by Brian Keene
“Concerned? Of course I’m concerned. My brother and I are both concerned. Two of our customers are dead. And just so you know, I considered them friends.”
The cop shifted from one foot to the other and tapped his pen against a small spiral notepad. “Well, it’s gone beyond coincidence at this stage, so we’re gonna have eyes and ears on the joint. Consider yourself warned.”
“Is there anything else, officer? I really need to get back to work. It’s been a hell of a week, and a lot of people here could use a drink.”
The cop tipped his hat back with his pen. “Well under the circumstances, I hope you’re pouring doubles … on the house. With two dead bodies, you may need more than a happy hour to keep your patrons coming back.”
I closed the bar for the second time in September, and Griff drove down from Napa to deal with insurance paperwork and cover the bar while I went to Kitty’s wake.
We reopened the day of her funeral, after which Johnny drowned his sorrows in a tidal wave of Jameson’s. He’d bought Kitty a ring and was planning to propose. The mood was somber, an unseen but palpable melancholic weight bearing down on our shoulders.
Rollo accompanied Fern on piano for a slow song, which seemed fitting for the occasion, although in those days it seemed we heard more of Fern’s flute than anything else. She hardly sang anymore. The once lively atmosphere of Griff’s had faded, like a sun-bleached painting left to hang in the light for too long.
Griff walked in as I was stocking the bar the following day. He sat down and sighed.
“What the fuck, man? This is nuts. What the hell’s going on? Is this place cursed?”
“I’m starting to wonder if there’s a black cloud over this bar.”
“There’s a black cloud over this whole damn city, King. That’s why I left. I don’t know how you stand it.”
“I love it here,” I said. And at the time, I’d meant it.
“Well, something has to change. The mood of this place is so different. What happened? It used to be swinging. People dancing, laughing, coming in off the streets … I’m hearing this place just isn’t the same anymore.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe Kitty and Saul are dead. Fuck. And what the fuck’s with Fern and that fuckin’ flute? Word is it’s giving Griff’s a weird vibe, that people are having second thoughts about coming here. We’ll be lucky to keep the damn doors open.”
“I don’t know, Griff. It’s strange. It started off as something neat and different and now … I don’t know. It’s taken on a life of its own.”
“I want you to get rid of it. Tell Fern she can’t play it anymore. It’s not the kind of music we play here. Enough is enough.”
“Griff, I’m gonna be honest with you … I don’t think Fern’ll give up that flute. She’s really attached to it. It’s all she ever wants to play.”
Griff hopped off his stool. “Well it’s too bad. She’s been the heart and soul of this place for some time now. But if it comes down to our business or that goddamned flute, you’re gonna have to get rid of Fern.”
We both looked up to find her standing in the doorway.
“Aw, Fern,” Griff said. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to see you go. You know how we feel about you here. You’re a legend. I just—”
“It’s okay,” Fern said. “I understand. I’ll just sing tonight.”
But after Griff left, I heard her up on the roof deck, alone, playing that thing like she was serenading the entire city and every life in San Francisco depended on it.
And I wondered then why it was so damn important to her.
I didn’t catch wind of my brother’s boating accident in the South Bay until Freddy saw it on the news. He sat me down, poured me a drink, and told me to brace myself.
“Let me guess. Someone’s dead.”
“Yeah.”
“Well it isn’t you, it isn’t Rollo, and it isn’t Fern …” I looked around the room and motioned to the few customers we had. “And it isn’t any of these guys.”
“No,” Freddy said. “It’s Griff.”
I slammed my fist on the bar. “Is this your idea of a sick fucking joke?”
Freddy shook his head. “I would never kid about something like this.”
“Well, I don’t believe it. I just don’t. This can’t be happening, Freddy. Tell me how the fuck this is happening. Please.”
“All I can tell you is what happened, King. But do you really want to know?”
I poured myself another shot, then another on top of it.
