The Barkeep

by William Lashner

  “A movie would be more entertaining.”

  “I don’t go to the movies. It’s no fun having to pee every five minutes, you miss the good stuff. You got any music?”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “You care too much about mood, you never get yourself laid. Put on something nice. No reason we can’t have usselves a little party while we’re waiting.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “You’re waiting for me to leave and I’m waiting for someone to die. Put on something nice and soft to ease the blood, none of that modern crap that only gives a headache.”

  Annie stood up from the chair and, with shaking knees, went over to the credenza with the stereo. She went through her CDs and found Miles Davis. Just the kind of noir fusion cool to handle a deadly kind of night. She put the disc on and let the first tense notes of Bill Evans’s piano shift through her. When she turned around again, the old man was standing right in front her.

  “Want to dance?” said the old man.

  “Not on your life,” said Annie.

  “Aww, go on now.” He reached up with his left hand and thumbed her cheek. “No reason Mac should have all the fun.”

  She backed away until she was up against the credenza. He leaned into her and she felt something sharp on her hip. She looked down. A shiny narrow blade bridged the gap between his hand and her dress. As she stared at it, he twisted his hand slightly so the blade glinted as the point of it dug into her flesh.

  “Just put your arms around my neck, sweet Louise, and let an old man grab a sweet whiff of your hair.”

  He was so close his smell assaulted her with a foul familiarity, the usual old-man-on-the-town getup, Brylcreem and Aqua Velva, along with rotting breath and the not-so-faint whiff of bacteria chewing through the sweat on his parchment skin. There had been nights when she willingly endured just this smell as she allowed some other reeking old man to run his hands all over her body so she could cadge another drink or two. She had thought she was through with all this, somehow Justin had convinced her of that, but it was as if her hidden life were pursuing her. She wasn’t through, she would never be through, because she would never deserve to be through. And the prick on her hip was just a reminder of exactly what she deserved instead.

  “Usually I only dance with men who buy me enough drinks to get me drunk,” she said bitterly.

  “I would if I could, sweetheart.”

  “I know you would,” she said, her voice dead. “What do you want?”

  “I just want to dance.”

  She closed her eyes as she rested her elbows on his bony shoulders. He reached around her with his left hand and jerked her body close. She let him take hold of her and felt the bulge of the gun in his jacket press into her side. He placed one bony hand on her butt even as he leaned his unshaven face into her neck. The rasp of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, the credenza digging into her back, the pinch of the knife in her hip. It would have been too excruciating to bear if she hadn’t earned every inch of it.

  “You mentioned something about the way things turned out for Justin,” she said. “What happened?”

  He kissed her neck before pulling away. “You ain’t dancing,” he said. “You’re just standing there.”

  “That’s the way I dance.”

  “Ohh, now that’s shockingly sexy. Look at you, so concerned about that boy’s fate.” He pulled her close again. “I wonder if Mac knows about you and that son of his.”

  “I don’t care what Mac knows.”

  “Good for you. Truth is, I don’t care much neither.” He gave her neck a dry lizard lick before pulling his upper body away. “You taste like high-class tequila,” he said. “Sweet vanilla with a tang of salt. I could just eat you alive.”

  “After you carve me up?”

  He laughed as he lifted the knife from her hip and rested the flat of it on her cheek.

  “Spanish Fork City,” he said, his lips centimeters from her own, his knee grinding her crotch, his left hand rising to grab hold of her hair. “You want to hear?”

  “No,” she said. She dropped her hands to his chest and tried to push him away, but his grip on her was surprisingly strong. Pushing him away was like trying to push away a corpse. She thought of the bulge in his jacket and slipped her hand beneath the lapel as if she were caressing his chest, but he laughed as he knocked her arm away, even as he pressed the knife harder into her cheek.

  “Don’t get no ideas,” he said in a low growl. “It didn’t take nothing to find a screw as ugly as Booker in a town that small. He had married a widow with three kids and a house, had bought a bookstore, had joined that freaky church out there and become almost respectable. It’s bad enough becoming respectable, but doing it with my money, well, some things is beyond forgiving. The son of a bitch spied me coming up the walkway to his shop and pulled a runner out the back. I burned it down and then headed to his little picket fence. Just the kids and the wife in residence, and none of my money. The wife wasn’t much to look at, the house was tiny, the noses on them kids was running, but still all of it pissed the hell out of me. So I patted the kids on they’s heads and told the wife where I’d be the very next day and then signed off on her face. And after seeing my work, he showed, with a sack of cash. There wasn’t but fifteen thousand in the bag. Booker said he could get me more in time, but I didn’t want to put him out. So I put him down.”

  He flipped the knife and ran it down her cheek. It felt hot and slippery sliding down, like it was creating an itch and scratching it all at once.

  “See,” he said, backing away from her now, the knife held in front of him, “sometimes all it takes is a little signature.”

