The Lost Night

by Megan Maguire

  I lean in and whisper, “Shut it, Sean. Not in the bar.”

  “Just sayin’, you’re no angel.”

  The girl looks over her shoulder. She scans the small crowd of Friday-night regulars, forming a nervous smile when she sees us eyeballing her from across the room. I sit taller and pull my shoulders back.

  “Jackpot,” Sean whispers.

  Taking her smile as an invitation, I unwind my scarf and drape it over the back of my chair. “Be back in a sec. Or not.”

  “Good luck. Don’t say anything stupid, like your mom raised you right.” His laughter trails me across the room.

  I roll my shirt sleeves to show off my forearms. They’re not Popeye-sized, but larger than most.

  “Hi,” I say. She turns away as if my greeting was intended for someone else. “I said, hi.”

  Annoyed a little, she drums her fingers on the bar while eyeing me in the mirror. I hold steady. She arches a brow with effort.

  “Not interested,” she says, her voice set flat.

  “In what?” I step closer.

  The barstool spins and she thrusts her palms into my chest, shoving me back. Message sent loud and clear: don’t invade her space.

  “Hey. I didn’t mean to—”

  She cuts me off, thumbing toward the empty chair across from Sean, directing me back to the table.

  “Okay. All right.” I lift my hands, stepping away. “This is my bar, by the way. Being friendly to new customers isn’t a crime.”

  I grumble as I walk back to the table.

  “She’s not listening,” Sean says. “What happened?”

  “She told me to get lost.”

  “Forget her then. Look for someone else before Riley gets here. She hates it when you’re the third wheel on our date nights.”

  “If I’m such a burden, I can hang with my dad in the office.”

  “Don’t take offense. Riley’s the one bothered by your constant negativity, not me. I’m the one stuck in the middle of you two. I can’t leave you alone, and I can’t spend a Friday night without her.”

  Sean and Riley. They’ve had an on-off relationship for years. More bedmates than lovers, they hook up whenever Sean thinks he’s hit a dry spell, which to him is every weekend. And like most women who frequent the bar, Riley doesn’t mind being his bed buddy. The promise of free booze and screwing Sean is plenty for her to show her face tonight—or any night.

  “When’s she coming?” I ask.

  “Now. She should be here already.”

  Riley and I get along well enough, but her endless gab about Sean’s legendary moves in the sack can be tiresome. It’s bad enough Sean and I share a house with walls so thin I have to cover my head with a pillow when the moaning starts in his room, I don’t need to overhear the exaggerated details from her on top of that. And if she gets sloshed tonight, her touchy-feely side will drive me nuts. Like the pawing at my leg while going on about how much she misses Heather. It’s tough. Nothing is more depressing than talking about my dead girlfriend when I’m drunk.

  “See anyone else?” Sean asks.

  I browse the room. “No one I care to talk to or haven’t already been with.”

  “Not going back for seconds?”

  I shake my head, spotting Ms. Not-Interested peering at me from the bar, making me question if she’s really playing Ms. Hard-To-Get. She hasn’t taken off her black leather gloves or burgundy peacoat, clutching the collar as she drinks. People who are tense and never remove their coats are usually planning to drink and dash. Only I can’t imagine this girl is that type. By her tasteful makeup and clothes, she must have money.

  Then again, the ones with innocent faces and expensive clothing can be the most deceptive.

  I whistle to get Tim’s attention, rubbing my thumb and index finger together in a classic money anticipation gesture. My dad and I use it to signal our staff when we have our eye on a customer. Right away, he picks up that I’m questioning the girl in front of him. He nods that she’s cool, reassuring me by pocketing her tip and wiping down the counter in front of her. He tries to make small talk, but she rejects him with a rapid spin on the barstool. I smile when she faces me. She spins back.

  “I gotta find out what’s up with this one,” I say to Sean. “Need anything while I’m at the bar?”

  He points behind me when I stand. “Watch out—”

  A guy built like a rock pushes past and heads straight for the bar. Pungent cologne lingers in the air behind him. He stops a foot behind the girl and stares at the back of her head.