“They don’t think he drowned.” Flowers cleared his throat and poured himself a shot. “The news report said …” he pushed out a hard breath, “… said his head was taken clean off by a propeller. So I don’t think he suffered, either.” He put his hand over mine. “They said a young boy in a nearby fishing charter snagged it with his rod. Kid was hysterical. He and his family are at the hospital—my guess is he’s pretty traumatized.” He paused. “Man, I can hardly believe the words coming out of my own mouth right now. I hate to be the one to tell you this, King.”
I downed another shot and closed my eyes.
Heartache licked at my chest with a sharp, fiery tongue. Our parents had been dead for years. They were both only children. Griff was all I had left for family in this world.
“How the hell could this happen? Griff’s been on boats his whole damn life. Did he fall? Get knocked off? Who else was there?”
“I don’t know the details, bud.” He patted my hand. “I’m sure we’ll find out more soon enough. Why don’t you close up shop, and I’ll take you home.”
“No, I need the distraction. I’ll call the station and see what I can find out, but I don’t want to close. I don’t want to be alone.”
“I’m so sorry, King.”
“I know, Freddy.” I squeezed his hand and fought back tears that came anyway. “I know.”
That night, a Saturday, oblivious to the tragedies we had faced that fateful month, Lana Greenwood walked through the door like she owned the place in a low-cut, fire engine red dress, lipstick to match, and a pair of nylon stockings with a black line running up the back of her legs. She was a cross between Veronica Lake and Mamie Van Doren and came out of nowhere, already stocked with a little liquid courage and a point to prove. She ordered a Sloe Gin Fizz after allowing the room ample time to size her up. As I poured her drink, I could tell she had an agenda. I just didn’t know yet what it was.
She tongued her straw for a few seconds and looked around the room, trying to find the only pair of eyes that wasn’t on her. She made her way over to a high top where Flowers sat listening to Fern sing “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart,” a tribute he’d requested to Griff and the others.
“Who’s the dame?” Lana asked.
“My wife,” Flowers answered with as much of a smile as he could muster. “Her name’s Fern. I’m Freddy.” He offered a hand. “But they call me Flowers.”
“Really.” She leaned forward and made the most of her low-cut dress. “Well it’s nice to meet you, Sweet Pea.”
Now you can call it luck, fate, karma … call it what you will, but the fact that I turned around to grab a bottle of Tanqueray at that very moment is the only reason I caught a glimpse of Fern in the mirror.
Her eyes were fixed on Lana, and what I saw inside of them was one of the most frightening things I’d ever seen in my life. When she shifted her gaze and caught mine, I knew whatever had passed between us would be the end of me.
Next thing I knew, I was asking Flowers to make sure Rollo and Gina covered the bar while I went to the morgue to identify my brother’s body. And as my car went off the bridge, it was not me driving. My hands were on the wheel, my foot on the gas, but I was not thinking or willing my body to do what my movements implied. I wasn’t thinking at all.
The only thing I heard was the sound of a flute, the windshield breaking, and the rushing of water as the music faded and I plummeted to the bottom of the bay.
And then, just … dar
kness.
I was already back in the bar when Fern turned her sights on Lana, but no one could see me. They didn’t even know I was dead yet. Hell, I don’t even know how I got there. I just knew there was nothing I could do stop what happened next … not any of it.
“This might be your lucky night, Sweet Pea,” Lana said. “If you can believe it, some creep stood me up, so I just happen to be available. And you know what they say … one man’s loss is another’s gain.” She sidled up to Freddy, who had no intentions of obliging her.
Fern ended her song to a round of applause. Then she picked up that accursed flute and began to play.
Lana asked Freddy to light her cigarette, and when he did, the Zippo exploded into a ball of flames. Lana’s long blond hair caught fire and she just sat there, stricken, fire dancing all around her. Freddy ripped the tablecloth out from under their drinks like a magician and covered her head with it before she let out so much as a sound.
When Freddy pulled back the cloth, some of Lana’s skin came with it, her movie star face raw and charred and blistered. Smoke drifted off her hair in little wisps.
