The Barkeep

by William Lashner

  Justin rode into the parking lot and parked next to the van. He slid off his bike, looked around as he walked to the back of the van, and tried the doors. Locked, of course.

  He walked over to the bar’s entrance and checked out the closing time. Two. Same as Zenzibar. Too bad. On the way back to the bike, he kicked at one of the van’s rear lights, cracking the plastic. It felt surprisingly good, which was a pretty good indication that Justin was losing perspective. So be it. Back on the bike, he slipped it into gear and drove off, all the while thinking about how Marson was going to react tonight when Justin told him he would have to leave a little early.

  39.

  FUNKY COLD MEDINA

  “Is that a new shirt?” said Justin to Cody as he built Cody’s drink behind the wood at Zenzibar.

  “Silk,” said Cody, tapping on the bar, looking around more insistently than usual.

  “Take it easy. I don’t think Slammer and Jammer are coming back.”

  “Not as long as you still have that bat and Larry’s sitting next to me,” said Cody, glancing quickly to the side. “I’m just a little amped tonight.”

  “And what’s that around your neck?”

  Cody fingered the thick gold chain. “Something I picked up. Remember I told you I had stumbled onto a moneymaking opportunity? Well, it’s starting to pay off. And I owe you for it.”

  “Me?”

  “It never would have happened if you hadn’t sent me”—he glanced at Larry on the adjacent barstool, talking to the guy next to him, then leaned forward and lowered his voice—“if you hadn’t sent me on that mission, you know. It was in the middle of that where I fell into what I fell into. I could hook you up with a piece of fine merchandise if you wanted it. A fat plasma or something shiny. At prices you would not believe.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” said Justin as he measured the Peach Schnapps and Southern Comfort before loading them into his silver shaker. “I’m trying to get rid of my junk, not add to it.”

  “Who doesn’t want more junk? This is America, baby.”

  “You ever listen to Dylan?”

  “That creep that comes in here every so often and starts talking politics? Nah, why would I do that?”

  “Why would you?” said Justin. A jigger of vodka, a jigger of Blue Curaçao. A shovel of ice. “Did you ever make it to Dirty Frank’s?”

  “Like I promised. And I found your buddy too.”

  “Charming, isn’t he?” said Justin as he capped his tin and gave it a quick shake before straining the bluish mixture over a stack of square cubes in a tall tumbler.

  “I sort of admired him.”

  “You must have been really drunk.”

  “No, really. The old guy is sick as a dog and yet he’s still in there fighting the fight. I could see a bit of myself in him.”

  “God, I hope not.” Justin filled the rest of the glass with cranberry juice, put a lime on the edge and gave it a stir, turning the whole thing a bright purple.

  “What’s that?” said Cody.

  “It’s called a Funky Cold Medina.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “I kid you not. I don’t name them, I just make them. Try it.”

  Cody brought the drink to his lips, taking a small sip and then a longer one. “Wow. What’s that taste that sort of pulls it all together?”

  “Peach.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Cody before taking a gulp. As he did, the door to the bar opened and Lee walked in.

  She was dressed conservatively, like she had just come from the investment firm, high neckline, sensible black pumps. And there was something crisp in her step as she made her way to the bar; she was coming in to deliver a downgrade rather than to relax into a drink. Justin winced a bit as she came right up to the bar and stood next to Cody.

  “Hello, darling,” said Larry, leaning forward to talk across Cody. “We missed you.”

  “I took the day off yesterday. How are you?”

  “Miserable as usual.”

  “Attaboy,” she said, staring at Justin for a bit before turning to Cody.

  “Is that a new shirt?” she said.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Cody.

  “Nice. You seem prosperous tonight, I must say.”

  “Things are looking up.”

  “For both of us then,” she said. “What’s that you’re drinking?”

  “It’s called a whatchama-something-or-other, I think, but it’s pretty damn good.”

  “You want one?” said Justin.

  “How about just some tonic water and lime?”

  “Gin or vodka?”

  “Ice,” she said.

  “Coming right up.” He grabbed a glass and filled it with ice, poured in the tonic water. “I called,” he said softly.

  “I know.”

  “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “Is that what it was?” she said, her voice not so soft. “Because I just thought it was a booty call.”

  Cody coughed midsip, spraying purple on his new shirt and over the bar. “I’ll be right back,” he said before retreating from the scene.

  “That was a little harsh,” said Justin as he wiped the bar.

  “But true,” said Lee, taking Cody’s seat.

  “Maybe.”

  She watched as he squeezed a half lime into the tonic, threw out the hull, slid a slice of lime atop the rim.

  “Where’s your friend?” she said when the tonic water was in front of her.

  “She’s my father’s friend,” said Justin, “not mine. And she’s gone.”

  “Out of town?”

  “Out of my life.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Lee. “I liked her. She has a cruel honesty about her.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “I found it surprisingly refreshing.” She lifted her drink and took a sip. “She forced me see to things a lot more clearly.”

  “I suppose that explains the tonic water and lime, with just ice. Are you sleeping better suddenly?”

