fittin’ in nowhere, Dean.”
“I’m Sam.”
“Right, s’what I said, Sam. Anyhow, look, I’d love to chat, but I got somethin’ to take care of, know what I mean?” He actually waggled his eyebrows.
“Long as you stay away from Janine,” Manfred said sternly.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Aldo said, putting his hand in front of Manfred’s face and then walking to the bar, where he started talking with an older woman.
“Listen, I gotta go drain the lizard, m’self. You fellas need anythin’ at all, lemme know.” Before Dean could even consider a response, Manfred went off to the bathroom.
“So,” Sam said after a second, “whatever’s going on here, it’s staying hidden real well. I’m not picking up any EMF in the bar, and I’ve checked the walls and pillars and stuff. Nothing’s jumping out at me as being any kind of symbol or sigil.”
Chuckling, Dean said, “You sure ‘Kilroy was here’ wasn’t a summoning?”
Sam returned the chuckle. “Probably not. It was a long shot anyhow—I’m pretty sure that this thing is tied to Manfred directly, even if it does relate to the music.”
“Well, we should cover all the bases,” Dean said before taking a sip of beer. After he gulped it down, he added, “If nothing else, we check everything tonight, we don’t have to come back tomorrow night.” Although, he thought, if Jennifer’s working again…
“By the way, Dean,” Sam said after a second, “I was thinking that tonight, after we deal with Manfred’s spirit, we go check the house on Webb.”
“Why tonight?” Dean asked. “I mean, we’re probably gonna have our hands full with Casper the Surly Ghost. Plus, who knows how long we’ll be out drinking and lighting up?”
Sam gave him his earnest look and spoke in a whisper. “Dean, if we’re gonna break into a house, I want it to be as late at night as possible.”
Dean considered arguing, but his brother was right. “Yeah, okay, fine, but let’s play it by ear with the spirit first.”
“Sure. But I really hope we find something, ’cause there wasn’t anything at Cambreleng. Oh, by the way, you owe me ten bucks.”
“For what?”
“You said I’d find something the cops didn’t. I checked, and the place was clean—too clean for a New York street. The NYPD got everything.”
Dean picked up his beer. “Sam, I told you—”
“It’s got nothin’ to do with what they’re looking for, man. Remember what Frieda said at the zoo? That they’d been talking to everyone from cops to reporters to university lawyers. Those were Fordham students who died, and that means the college is in full CYA mode. I guarantee they put pressure on the cops to vacuum that crime scene within an inch of its life. It doesn’t matter if they think it’s important or not. Anything at that scene is in an NYPD lab somewhere.”
Gulping down the rest of his beer, Dean set it on the table with a thunk. “Fine, you know more about college administrations and their weird habits. But we still have to check the house.” He thought for a second. “Thing is—we probably won’t find anything.”
“Good,” Sam said with a smirk, “I could use the ten bucks.”
“No, I’m serious, Sammy, let’s think about this. I don’t think this is for us. I mean, we know the ritual’s fake.”
“Do we?”
Dean looked over at his brother. Now he had on his insistent face. Dean hated the insistent face, because Sam only used it when he was arguing with him. As opposed to when he argued with Dad. That was always the angry face. “Of course we do.”
“Because Dad said so, right? Except what if he was wrong? I mean, he was the one telling us that vampires weren’t real, but then in Manning, bingo, vampires.”
Shaking his head, Dean said, “Dad knew about vampires, he just thought they were extinct.”
“The point is, Dean, that we don’t know everything. And Dad knew more than us, but he didn’t know everything, either. I mean, this Samuels guy only tried the ritual a couple of times before he was arrested. How do we know it didn’t work? Or that it won’t?”
“C’mon, Sammy, the ritual was only performed by Samuels, he lied about where it came from, and nobody’s used it before or since.”
“That we know of.”
Dean glowered at Sam. “It’s not even based on anything, it’s just a big con.”
Holding up his hands in surrender, Sam said, “Fine, let’s say it really is fake. We can’t just not do anything. We know when the next murder will be, and we at least have an idea where. And the reasons why they’re happening then are supernatural, and that is what we do.”
“No.” Dean looked at his brother. “We hunt real monsters, not fakes.”
Quietly, Sam said, “I’d say someone who’s killed three people and intends to kill more is a monster.”
Dean sighed, continuing the argument out of habit and an unwillingness to admit that his baby brother was right. “We could just tell the cops.”
“You really think they’d believe us? The only way to convince them would be to explain the ritual, and if we explain the ritual, they’ll think we’re nuts. And then they’d run our descriptions through their computer, and then—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He didn’t need to be reminded of the fact that he was America’s Most Wanted. At first he’d thought it was kind of fun, but the novelty had worn off once the real consequences kicked in. “I’m gonna get another beer. You want anything?”
Insistent face came back. “So
we’re doing this, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Worry Wart, we’re doing it. We’ll check the house tonight, and tomorrow we’ll try to track Mr. Pym down.”
“Good. And I’ll have another gin and tonic.”
Dean stopped, turned, and stared at his brother. “Dude, I’m so not ordering that. I’ll get you a screwdriver, I’ll get you a Scotch and soda, hell, I’ll get you a glass of red wine, but a gin and freakin’ tonic? What is this, Masterpiece Theatre?”
Sam stared at him with his mouth slightly open. “I like gin and tonic. What, that’s a crime now?”
“Yes, actually.” He put up his hands. “Forget it—get your own froofy drinks. I’m gettin’ a beer.”
With that, he grabbed his empty beer glass, stepped down from the raised area and squeezed his way between two people to get at Jennifer’s side of the bar.
“You’re back,” she said with a raised eyebrow. Dean noticed that a sheen of perspiration beaded her forehead.
“Big as life and twice as cute,” Dean said with a smile, wincing even as he said it.
“Well, you’re one’a those, anyhow,” Jennifer said with a cheeky smile, which Dean found himself liking. “’Nother beer?”
He nodded. “So I gotta ask—what kind of music do you like?”
As she poured another Brooklyn lager, Jennifer shook her head. “Don’t ask me that.”
Frowning, Dean asked, “Why not?”
Jennifer shuddered, though her hand remained steady on the tap. “Because you’re flirtin’ with me, and that’s really sweet, and I’m kinda likin’ it, and the minute I answer that question, you’re gonna run away.”
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad,” he said with a grin. “I mean, it’s not like you listen to boy bands or anything, right?”
After she finished pouring the beer, Jennifer just stared at him.
His face fell. “No!”
Setting the beer down on a napkin, Jennifer held up her other hand. “I can’t explain it, all right? I’m, like, twenty years too old for this stuff, but I can’t help it. I love it! The harmonies, the dancing—and dammit, they’re pretty.” She pointed an accusatory finger at Dean before he could speak. “Don’t say a goddamn word, Dean, I get enough crap about this from my kids.”
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