I could smell the singe from wherever I was, and for a moment I was lost in thought about that whole side of things.
Lana’s screams snapped me out of my daze, and all hell broke loose. Gina nearly went through me to get to the phone—perhaps she had gone through me—and I turned my attention to Freddy. He was staring at Fern, who was holding her flute in her hands and smiling.
Smiling.
Flowers reached up and grabbed her hand. He forced her down the steps and off the stage. “Come outside with me. I want to talk to you.”
I followed them out while everyone else stayed behind, tending to Lana.
“What the hell is going on? Why are you smiling? Did you see what just happened back there?”
“Of course I did. That slut deserved it. And if you hadn’t been such a hero, she’d be a lot worse off than she is now.”
Freddy’s face went white. “You … you did this?”
“So what? She deserved it. They all did.”
“What do you mean? Who?” Sick recognition crossed his face. “But … I don’t understand. You did this? How? Why?”
“Because I can,” Fern said, and put the flute to her lips.
Freddy grabbed it out of her hands and stared at it. “What the fuck? Is this some kind of black magic?” He turned back to Fern. “What are you doing? What’s happened to you?”
“You gave it to me, Freddy. We all have you to thank. Now give it back.”
Freddy turned red with anger, as if he’d been burned by Fern’s fire act. He put the flute to his lips. “You know, when I was a kid, I played the recorder. It can’t be much different than this.”
He blew into the silver lip plate, and Fern backed away.
“Stop it, Freddy!”
“Why?” he asked between breaths. “You don’t like it? Let me play you a song for a change.” He played a few more notes, pushing breaths into the blowhole and pressing the small silver keys. Fern stumbled wide-eyed into the street, her smile replaced with a fearful grimace.
For a moment, I almost recognized her. Fern, the love of Freddy Flowers’ life; the elegant songbird who made my bar a success and even broke my heart a little by belonging to someone else. I tried to cry out, but my voice made no sound.
Fern was in the street now, hands in the air and tears in her eyes while Freddy played that thing like the Pied fucking Piper. And I don’t know if he was possessed by it, angry, or just plain in shock, but he played on as the cable car passed. Fern’s heel came out from under her and she fell back, got her hair caught in a wheel, and was dragged screaming up the dark street.
Freddy blew one last note on that old Artley Flute just as someone pulled the emergency brake.
By then, Fern’s screams had stopped.
BROKEN LADY
GENE O’NEILL
1.
Saturday night in San Francisco’s Tenderloin is always a time of spirited buying, selling, and trading. But, in addition to being Saturday, this is the first day of the month, with both SSI and General Assistance checks cashed hours ago. So the ‘Loin is already rocking and rolling long before dark.
2.
At around seven thirty, Ellie meets her friend and next door neighbor, Taj Jones, just as they both step out of their rooms on the 2nd floor of the Hotel Reo, located right in the heart of the ‘Loin.
“Hey, Elinore Nightwind!” Taj says, dark eyes flashing brightly, using Ellie’s full name as she always does whenever they first meet, as if she were the M.C. at some nightclub announcing tonight’s star performer. Then, after a slight pause, Taj punctuates the statement with a joyous chuckle.
3.
When they’d first introduced themselves a year and a half ago in the shabby lobby of the Hotel Reo, Taj had thought a moment, and then declared with her patented wide, full-toothed smile and lifted eyebrows: “Whoa, Nightwind? Y’all doan look Native American … But then again you doan look white either. What’s going on in your background, girl?”
Ellie smiled back and explained: “Well, my pops was actually a full blooded Wappo. My moms was a mix of Irish and black.”
Taj nodded and laughed, pointing at Ellie’s booty. “Well, I know which side of the family that comes from.”