  “Much. You want to know something, Justin? Your whole ‘rare beauty of nonattachment’ thing is utter bullshit.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely. It’s a coward’s way of not getting hurt. But it only goes one way with you. You count on the attachment from the other side, you even cultivate it. Sweet smiles, kind gestures, that puppy-dog look in your eye. Just so you can call up late at night, have your fun, and then talk about your nonattachment as if you were some Buddha in training instead of just another horndog.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I’m right? That’s all you have to say? That I’m right?”

  “I’m a bartender,” said Justin flatly, “and to a bartender, the customer is always right.”

  Lee stared for a moment before taking hold of her drink and lifting it as if to dash it smack into Justin’s face. He didn’t move, didn’t so much as flinch, knowing he deserved a drenching, totally. But then she gained control of herself, snatched down a gulp, and slammed the glass back to the bar. She lifted her purse and rummaged for a bit before grabbing a bill and tossing it beside the near-empty glass. “For the drink,” she said.

  “It’s on the house.”

  “It should be on your head,” she said, “but I want to pay for it. Good-bye, Justin,” she said as she stood from the stool. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “And what exactly is that?”

  “That’s the problem right there,” she said before turning and striding away from the bar.

  Justin stared at her back, her legs, her lustrous black hair. She stopped at the door to say something to someone, glancing back as she talked. Even from that distance, the beauty of her eyes shone.

  Justin knew that when she left the bar, she was leaving his life, and he felt an unaccountable sadness. But he couldn’t tell if the sadness was from losing Lee or the convenience of a Lee. Were all his efforts to keep from getting too close to her a sad acknowledgmen
t of his inability to deal with how important she might already have become in his life? Or was she right, was she just a handy body and was he just a horndog? And which would make him feel better about himself? He was at a loss, which was why he had reverted to the cold and level affect of a professional barkeep.

  Damn, he had been in the job too long; he needed to find another profession. Personal trainer? Dog walker? Sanitation engineer? He watched as Lee gave him a final toss of hair before heading out the door.

  Annie Overmeyer, he said to himself, nodding in appreciation. Who knew that honesty was so damn contagious?

  “Nice show,” said Larry. “You should have charged tickets.”

  “Yuengling?”

  “Let’s try something a step above.”

  “How about a Stella Artois?”

  “Yes, please, I’m feeling a little Brando-ish. Stella! I guess we’re both in the same boat. Me with Quentin, you with Lee.”

  “We’re not in the same boat at all. You still care.”

  “Dude?”

  “You want my advice on your Quentin problem?” said Justin as he tilted the chalice and poured from the tap. “There’s a place you can get to. It’s hard to find and it’s easy to fall out of, but there it is, that place. It is the sweetest place you’ve never been and it’s called I Don’t Give a Crap. Book yourself a ticket.”

  “Nice mood you’re in.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m tired of saying good-bye.”

  He slid the beer in front of Larry and headed over to Marson. “I need to leave a little early,” said Justin.

  Marson looked impatiently at his watch. “When?”

  “About an hour before closing.”

  “You know, Justin, this is a job, not a resort.”

  “I know what it is,” said Justin. “And I have to punch out early. And instead of giving me crap, you should say, ‘Sure thing, Justin, I’ll cover for you.’”

  “Sure thing, Justin,” said Marson, with an edge in his voice. “I’ll cover for you. This time.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  When he made his way to the end of the bar, taking orders all the way, Cody was back on his stool, his shirt matted wet where he had tried to clean it.

  “That was a little sticky,” said Cody. “Didn’t mean to get in the middle of something.”

  “There’s nothing to get in the middle of anymore,” said Larry.

  “So it’s over between them?”

  “I’m not sure what it was,” said Larry, “but whatever it was, it sure isn’t anymore.”

  Without comment, Justin grabbed Lee’s glass, threw out the lime and the straw, dumped the rest in the sink, and ran the glass over the scrubber. When Larry turned away, Justin leaned toward Cody.

  “What did you mean when you said that the old guy was still fighting the fight?”

  “Hustling, I meant. Looking for the big score. I figure most guys that age have given up already, are left sucking down all the second-rate liquor they can buy with their Social Security checks. But your old geezer, he’s still in the game.”

  “What game?”

  “Well, he was telling me how he was right on the edge of a big-time score that was going to land him flat on easy street. Something to do with some insurance scam. He was going to buy himself a house smack on the beach in Honduras, drink beer all day, and hire native women to sit on his face through the night. And he said if they happened to smother him with their tender thighs, then he’d go out happy.”

  “A classy guy.”

  “It didn’t sound so bad, actually.”

  “This sound like a ten-thousand-dollar dream?”

  “No way. He was talking big money, fuck-you money, he was talking about being richer than sin, and that’s pretty damn rich in my book.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I asked him if I could get a piece of that action.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me to stick my dick up my ass.”

  “I bet it sounded better in his Texas drawl.”

  “That it did,” said Cody. “The way he put it, it almost sounded like fun.”

  40.