  She reached up with the back of her hand and wiped it across her slick cheek. As she did, she could feel her flesh separate, her cheek slip sickeningly apart. When she pulled the back of her hand away, it was smeared thickly with blood.

  “When he gets out,” said the old man, as he reached into a pocket, pulled out a yellowed handkerchief, and handed it to her, “you tell old Mac not to forget his friend Vern.”

  “Okay,” she said, taking the wretched thing and pressing it to the wound.

  “You tell him I’ll be waiting.”

  “Okay.”

  “That I’ll be expecting—”

  There was a knock on the door, a loud double rap. Birdie smoothly reached into his jacket and pulled out the gun.

  She knew who it was, had no doubt, and her heart leaped, not with hope but with fear. Fear that this old man would do to Justin what he had just done to her. No, it would be worse, the old man would shoot him dead, would shoot him cold, as a further message to Justin’s father.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” he whispered.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “I locked it when I came in. Just let him go away.”

  Another knock.

  “Liquor delivery,” called a voice she didn’t recognize, an old voice. “I got a liquor delivery for Miss Overmeyer.”

  “Liquor?” said Vern. “You ordered liquor?”

  No, she didn’t order liquor, what a ridiculous thing to have ordered. She had her liquor bought for her by old men like this murderous piece of crap. But if she denied it, this Vern might start shooting.

  “Oh yes, I did, yes. For a party I’m having next week. I had forgotten.”

  “Well, answer the door then, why don’t you?”

  “I’ll send him away.”

  “Don’t do something that stupid. Let’s have usselves that party now.” He waved her toward the door with the gun. “Go on.”

  She followed his orders, keeping the handkerchief plastered to her face as she went over. Go away, she thought to herself. Go away. Go away. And when she opened the door, that’s exactly what she intended to say. Go away. Run away. And then the old man would kill her, but he’d be safe. With each shaking step, she repeated it. Go away. Go away.

  When she reached the door, she leaned against it for a mo
ment, unsure of what to do. Go away.

  Another knock shook her. “Miss Overmeyer, I have your delivery.”

  She unlocked the latch and looked behind her. The old man put the gun behind his back and nodded. She opened the door just a crack, saw an old black man in an ugly sport coat at the door, and felt relief overwhelm her. She recognized the old man somehow, wasn’t sure how, but it didn’t matter, it wasn’t Justin. Justin was still safe. She opened the door a little wider and whispered to the old man, “Go away.”

  And then someone else grabbed her wrist, hard, and yanked her into the hallway as the door closed with a slam-bang behind her.

  65.

  ANOTHER BLOODY MESS

  Justin didn’t notice the blood right off after he snatched Annie out of the apartment. When the door opened, from his vantage beside Detective Scott, he could see only her wrist, with some strange splatters on it, like she had been cooking tomato sauce. He grabbed at the wrist and pulled her out of the doorway and shoved her unceremoniously to the side as the door slammed shut.

  He was standing quite deliberately between her and the door when it opened again and Birdie Grackle stared out at him, something shocked and hard on his face.

  “I’m still here, you son of a bitch,” said Justin.

  Birdie threw out a fist and Justin lifted up his hand to block it before he noticed the stained silvery blade. Something sharp bit into Justin’s palm even as he pushed hard against the blow. The old man staggered backward and the door slammed shut again.

  Justin jammed his bleeding hand beneath his armpit and stood in front of the door, waiting for it to open again so he could do some damage of his own, when something smashed into his side. As he fell to the floor, he slammed onto something irregular and hard even as he turned and saw that it was Detective Scott’s big black shoe that had sent him sprawling.

  And then the shots came: one, two, threefour, right through the damn door, pocking holes and splattering splinters.

  Detective Scott, from the other side of the doorway, kneeling low with his gun out and his back pressed safely to the wall, stared at Justin like he was too much the fool to even bear, which he absolutely was. That’s when Justin turned around to see what he had fallen onto and realized it was Annie. And her face was a bloody mess. And his first thought was that he had done that to her.

  “Oh my God, Annie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “Look at you,” he said, on his knees now, holding her up and caressing her hair with his bleeding hand because he was too afraid to caress her bloody cheek. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “You didn’t do it,” she said. “He did it. All you did was save me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where did he come from?” she said, gesturing to Scott.

  “He had given up trailing me and was trailing you. I spied him outside and dragged him up here.”

  “My hero.”

  And then another shot from inside the apartment sent shards of door wood flying.

  “Stay down,” shouted Detective Scott, and Justin obliged, taking hold of Annie and cradling her in his arms. A door down the hall opened, and Scott turned, showed his badge, and yelled, “Get back inside.”

  The door closed right up.

  “What are we going to do?” said Justin.

  “We’re doing nothing, son. You’re staying right there with the girl. I’m going in.”

  Scott, still kneeling low, leaned toward the door and banged on it twice.

  “Mr. Bickham, this is the police.”

  No answer.

  “Put your gun down, sir, and no one need get hurt.”