  “That’s why you struck out with her.” Sean raises his mug toward them. “I thought you might be losing your game, but I guess she was waiting for that chump.”

  “Nah, there’s something fishy going on. She’s been on guard since she came in. And look at that guy; he hasn’t said hello or done anything to let her know he’s here.”

  The girl sees his reflection in the mirror and spins around. She smacks his face—far more aggressive than she was with me—then attacks again by ramming her fist into his chest.

  “Step back, or I’m calling the cops,” she warns.

  She’s lifted off the barstool and hustled toward the door. I try to step in, but the guy elbows my side, knocking me into our table. My mug tumbles and shatters on the floor, silencing the bar.

  “Let go of me!”

  My pulse erupts, seeing the look of alarm on the girl’s face. The guy tightens his hold and forces her out the front door.

  “He’s not getting away with this.” I chase after him, Sean a step behind. Then more footfalls follow us outside.

  “I got this.” Sean forges past in his boots with the grippy treads, having better traction than I do in my wingtip dress boots. He manages to land on the guy’s back, bringing him down in a heap.

  “Get off.” The guy’s face reddens like a plum. “Get off!”

  They wrestle on the sidewalk, ending up in a snowdrift in front of the building.

  I slide on the icy sidewalk a few feet past them, coming hip to hip with the mystery girl. My touch draws her gaze away from the fight. She looks over my head into the night sky, the corner streetlight igniting her freckled, heart-shaped face. Snowflakes melt on her long eyelashes, and the light reveals something I hadn’t noticed in the dark bar—bi-colored eyes. One hazel. One brown. Framed by full brows and a small nose, she’s stunning.

  “You all right?” I ask, my guttural voice turning tender. “Let’s get out of the cold—” She shrinks away when I touch her shoulder, launching into a wobbly escape. “Hey, you need a lift home? My friend Riley can give you a ride if you want a woman to drive you.” She walks faster. “Wait, slow down.”

  I track her distorted reflection in the sidewalk’s slick ice, watching her shadow move farther ahead until the flashing neon sign of Big Daddy’s Pizzeria is all that remains at my feet. With her hands out at her sides like a penguin, she rounds the corner of the next block and disappears into the vastness of the city.

  I turn back and see Sean with his arms crossed, keeping watch over the guy, the onlookers heading back inside. When a fight’s over in the city, there’s no need to hang around for the aftermath unless you can handle the agony of frozen fingers and toes.

  I make it back to Sean’s side and pat the snow off his shoulders. He points out the unintentional snow angel his flailing body left in the drift, just as the constant Northland wind kicks up a storm of flurries and morphs the outline of the angel into a pitchfork. We were raised Catholic, but not an ounce of God stuck with us once we became teenagers. Between the cursing, screwing, and kicking ass, I guarantee God’s not a fan. The devil’s pitchfork lingers in victory.

  “Did he get a swing in?” I ask.

  “You kidding me? Of course not, this guy’s nothing but a sloth.”

  “Sloth?” The guy slides out of the drift, unable to push off the ground, cradling an injured wrist. “I’ll kill you for sayin’ that.
”

  “You that testy?” I ask him. He tries again to stand, getting a surprise kick in the chest from me, sending him back into the drift. “What’s your problem?” I crouch next to him. “Why’d you get so rough with that girl? Did she dump you for being such a frickin’ scrubb?”

  “The hell you care?” he asks.

  “I care what happens inside my bar. Care enough to tell you what you can expect if you mess with anyone in there again.” I take out my knife, catapulting the blade out. “Hear that?” I do it again. “Does that thwack make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside? Or does it make you think twice about coming around my neighborhood?”

  “Warm and fuzzy.” He smirks. “Now move back so I can get up. My ass is numb.”

  “Need a little warmth?” Sean snickers, unzipping his jeans to piss on the guy’s leg.

  “What the hell?” He gets on all fours, trying to move out of Sean’s stream, but slips and lands flat on his chest. With a groan, he turns on his back, flaring his nostrils at him. “Filthy ghetto trash.”