  BOOKER’S

  The parking lot of The Kork & Keg in Blue Bell was mostly empty, a couple of beaters, a black pickup. No white van. Justin parked his bike near the entrance and sauntered inside.

  “Don’t be wasting your time stepping in,” called out the barman with a sharp, high-pitched voice. “We’re just about to be closing.” He was a burly older man in a white shirt and a dirty red vest, distinctly unfriendly. He leaned against the far end of the bar as if his hip were planted there, his thick arms crossed, his head tilted toward the television.

  The joint had a long bar to the right, tables in the middle, and booths on the left, with a door leading to the kitchen straight back. It was the kind of place that served food only because the state required that kind of bar to serve food. Justin had worked a couple of bars like this in his day, sad hard-drinking roadhouses where the only ones left at the end of the night were the hard core who were bumming drinks instead of leaving tips, because they had already poured all their monies down their throats. Two guys sat morosely at the wood, their hands gripped around their beers as if afraid someone would snatch them away. Another man sat alone and pondered the imponderables, like how to crib a final drink. A couple of old-marrieds hissed at each other in one of the booths.

  Justin hopped onto a stool. The bartender ignored him as he watched some noxious cable news channel. Justin sat there, drumming his fingers. It wouldn’t be long, he figured, and it wasn’t. The barman turned from the television and gave Justin a look of disgust before taking a noisy breath, pushing himself off his perch, lurching over.

  “I said we’re closing. You’re not deaf as well as dumb, I’m supposing. I already gave last call. Which makes you, my friend, shit out of luck.”

  “Just a quick drink,” said Justin calmly. “I won’t be long.”

  “You’re right you won’t be long. I told you twice already, last call’s been rung.”

  “And here I am to answer the bell.”

  The barkeep stared at Justin for a moment, and then said, “The doors get locked at two. If you’re still inside, then you’ll be cleaning up with me till I unlock them again. So drink fast, friend. What will it be?”

  “How about a Tequila Sunrise.”

  “Right away.”

  “But hold the tequila.”

  “Hold the tequila? What will you be wanting in it, then, vodka instead?”

  “Just the juice and the grenadine. But charge me for the real thing, that’s fine.”

  “A late-night vitamin C fix for you, is that it?”

  “Something like that,” said Justin. “What kind of grenadine do you use?”

  “Are you busting me balls now?”

  “I just want to know.”

  “He just wants to know, like it is any of his business what goes into his damn drink. Well, if you must, we use Rose’s here.”

  Justin winced. “That’s mostly just high-fructose corn syrup. Have you ever made your own?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “It’s not too hard if you ignore all the hard ways to do it. Just squeeze a pomegranate in a juicer, heat the juice enough to mix in an equal amount of sugar, and then for each cup of juice, add an ounce of pomegranate molasses and half a teaspoon of orange-blossom water. Simple as that.”

  “Pomegranate molasses?”

  “You can get it at Whole Foods.”

  “I don’t eat quiche, and I never took to chemistry.”

  “All righty then. If all you’ve got is Rose’s, hold the grenadine as well as the tequila. I’ll just have the orange juice. Over ice. And maybe a dash of cranberry for color.”

  “You seem to know your way around a drink.”

  “I work at Zenzibar in Center City.”

  The bartender tilted his head. “On Sixteenth, is it?”

  “That’s the o
ne.”

  “Nice place, that. And what are you there, a waiter?”

  “I’m behind the wood.”

  “A fellow pour man, is it? It’s grand to know you, then. The name’s Rosenberg,” said the bartender, reaching out a hand.

  “Rosenberg?”

  “You got a problem, friend?”

  “None,” said Justin as he took hold of the outstretched hand and gave it a shake. “Justin.”

  “An old comrade of mine, he works down the street from your place now,” said Rosenberg as he poured the juices from his plastic pourers into a glass with ice and pushed it toward Justin. “By any chance do you know Crowder?”

  “That knucklehead? Sure.”

  “We poured drinks together at the Irish on Locust until they booted us both into the street.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was too generous with the merchandise and they said the clientele was getting too young for me to relate to.”

  “That’s raw.”

  “But they weren’t wrong on either of us, to be truthful. The place, it got discovered by a gaggle of goslings. The management wanted me to put myself out on Facebook to play to the crowd. I asked if they were pulling my pud. They weren’t. I told them I wished they would, because I could use the action. You sure you don’t want anything in that juice?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “A twelve-stepper, are you?”

  “Something like that.”

  Rosenberg slapped a shot glass on the bar and filled it to the brim with tequila. “You wouldn’t mind if I happen to take your shot for you, then?”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “I was a twelve-stepper too, until I stepped off,” said Rosenberg. He lifted the glass. “Sláinte.”

  Justin peeled a Benjamin out of his wallet, dropped it on the bar. “I’ll have another when you get the chance.”

  Rosenberg eyed the bill for a bit and lifted his chin to stare at Justin. Just then one of the laggards at the bar spoke up.

  “Hey, George. Let me have another. One final pint for the long dusty road.”

  “The last call’s been rung, Tom,” said Rosenberg still staring at Justin. “The pub’s a-closing, boys.”