Last Call

by Matthew Nunes

  “Fuck that,” interrupted Petersen. “He’s just a fuckin’ bartender, and a murder suspect, and this ‘Commander’ bullshit is just that, bullshit. Nobody got killed with a fuckin’ mixing cup. He’s got a lot to explain and now he’s asking us questions? What exactly is this ‘Commander’ shit, anyway?”

  Agent Kilroy said, “Commander, those are all questions we’ve been asking and will continue to ask until we have answers that satisfy us.” Petersen might as well not have spoken. I was a long way from having control but so were they. I sneaked a glance at the kitchen clock over DaSilva’s head. Not long before Marisol would be coming home and she would have to be told more if she got home before they left.

  “While we’re on the subject, could anyone tell me who gave my name to every journalist in the U.S. of A.? Anyone? I spent most of today in court, getting a restraining order, and it cost me an arm and a leg to get it served. Just curious about who should get that bill, because I intend to see the person who leaked that information in as deep a hole as I can put him,” I paused, “or her.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Commander. I’m sure that no one in this room does, either. May I go on?” She said. I had been looking at Petersen as I spoke and he was rubbing the bridge of his nose, staring fixedly at DaSilva.

  “For Detective Petersen and Sergeant DaSilva’s benefit, I’m going to review some history.” She began reading. “Paul Santos Costa, forty-two years old, orphaned at nine years old, only child of David and Catherine Costa, raised by paternal grandparents, Santos and Lourdes Costa, Fall River, Mass., deceased twelve and thirteen years ago, respectively, graduated United States Naval Academy, fifteenth in the class, commissioned Ensign.” Petersen turned sharply in my direction.

  “Various excellent fitness reports. Surface warfare, suitable for Executive Officer appointment. Leave of absence to attend Suffolk Law School, transferred to Judge Advocate General Corps.” She looked up, “Unusual, for someone on the command fast track.” I couldn’t think of a reason to say anything.

  She went on, after a sip of coffee and clearing her throat, “Primarily a criminal prosecutor, various commendations, one for clearing an innocent man and prosecuting the actual rapist. After promotion to Lieutenant Commander and graduation from Command Curriculum, just down the road at the Naval War College, seconded to ‘classified.’ Anything you’d care to add to that? No? Why would a JAG attorney receive Command Training? All right. At thirty-six, resigned commission, without prejudice. Accepted into Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Resigned two and a half years ago, upon death of his wife, Isabel Costa, maiden name, ‘Martel.’ One daughter, aged eleven, Marisol Lourdes Costa. Currently employed as bartender. Resides here.” She looked up. “Anything you’d care to add or change in all of that?”

  I said, “An eclectic background, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’d prefer ‘checquered past,’” said DaSilva. Dana Kilroy smiled tightly, and put the folder back into the portfolio.

  “Commander, those classified three years? My father was a naval officer, and I think I know what I’m going to find.” Kilroy? I wondered if there was a connection. I’d served under an Admiral named “Kilroy.”

  “I’m not sure if murder fits your record. However, I don’t see anything in your record to disprove that you’re a bitter, angry man, deprived of his wife, struggling to raise a daughter alone and blaming the Navy for his problems.”

  Wrong, I thought, I blame myself

  “It’s not beyond imagining that you could kill. Those missing years in the Navy, the ones that are hidden behind a security block keep you from admittance to the bar, yes? They tell me you passed the exam on the first try but they want a complete background check prior to admission. The Navy won’t give any accounting at all for that time, right? Plenty of reason for anger and frustration there, I’d say. You were a prosecutor; think you could make a case?”

  We all turned to the kitchen door when we heard an angry whisper, “Daddy?” Marisol spun on her heel and walked stiffly away, like a marionette with an inept puppeteer.

  I turned and left the room, not before staring at each of them in turn, daring anyone to follow. I found her curled up crying on her bed, where I bundled her in my arms, rocking her and humming old lullabies, until she sobbed down to hiccups. A soft knock on her door made us both look up. Two people stood in the doorway, Mrs. Pina, slightly ahead of Agent Kilroy. I wasn’t sure if she came down because she heard the uproar, or if she was due to be there anyway.