Ellie couldn’t help laughing. Even though Taj had a B.A. from SF State with a major in Black Studies and a minor in Drama, she insisted on sprinkling her speech with street vernacular, as if purposely masking her education. In any event, Taj’s speech was always friendly, colorful, and personal. This woman was so truly good-natured and totally uninhibited that Ellie couldn’t possibly be offended by anything she said. And most of what she had to say was right on anyhow. Ellie did indeed resemble her mother—at least the two old yellowing photos she still carried in her wallet. And of course she’d inherited Angie Nightwind’s raspy singing voice and interest in the blues. But, her dad? Well, maybe she got a little of his rugged constitution and temper, but not too much of anything else … except, of course, his taste for booze.
Ellie and Taj got along great from the moment of that first meeting. On a couple of special occasions, when Taj wasn’t dancing at The Mitchell Brothers, they’d gone out together and partied down hard, including once at The Greeks.
Ellie had watched her friend perform a number of times in the renowned strip joint up on O’Farrell Street. The tall black girl was elegant and tastefully erotic. Had all the customers—mostly male—staring with bright lust in their eyes, clapping enthusiastically when she finished her routine, and reaching for their wallets. But Taj never got involved personally afterhours with any of those paying customers, even the high rollers. Didn’t even have a real boyfriend. “Doan have the time,” she’d replied when asked why. “‘Cuz, I plan to be dancing in Vegas soon.” Ellie thought her friend had the sufficient amount of talent and drive for the big time. Knew she lived in the lower rent ‘Loin only to save money, which she mostly spent on formal dancing lessons from two very expensive teachers, one who’d danced on Broadway and the other in Vegas shows.
4.
Standing near her door, Ellie says: “Time for work already?”
Taj glances at her watch and nods. “Where y’all heading tonight, girl?”
“Cashing my two checks, then, I guess, down to The Greeks.”
With Taj’s encouragement, Ellie has been fooling around working on some new songs during the last four or five months, finding herself initially rusty, but eventually getting a little better after she cut down on her drinking, at least during the daytime when she’s writing. But today Ellie has finished a rough draft with some really promising lyrics—she knows this song is going to be really good. She can barely resist showing it to Taj. But she forces herself to wait until it’s polished and perfect.
Nevertheless, tonight she is going out to celebrate. And, actually, she’s pretty comfortable drinking at The Greeks, even though it has a bike
r and mostly working-class, rough crowd … But then, she reminds herself, I ain’t such a high-rent package anymore myself.
“Girl, you need to quit drinking at that dump,” Taj says with an uncharacteristic frown. “You keep on dragging them scruffy dudes home, and one’s gonna do more than just rough you up. Remember Looking for Mr. Goodbar ? ”
Ellie smiles wryly. Taj is always reminding her of this old Diane Keaton movie about a school teacher, who cruises low rent bars at night, picking up young dudes for one-night stands. Until this psycho guy finally frosts her ass big-time. But Ellie definitely prefers the younger, bigger guys. She has never shared with Taj a kind of weird dream she has after she’s been really juiced up. She imagines one of the young, strong dudes squeezing her so tightly it magically welds together all her invisible scars and cracks.
“Where else am I going to go, Taj?” she says, shrugging. “The bartenders take pretty good care of me down there, you know. Point out the real crazies. Even physically intervene when some obnoxious drunk can’t keep his hands to himself or is overly aggressive.”
“How ‘bout the new club near The Mitchell Brothers, jus’ around the corner on Van Ness? The O.K. Corral is a little classier. Got your kinda rockabilly sound, girl. They even have live music on weekends. Maybe you can get a gig there, you know what I’m saying?” It’s Taj who has been constantly pestering her to cut back on the booze, write her own songs, and try singing again. And Taj had convinced her to sing two songs when they were out at a club with an open mic a month ago. After hearing her sing, Taj had declared: “Wow, that’s some sexy growl, girl. Needs a little bit of polish, but indeed reminds me of Janis Joplin.”
Of course, despite her friend’s generous encouragement, Ellie knows her rusty singing voice is pretty much shot. Too many cigarettes, too many years of heavy boozing. No real range left, just a hoarse, deep-throated, grating rasp. Ha, she thinks, not much of a commercial market for a female imitation of Tom Waits.