  “What?” I wrap my hands around his neck to strangle his words. “Ghetto trash?”

  Sean zips up, and we drag the beast down the alley between the bar and pizzeria. I bash the guy’s shoulder into the brick wall once we’re away from the street. He loses his footing and topples to the ground, giving me a chance to straddle his waist.

  “Yanking a girl out of my bar is one thing, but calling my friend ghetto trash is another.”

  I start throwing punches. I’m angry, cold, and sober. Plus Sean’s piss on the guy’s pant leg is seeping through my jeans. It’s a suck-ass night so far.

  The guy gives me a hollow little laugh as if he’s enjoying this.

  “Keep taunting me, and I’ll keep swinging,” I warn.

  Growing up on the streets of Northland, this is all I know. Drinking at our bar, fistfights, complaining about the weather, working shit jobs for corrupt cops, all while protecting women and friends from morons like this.

  This is Northland. This is me.

  I grip the collar of the guy’s leather jacket. “If I had to count the number of times some schmuck came down on us for being poor.” I hit him continually.

  Sean shifts out of the corner of my eye. It’s unlike him to step away when we’re in the middle of a fight. I cock my head, fist raised, ready to throw another punch when a Chevy Tahoe stops at the end of the alleyway and flashes its lights. Looks like the same SUV that passed us at the river.

  “It’s a cop. Get up,” Sean says. “Get off him before we get arrested.”

  The driver’s-side door opens and slams shut, a distraction that gives the guy on the ground a chance to get even. With a blow to my jaw, I drop back and land in the snow.

  A flashlight shines on the scene, circling all around before it stops on Sean’s face. “Put your hands where I can see ’em.” A thick voice echoes through the alley. “Now!”

  “He wasn’t doing anything!” I shout.

  I stretch out in the snow, eyes closed, imagining that Sean’s obeying orders, raising his hands into the black night. The sound of snow crunching under the cop’s boots grows louder until he’s standing next to me. A flashlight shines in my eyes. A boot nudges my side.

  “Dylan.” He nudges me harder. “Get the fuck up and get me a beer before I haul your ass down to the station.”

  3

  Officer Eddie Dorazio lowers his baton to help me up. Not his hand, always the baton. Seems like every other week he’s looking down at me when I’m at my worst.

  I snub his offer and stand on my own, fishing in my pocket for the bar keys to unlock the alley-side door. He’s not here because of the fight; he’s here to see my dad. Best friends since they were kids, same as Sean and me.

  “When you gonna get over it?” Eddie slaps my back on his way inside, the remark aimed at my never-ending grimace whenever he’s around. I’ve been cross with him for months. “Hey.” He lifts my chin with his baton. “Let it go.”

  “I can’t. And I won’t.”

  He’s read Heather’s suicide note. He was the first cop on the scene the morning she was found. He was there with her parents, pretending to be sympathetic before the homicide squad arrived. And for some reason he won’t tell me what she wrote. How can I let that go?

  “Dylan, it’s unethical,” he says.

  “Unethical?” I push the baton away.

  “Sorry, too big a word for you? It’s wrong. You get it?”

  Sean steps forward. “So Eddie, what’s drinking on the job and ignoring a fistfight in the alley? That’s ethical?”

  “Back off.” Ed points the baton at Sean. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you two if you keep pulling that stink face it will get stuck like that?” His stubby fingers reach out and force the corners of my mouth upward into a strained smile. “That’s better. I miss your gap-toothed grin.”

  The space between my front teeth is minor; it’s not a gap, barely noticeable.

  “I got a job for you guys,” he says.

  I wrench away, bothered by his thumb pressed into my aching jaw where I just got punched. “No more jobs. You still owe me for the last one and the one before that. I’m not ratting out drug dealing street kids for nothing. I’m not your snitch anymore.”

  His misaligned gray eyes open wide, one directed at me, the other at Sean. I’d love to deck him, but I know better than to hit a bloodthirsty street cop, or a guy who’s my dad’s best friend.

  “Where’s your partner, Ed?” I look down the alley. “You kill him?”