  No answer.

  Detective Scott reached a hand over and tried the knob. It turned, and the door opened slightly. He shoved it open and backed away from the entrance.

  Nothing.

  “This is the police, throw your gun out the door.”

  No answer.

  With his gun in front of him, and remaining low, he swung into the doorway as nimbly as his years and weight would allow. There was no gunfire, no shouting, just an old detective attempting to stand while firecrackers went off in his knees.

  Justin started to get up himself, and Scott, without taking his eyes off the interior of the apartment, said, “Where the hell you going?”

  “I was just—”

  “You were just staying right where you are.”

  “Yes, I was,” said Justin.

  “Good,” said Scott. Then, without a sideways glance, he headed in to find the son of a bitch.

  Justin turned his attention back to Annie. She was still pressing her hand to her cheek, even as blood continued oozing and smears across her forehead and chin were drying into a dull maroon. She looked like a zombie, the loveliest zombie imaginable, a zombie worth getting your brain stem munched on so you could hold hands and trip together through the blighted landscape.

  “You came,” she said.

  “I came.”

  “I was afraid you would and I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “He cut me.”

  “A scratch.”

  “He made me ugly.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, not about anything.”

  “It’s only what I deserve.”

  “No, you deserve only the best. Instead you’re ending with me. But I’ll try to take care of you from here on in.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you try.”

  “It’s a promise.”

  “I believe you, but only because I want to.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, and even with the fear that had soaked though his pores that night, and the blood, and the pain now from his stabbed hand, he kissed her, and it felt like a sunny day, like the first sunny day since his mother died.

  He was staring at her still when Scott lumbered back through the door into the hallway.

  “Gone,” said Scott.

  “How?” said Justin, without looking up.

  “Window open, fire escape down. Son of a bitch is going to get away.”

  “Somehow,” said Justin, looking at love’s bloodied face, “I don’t think so.”

  66.

  RED BULL

  “Who killed him?” said Justin’s father in a hushed tone at their table in the Graterford Prison visitors’ room.

  “I don’t know,” lied Justin, his stitched and bandaged left hand lying heavily on the table.

  “Who do the police think it was?”

  “They would probably think it was me, since they tried to link me with every other killing that happened in the city in the past few weeks, but I was with that Detective Scott at the time Bickham was murdered, so I’m in the clear. They found his body in a parking lot, his neck snapped like a twig. Bickham apparently had an accomplice, and there is a thought that the accomplice turned on him for the money.”

  “The money you got from Frank.”

  “Yes.”

  “Money well spent, then. You can’t say the malicious son of a bitch didn’t deserve it.”

  “No,” said Justin. “You can’t say that.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, over and over, and I still don’t understand.”

  “Understand what, Dad?”

  “What I did to make Bickham hate me so much.”

  “Hate you?”

  “He had to hate me more than life itself to do what he did to me.”

  “To you?”

  “Of course, yes, don’t you see? He took every opportunity to ruin my chances of getting out of this hellhole. His hatred of me must have been so overwhelming, it was pathological.”

  “That’s exactly the right word,” said Justin.

  “First he killed Timmy before Timmy could testify on my behalf. Then he had you beaten and warned to stop trying to help me. Sensing you wouldn’t stop, he followed you. And after you found Jan
et Moss, he brutally killed her. That he tried to kill you and then went after Annie only proves it. A hate like that is like a wild animal. It just stalks and kills. Vernon Bickham was my very own Iago.”

  To Justin it was a shocking reference, and he savored it for a moment. Justin knew it was about as close to a confession as he would ever get from his father. But if it was a confession, it was purely Freudian, because Justin’s father kept on as if he had given away nothing, as if Othello, who had been viciously hated by Iago, had not himself placed the pillow over Desdemona’s mouth and smothered her to death.

  “Now we must figure out what to do about my case,” said Justin’s father.

  “What does your lawyer say?”

  “Sarah? She’s quite overcome by all that’s happened. This has been more than she bargained for, I expect.”

  “I have no doubt of that.”

  “She wants to wait awhile, on everything. She thinks my motion has become hopeless. She is worried that we might only get one bite of the apple and thinks that now is not the time to take it.”

  “She’s probably right.”

  “I’ve told her to withdraw my motion.”

  “Good. I’m glad, Dad. Strategically, I mean.”

  “Yes, of course. We must hold on to whatever ammunition we have. You keep bringing up the same things, they begin to ignore you, like that Mumia.”

  “Just like.”

  “In any event, she wasn’t a good enough lawyer to pull it off. Patent law. I’m going to find someone new to help me out.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Someone with a criminal background who knows what the hell he’s doing. Now tell me about Annie. How is she?”

  “Shaken.”

  “I heard that animal cut her face. How bad is it?”

  “Bad.”

  “It’s a shame. She was always such a good-looking woman.”

  “Yes she was, if you like that sort of look.”

  “I feel for her.”

  “I’ll make sure she knows.”