  Special Agent Dana Kilroy was leaning over Mrs. Pina. “I’m sorry,” she said gently, “can I help?” The top of Mrs. Pina’s bun came to the agent’s chin, but she wheeled, pressing her square bosom forward like the ram on a Greek trireme.

  Mrs. Pina was fluent in English, with a trace of an accent that became more obvious at moments of trial. She was whispering, but she could have been heard all the way in the kitchen. “Best for you now, police lady, is to leave my sweet girl alone with her Papa and me to try to fix this. Best to leave, now. If you need him, you call and make appointment, or you meet somewhere to do this. Helping is get out, now, and not to come back, ever. That will help.” She was advancing and the Agent retreated.

  “We’ll be in touch, Commander,” she said. I heard them leave, and later, I found three business cards on the table, hers with a note on the back, “I’m so sorry, DK.” I held it in my right hand, tapping it on my left thumbnail. I needed a shower and shave before struggling with the damned studs on a tuxedo shirt, and then a full shift. I put my legal pad in my dresser drawer, off limits to Marisol and Mrs. Pina.

  After supper, cleaned up and dressed, I kissed ‘Sol goodnight. “I’m off tomorrow, and I’ll talk to you then. I’m sorry I can’t do it right now, sweetheart” She smiled bravely back at me, and her chin was firm. I wasn’t sure how much she’d overheard, and what she’d made of that. If nothing else, she’d heard that I was “capable of killing,” along with the “bitter, angry” part.

  “They’ll go away, right?”

  “Right, muffin. Mrs. Pina’s here, and I’ll check on you when I get home.”

  Chapter 3

  Wednesdays, I expected a different waitress, no bouncer and a quiet shift. The changeover routine took longer than normal because of the crowd. Diane, the waitress, looked harried. Once I had the bar, I saw whispered conversations and furtive glances in my direction.

  The night manager stopped by, took a look around and left after nodding to me. Half an hour later, following the pianist, our best bouncer strolled in. When he reached the bar, he collected a glass of club soda and leaned on the trap. “So,” he said, “you holding up okay?”

  I liked the guy, despite his being a former Marine. “Good to see you. I’m okay, but I could sleep for a week or two.”

  “Yup, I can see that, Navy. Maybe Diane could keep you awake.” He gave me an evil grin.

  She was a few years younger than me and attractive. She had dark, curly hair, worn pulled back and up into a bushy ponytail. She had a fine figure and wonderful legs. Like me, she was a single parent, raising two teenaged boys by working two or three jobs. Her husband had died when her sons were young. Unlike me, she was socially active. When I started working at the hotel she made her interest clear. I found ways to avoid the issue and finally used my daughter as a shield.

  She flirted with the male customers, flaunted her cleavage, her legs and lusty attitude. She had a knack for doing it without causing problems.

  I looked up to see Diane looking directly into a male customer’s eyes and slipping a ten-dollar bill into her bra. He was leaning forward trying to see more and she smiled, turned away and spoke to the people at the adjoining table. She looked over at me, winked slowly and licked her bright red lips. I must have had quite a look on my face because she broke up laughing and pointed at the table, gesturing for a round. I started mixing the drinks just as Teddy cleared his throat.

  “Look, Paul,” he began hesitantly,
“I. Um, well, if you need me, or anything I can do or get done, you know.” He was suddenly serious, and offering support. I had no idea what he could do, but he believed blindly that I was innocent and wanted to help. It gave me an itchy sense of embarrassment. Since Isabel died, people were accessories, labeled as co-workers, customers, employers, neighbors and acquaintances. I went through the motions, but was consumed by my own hurts and helping my daughter.

  “You know that the night manager called me and the piano guy in because you’re so busy tonight, right? You see the paper? Hotel’s in it, you’re in it, Sarah’s in it and people are here to scope the place and you out. Diane said she chased two women out of the men’s room, looking at the stalls and the floor. Probably trying to find blood or a souvenir. I’m tellin’ you, Paul, if you were to start cutting up some lemons right now, they’d be popping flashbulbs, and asking you to sign their wine lists.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Mind if I ask you something?” he said, with a different tone.

