Last Call Lounge (13 page)

“Evacuate with me, Ruby,” I said before I had even finished the thought.

“I’m sorry?”

“Evacuate with me. The hurricane is coming,” I said. “I have some money saved up. We could drive to Austin and then fly to France.”  I didn’t want to stop talking. Just saying it felt like relief, like an uncoiling. “To, like, the south of France.  To the beaches.  I’ve got money saved up.  I can afford it.” 

Ruby was looking at her hands.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You’re unemployed. I could ask Mitchell to take care of things.”

“I don’t know,” she said again.  She tilted her head and looked at me from under her choppy black bangs. “I don’t know.”

“Look. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” I said. “It’d just be for a week. You never even have to see me again afterwards.” I gave her my best innocent grin. “If I become too unbearable, the wine there is really, really cheap.”  Ruby smiled.

“Let me think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.  It was almost enough for me that she hadn’t said no. “Of course.”

I knew what I was going to do.  I was going to take the money.  All of it.  Fuck Worm, fuck Sarah and Jacob and the bar and Mitchell and my house and all of it.  I was sick to death of all their shit.  I was gonna take all the money and take Ruby and live in France until the money ran out.  If Ruby said yes, I was gonna say “fuck off” to it all.

We rode back to the bar in silence. Ruby stared out the window again. Sunday traffic was thin. It was one of those stretches, those highways, that could be anywhere and for a moment I felt lost. Tire places and discount furniture stores and parking lots. Everything gray and loose. Too spread out. When I saw the sign for our exit, I felt my shoulders loosen and I started to sweat.

At the bar parking lot, Ruby unlocked her door but didn’t get out. My back was wet against the bench seat and salt was on my skin. I lit a cigarette and offered her one.  She took it, smoked with her arm out the window. Her legs were crossed and one shoe tapped at the other. Then she opened the door and lifted herself out. She closed the door and stood for a moment with her back to me. When she turned around, she crossed her arms and leaned down into the open passenger window.

“Okay,” she said.

I held my breath.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll evacuate with you. We can evacuate together.” 

I tried not to smile, tried not to appear too excited.

“Okay,” I said. “That’s great.” 

She dug into her purse and pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen.

“Call me later,” she said. “We can discuss the preliminary arrangements.”  She handed me the scrap. Her number.

“I will,” I said. She curled her long white hand and tapped a fingernail on the chrome of the door.

“Do not make this a story that I later have to preface by saying, ‘In retrospect, I should have known better,’” she said, giving me her serious, lawyerly voice. “At the moment, I’m looking forward to it.” 

I nodded.

“Me, too,” I said.

She rapped her nails on the chrome again, then turned on her heel and walked to her little red Toyota. She waved, a small, curled waved, as she pulled past. I finished my cigarette and watched her turn up the street.  I sat in the cab, rubbing her number between my thumb and forefinger.  I pulled out my phone and turned it on and it rang almost immediately, a number I didn't recognize.

“Hello?”

“John?  It's Allen.” 

I sat up. A chill ran over my back.

“Hey, Allen. What's up?”

“Well,” he said. “I just wanted to follow up on something.” His voice was a slow drawl, like an airline pilot. “When I was in your place the other day, about the mask?  Mitchell mentioned something about a guy named Worm.” 

I closed my eyes and rubbed at my forehead.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Do you know Worm?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Real name Raymond Fletcher?”

“That's right,” I said.

Allen sniffed, a small, quick sniff. Nothing, really, but in that sniff I heard something and I knew Allen had changed his mind about me, that he had come to a new conclusion about me and, in that cop way, he now understood more about me, about who I was.

“Yeah,” Allen said. “They found him dead in his truck this morning. Shot through the head.”

THIRTEEN

“It was point blank, gun pressed to his head,” Allen was saying. “The cab of the truck was torn apart. They were looking for something.  He had been severely beaten, too.”

My legs were numb. I opened the cab door and got out, but felt shaky so I sat back down.

“How well did you know him?”  Allen asked.

I felt the afternoon heat on my face and chest. My ears were ringing.

“Pretty well,” I admitted.

Allen sniffed.

“Listen, Little John,” he said. “It's obvious there's more to all this than you're telling me.”

“Okay,” I said.

“This is now a murder investigation,” he said. “I don't have a lot of leeway here.”

“I know.”

“If you know something, you need to share it with me.”  The friendliness was gone from his voice, the familiarity. He was business now.

In the moments between his questions, a thought was forming in my head. I saw everything clearly, or thought I did. If I told Allen the whole truth, I'd have to give up the money. I couldn't go with Ruby to France. But if I told him about Oscar, left out the parts about me and the money, I might be okay. Oscar was obviously dangerous, but I thought maybe I was safe. He had already ripped apart my office and found nothing. He wouldn't go back to the bar.  He could tear my house up, but he wouldn't find anything.  If he did show up, I'd give him back the money, minus my savings.  All I had to do was get through the night, head out to Austin the next day. 

And, if I told Allen about Oscar, the police would be out looking for him. They might pick him up. Ruby and I could go to France and by the time we got back, Oscar would be safely in jail. That was how it seemed to me at the time, anyway.

I took a deep breath.

“There was a guy,” I said. “Last night. He was looking for Worm. Frank thinks he might be the guy Worm buys his coke from. A guy named Oscar.”

“You think Worm was in trouble with this Oscar?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe.”  I put my cigarette to my lips. I was trying to steady my thoughts. Worm was dead. “I saw Worm a couple nights ago. He was really nervous. He kept looking out the window.”

“What window?”

“The window at my house,” I said.

Allen sighed, more parental than cop now.