  “Kevin’s sick. And we’re even with the jobs. I paid you and Sean for—”

  “How can you keep asking me to be your snitch when you don’t keep your end of the deal? I don’t want money.” My voice is at full throttle. “I wanna know what Heather wrote. And I don’t wanna end up with a bullet in my head for being your tool on the streets. It’s not my job!”

  “Since when?”

  “I’m not a narc. You promised to—”

  “I can’t tell you about the note, now drop it.”

  “How would anyone know?”

  “I would know.” He taps his chest in defense. “Me. I would.”

  “Dylan,” Sean cuts in. “The guy’s taking off.”

  Ed looks toward the street, the giant mole on the side of his nose lit by the light over the alley-side door.

  “Dylan,” Sean repeats.

  “I don’t care about that guy anymore. I only care about Heather.”

  “That kid okay?” Ed asks with feigned interest.

  “He’s fine,” Sean says. “Bloody nose and lip, maybe a fractured wrist. Better than most.”

  Ed sticks his baton in his utility belt and reaches for the door. “Stay outta trouble for the rest of the night. And get some sleep, Dylan. You’re lookin’ paler than usual.”

  I turn to Sean once Ed’s inside. “You better get inside, too. Riley must be here by now. Bet she thinks you stood her up.”

  “You coming?” he asks.

  “No, I need a smoke.”

  He blows on his hands and rubs them together to keep warm. Miniature clouds form with each mighty puff. “I’ll wait for you.”

  “Go inside, Sean.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  He knocks snow off the bottom of his boots, tilts his head and cracks his neck, fidgets, then jumps up and down.

  “Sean.”

  He warms his hands again while twisting back and forth.

  “Would you go inside?”

  “As soon as I leave you’ll be pacing and talking to yourself. I’ll stay and help you work out whatever mess is inside your head.”

  “I’m just having a smoke.”

  He knows I’m lying. My cigarettes are in my coat pocket, and I left my coat inside the bar. What I need more than a smoke is to clear my head of Heather before I start drinking.

  “Seeing Eddie always puts you in a funk,” he says.

>   “Exactly why I need to be alone.” I hold the side door open, but he takes the long way instead, trudging up the alley with his hands in his pockets.

  “If you’re not inside in five, I’m sending Riley out to get you,” he says. “I mean it. I’ll send her out here. She’ll toss you over her shoulder and carry you inside,” he hollers. “You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I whisper, resting alongside the building. The coldness of the bricks penetrates my flannel shirt and works its way into my bones. I roll my sleeves down, then set my forehead to the wall.

  Sean’s right, Ed stirs painful memories and puts me in a funk.

  I trace the bricks, drained by my pent-up anger over losing Jake and Heather. My muscles ache and my head throbs. Moving from this spot seems like agonizing work. The cold weather must send endorphins into hibernation, causing depression—another reason why I miss Heather. She was my endorphin. Her hands were warm even in the dead of winter. She’d grip my hips when she wanted a kiss, and slipped her fingers under my shirt when she was feeling frisky. I was on fire by the time we made it to my bed each night. The complete opposite of how frozen my body and mind feel without her now.

  I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. Think, Dylan. Go over it again, one more time. What did Heather say?

  Our last kiss was no different than the thousands of other kisses we had shared. It makes no sense that she left me. I must be forgetting something. Something she said, a look, a hint. Any inkling as to why this happened.

  Was she upset? Did I do something wrong?

  A lighter flicks at the end of the alley, close to the street behind the bar. The glowing tip of a cigarette zigzags alongside an approaching silhouette of a man. I know who it is by the smell of his cheap cologne. This guy is still out searching for that girl.

  “Next time you hit me, I won’t think twice about slitting your throat,” he says, ramming my shoulder.

  My blade springs out. “Who’s slitting whose throat? You’re the one who crossed a line, dragging that girl out of my bar. I don’t know what’s up with you and her, but take it somewhere else.”

  “I’ll do whatever I want to her, wherever I want, and that includes your ghetto bar!” He pushes me back. My head hits the wall, causing my vision to spin.