  “Sure. If I don’t like it, I’ll let you know.”

  “You got an education and you sure as hell could have a better job, so why tend bar?”

  “Guess I like the clothes.”

  It seemed pointless to tell him why I didn’t mind tending bar. It paid the bills and kept me at a distance from people. It was occasionally interesting and sometimes enjoyable. What else could you want from a job? I got to spend more time than most guys get with their kids and it was a job you could leave at shift’s end.

  Busy shifts fly. I was tired at the end and the bar was a mess, but it seemed that last call arrived before I was ready. Teddy ushered the customers out, as smoothly as always. He didn’t have to, but he always stayed to help clean and collect a drink before he left for home. He did the men’s room while I was cleaning the bar. A true gentleman, he simply stepped in and kept me out of the room.

  Diane got a Cosmopolitan and crossed her splendid legs, dangling one high heel from her toes as the foot rocked slowly up and down. “Teddy, dear, don’t you have iron to pump or a brick to break?” she asked.

  Teddy looked at me, with one eyebrow raised. He shrugged, handed me his empty and said good night.

  “Thanks for your help tonight, ” I called as he left.

  “Semper Fi,” he answered, just as the door closed behind him.

  Diane was looking intently at me, still in the same pose. I wondered if I would need to fend her off. I was confused, because I didn’t really want to. She could adopt an erotic position to count her change, with nothing on her mind except converting singles to twenties.

  I was doing it again, using the image of her instead of the reality before me to hide. Earlier in the day, I’d felt my first interest in a woman since Isabel had died, so I was open to Diane’s appeal. I assumed that she’d picked up on that. For the first time, I wasn’t thinking about gentle rejection, but the boundaries of lace and silk and skin. Fighting an erection, I thought about the psychology of death and change and its affect on people. My libido awoke after a death, the threat of arrest, and my attraction to an FBI agent who was willing to imprison me. None of it seemed healthy.

  About a year earlier, Mrs. Pina, of all people, had raised the subject. “Paul,” she had said while dusting, her back to me, “if you ever need me to stay overnight with Marisol, I can do that.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why would I stay away overnight?”

  “You are a man, Paul, and not bad looking. A little skinny, maybe, but not bad. Good brown eyes and face, not pale and not pretty. Just right for a man’s face.” To Mrs. Pina, anyone who could make his knees touch was a little skinny. “I know that you have lost, and I know that you try and try to make ‘Sol a happy little girl again. I know that you are letting part of being a man sleep, you understand.” She was blushing, because in her world, no woman said things like this aloud to a man.

  “Paul, in time, a woman to wake you will come to you. There are such women. Sometimes, even a good, married man needs such a woman.” She was crying.

  I had patted her on the back, until she turned and fell into my arms to be held and to cry her memories back into the past. Finally, she put both hands on my chest and pressed herself away. “I know the time will come.” She went back to stalking cobwebs, saying no more.

  “Paul?” Diane was asking, by her tone, probably for the second or third time.

  “Sorry, Diane, preoccupied, I guess.”

  “Who’s the lucky girl?”

  I looked back at her, without answering.

  “Honey, I was just kidding, to lighten it up, you know? Nobody here thinks—” she stopped. “I’ve seen you deal with things, and you never did it harder than you had to. Except that one guy who got grabby with me. Did he ever complain?”

  “No, I explained things to him.”

  “’Explained?’”

  “I’m a reasonable guy, Diane. I got him to understand.”

  “Oh. Right. Okay. Anyway, nobody thinks that you couldn’t do it, but nobody here believes you would. Paul, are you listening, or still trying to look down my dress?” she said, then, seeing my embarrassment, “I don’t think that you’re interested, but it would take the edge off, right?” She looked down at the top of the bar, and then raised her eyes.

  I turned my hand over and took hers. “You don’t use friends that way.”

  She turned away and nodded, squeezing my hand. I freed it after a moment.