“It didn't occur to you to tell me any of this earlier?” Allen said.

“Allen. I couldn't.”

“And why not?” he asked.

I paused. “I saw Worm because I was buying an eight ball from him,” I said.

Allen was silent.

“Tell me about Oscar,” he said finally, his voice flat.

I described Oscar as best I could – the rolled up sleeves, the Latin Lords tattoo. Allen listened without comment as I described our exchange, how I threw him out.

“So let me see if I have this straight,” Allen said when I had finished. He was angry now and his voice was loose and full of sarcasm. “Your new busboy – a drug dealer – recognized this guy Oscar as a drug dealer. Oscar dealt to your friend Worm, who was a drug dealer. ”

“I guess,” I said. “That's about right.”

“I can't believe I'm actually gonna say this,” Allen said, the Galveston twang back in his voice. “But I'm glad your father didn't live to see this. It woulda killed him.” And he hung up.

It took a moment, when I entered the bar, for my eyes to adjust to the change from blinding to shadowy. I stood in the doorway, the phone as heavy as a brick in my hand.

Boyd leaning back in a barstool, his boots scuffing against the bar rail.  The TV was on, baseball.  The whiny whir of the power drill came from the back door.

“We need change,” Boyd said, not taking his eyes from the game.  “Ones and fives.  And the banks are closed.”

“Is Mitchell unscrewing the back door?” I asked.  “For your shift.”

“Yeah, he came in,” Boyd drawled.  “I didn't even know about it.”

“You don't feel like helping him?” I asked.

“How many guys does it take to unscrew some boards?” he shot back, not taking his eyes off the game. 

I studied him, the back of his head, the way his boots were scratching at the metal of the rail.  Anger filled me and I kicked the back of his stool, kicked him upright so his chest thumped into the edge of the bar.

“Get your lazy ass back there and help,” I said.  “Or you can try to find some other job that will put up with your shit.”

Boyd stretched his full length in front of me and glared into my face.  Then he rolled his eyes and walked slowly out the front door.

I slammed my way into the office and put my head down on the desk.  I rubbed at my eyes with the meat of my hands.  Through the door I could hear the faint murmurs of the television, the squeal of the screws being worked out of the wood.  Then, Boyd yelled, a vicious bark.  I stood up and opened the office door in time to see Boyd shoving Frank, hard, in through the opened back door.  Frank stumbled and, before he could right himself, Boyd shoved him again.  Frank fell to the floor in the bar room and rolled onto his back.

“What the fuck is going on?” I yelled. 

Mitchell and Boyd stood on either side of Frank, daring him to stand up.  Mitchell held the cordless drill at his side.

“This fucker was sneaking around in the back alley,” Boyd said.  “When he saw me come around the corner, he tried to run.” 

Frank scrambled to his feet.  Mitchell grabbed him by the arm.

“What were you doing back there?” Mitchell demanded, his voice a tight squeal.  “Did you break in to the bar?”

Frank pouted and looked at the floor.  Everything in me went tight. I grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around and slapped him across the cheek with the back of my hand.  He had a half-smile stuck on his face, even after his eyes went wide with surprise.

“You brought this shit into my bar,” I yelled, shoving a finger into his chest.

“Hey,” Frank said, shaking his head.

I pushed him again and his hands went up in a sign of surrender. I pushed him again. He stumbled backwards until he bumped into the wall. Boyd and Mitchell were standing right behind me.

“What the fuck were you doing hanging out in the alley?”  I yelled. Frank looked to Boyd, then down at his feet.

“Nothing,” he said, his eyes still down. I looked down, too. Frank was wearing the same cracked shoes, the same work pants, stained dark at the knees. And then it occurred to me. I took a step back.

“Did you sleep back there last night, Frank?” 

He scratched the back of his head.

“Yes,” he said in a whisper. Something kind of broke in me and I felt the weight of my arms and my chest. I looked to Mitchell and Boyd. Mitchell sagged, too.

I went and sat in the stool and Mitchell sat down next to me. Frank stayed where he was. I put my elbows on the bar, rested my forehead in the palm of one hand. Boyd went behind the bar and started a pot of coffee. I turned back to Frank.

“Did you hear anything the night of the break-in?” I asked. “Or see anything?” 

His shoulders moved up and down with his breathing, then he turned around. His face was flushed.

“No,” he said. “But I walked around for a couple hours before I went back there. They might have broken in before I got there.”

Boyd changed the channel on the TV, turned down the volume. He poured himself a cup of coffee, poured a shot of Jameson in it, then poured me a Beam. Mitchell got up and got a beer.

“Want one, Frank?” Mitchell said, his voice small. Frank nodded, just barely. Mitchell opened another one and set it on a bevnap near Frank.

I downed my shot and stood up. Yellow afternoon light poured in through the broken back door. The hallway floor was scuffed and white with dust. I stood, shaking my head, letting my eyes wander. To the office door, to the patch of wall were Pancho had been. I dug a knuckle into my thigh and turned around. All three of them were watching me.

“Okay,” I said. “Frank, stay here and help Mitchell put the wood and stuff away.”  Frank looked to Mitchell and Mitchell nodded. “I’m gonna go get some cash for the till.”  Out the back door was a gray square of concrete and baked heat radiated off it and into the hallway. I looked at the fence, thought of the alley on the other side. “You got any stuff back there, Frank?  A bag or anything?” I asked.

Frank shifted his weight, rubbed his thumb under his nose.

“Yeah,” he said. “A bag.”

I stared out the back door, stared at the hot, yellow sunlight on the gray slab of the patio. Then I nodded.

“When you’re done helping Mitchell, go grab your stuff,” I said. “You can stay at my house for a while.”