  After I walked her to her car, I looked over at my old silver Saab. The body was sound, the engine ran well, and I stayed off the gas to keep the turbocharger from kicking in. Marisol loved the convertible top. I’d been holding onto it for “one more year” for the past three years. Isabel had told me that I was too sentimental about cars.

  I drove home thinking about blondes and brunettes, and legs and breasts, high heels and sleep. I should have been thinking about motive, method and opportunity, but I let my mind drift. I was lucky to have a short drive, because I was nearly stumbling when I made it home. Mrs. Pina yawned. “Sol had trouble sleeping, but she’s down for the night.” She stretched onto her toes and kissed me on the cheek. “Sometimes,” she said, “even grown men need a smooch from a grandma.”

  Marisol was asleep on her back, with both arms over her face. I saw tearstains, and felt a hollow spot forming in my stomach. In my room I looked at my bed with something like lust. I put my clothes onto hangers or into the hotel’s laundry bag, before I finally got myself under the covers. I expected to lie awake, but I was asleep before I sank into the mattress.

  Chapter 4

  I woke, confused. My eyes opened wide as I felt around on the sheets and my shorts. At my age, I’d had a wet dream. I guess after almost three years, I shouldn’t have been surprised, with the thoughts I’d been having all day. No way was Mrs. Pina going to find out about it, so I stripped and made the bed back up with fresh sheets. I threw it all into the washer, with some towels to make it look like a regular load.

  I took a shower, but skipped shaving. I told myself all kinds of things. I was careful not to tell myself I was afraid, or that I’d somehow betrayed my dead wife.

  I was home alone, a note from Marisol, telling me not to worry. She was supposed to be a little girl, and I admired her courage and resilience, hating the need for them. I was looking at a day off and the chance to get some work done, if I could focus. I pulled out my address book and started to make some calls. I kept what might be the last residential landline in Rhode Island for Mrs. Pina and my daughter, and used it while my mobile was charging.

  The congressman favored Pearl Harbors, Blue Hawaiians, white and black Russians, with an occasional Rumrunner. They were all potent drinks without a strong taste of alcohol. He could get hammered, but not have to deal with the taste? Don’t think too hard, I thought. He liked strip clubs, bars with hookers and “sophisticated singles” bars. The latter were places for married people to escape from their spouses. Bartenders in Newport, Providence
and Warwick remembered him well.

  Bouncers knew him. Waitresses tried not to be alone with him. The maitre d’ at another hotel’s restaurant knew a guy. He called him, and called me back with the number. When I called, the bartender asked me to drop by and talk. “It’ll be worth it to you, and so help me, I think I’ll feel better, too,” he’d said.

  It was a tough drive to get to the “gentlemen’s club” where he worked. I’d never worked at a strip joint, a different kind of job. Customers simmering from a combination of overpriced beer and frustrated lust didn’t sound like fun, but it paid pretty well. Even though it was early when I arrived, they had girls working on the stage.

  There are two kinds of bars: a shotgun being straight, usually with a mirror behind it, and a horseshoe, a complete or partial ring. If you have more than one bartender working, a horseshoe is better. Otherwise, I preferred the shotgun, keeping customers in front of me, and the mirror helped when I was faced away from the room. The “club” had a circular bar, with the stage filling the center. Steps were cut into the bar to allow them to walk up to the stage. Two brass poles marked the north and south of that world. With no windows and muted lights, it looked like midnight. There was a solitary customer at the bar, leaning on it, gazing up at the dancer, who listlessly gyrated to some hip-hop thuds and shouting.

  After the shock of seeing my first bare breasts in over two years, the dancer’s slack expression was so dispiriting that I had no thought of sex. Her high heels, with lacy ankle socks seemed like an odd combination I wondered about the woman inside of the expertly displayed body. I saw nothing behind her eyes. Besides making the women more visible, the elevated stage put the dancers in a superior, controlling position. To the men, they were presented with no secrets left. There was a sad mutual dislike in the arrangement.

  Tim Foley was built like a boulder at Stonehenge, with the same skin texture. “Davy says you’re okay,” he said.