Bartender

by William Vitka

  The kid says, “Where’s Mommy?”

  Over and over and over and over and over.

  Tick tick tick tick.

  Tock.

  A razor-blade pendulum swings back and forth.

  Tick tick tick.

  Tock.

  It drops a little bit.

  The noise is a timer counting down.

  Tick tick.

  Tock.

  The sharp edge drops a little bit more.

  Kieron runs toward Aaron.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  The pendulum hits Aaron’s side. Cuts through him like a deli slicer. His skin pops open. It’s all red inside. A little splash of blood. But the blade comes back. Hits him on the other side. More red. More gore.

  Kieron runs toward his son but he doesn’t get anywhere.

  His mind is making him watch.

  Aaron doesn’t make a peep. Doesn’t flinch. He keeps spinning his screeching, squealing, rusted wheel. It screams for him. The blade cuts him. More and more. Till his chest ain’t affixed to his legs. There’s just a spindly bit of spine between the two.

  Aaron asks, “Where’s Mommy?”

  Another spotlight comes on.

  Sarah’s off to Kieron’s left. Darkness surrounds her. Thin wisps of smoky fog. She stares at him. Smiles.

  But she’s on her back.

  There’s a man between her spread legs. Thrusting and thrusting. Goddamn Russian thug. Fearless Leader.

  She keeps smiling.

  Another man appears. Boris. Near her head. He strokes himself.

  She pulls him into her mouth. Keeps smiling.

  Kieron runs at them all.

  He wants to kill the Russians. Wants to strangle Sarah. But he still can’t get anywhere. His legs pump. His feet hit nothing but air.

  He groans. Grunts. His exertion matching the Russian bastards while they fuck his precious Sarah.

  He looks at the two thugs and their faces change.

  Borovinsky. They’re both Borovinsky.

  Sarah keeps smiling.

  Then she transforms into that psycho blonde bitch ex of his, Rebecca.

  ***

  Kieron’s eyes snap open.

  He hates everyone. Everything.

  Hard to shake the emotional burden of a bad dream. The weight of shit that didn’t happen, but goddamn if it doesn’t feel like it happened.

  He hears Aaron and the boy’s LEGOs click-clacking in the next room.

  He grips the empty sheets next to him. Wonders where Sarah is.

  He wants her and needs her, and he’s angry at her cuz in the dream...

  It was a dream. It wasn’t her. And what faces did you see last? The drug dealer dickbag you sent up instead of riding the rap yourself: Borovinsky. Then your piece of shit ex: Rebecca.

  It wasn’t Sarah.

  It wasn’t Aaron.

  Get some orange juice and...

  Have a smoke.

  Shoot up.

  Relax.

  ***

  Aaron likes his eggs over-easy. But lightly so. Cook it mostly on the bottom. Then flip. Cook it a little on top. Cuz he also likes dipping his toast in the fluid orange yolk. The boy calls it super goo. Filling and rich.

  Long as there’s toast.

  Kieron watches the egg whites bubble on the frying pan. Mutters to himself, “This is your brain on drugs.” Any questions? “Bud, how many slices of toast you want?”

  “Four,” Aaron says. His eyes never leave the engine assembly for his spaceship.

  Kieron slides the eggs around on the pan. Says, “What percentage of the ship is done?” Mostly cuz the kid will give him a very precise number.

  “Thirty-seven.”

  It’s a modular system. Aaron wants to build all of the pieces to perfection before he fits it into one supreme craft. Engines. Wings. Cargo.

  Today he’s working on something else. Not part of the original plan.

  An escape shuttle.

  ***

  Kieron walks into the bar. Sees Lizzy and Sarah. The only two in there. They laugh. Toast each other and do a shot of whiskey. Then Lizzy sees him and they both hush up. Still chuckling a bit.

  He says, “I must’ve missed a real good joke.” He ain’t in the mood. Today just feels wrong. That dream. Whole thing set him in a bad way.

  Sarah smiles. Pats the stool next to her.

  Kieron doesn’t sit, but he leans over and kisses her on the forehead.

  Lizzy points at Sarah. “She’s a good one. You make sure you hold onto her.”

  Sarah says, “Listen to the bar wench.”

  Kieron holds Sarah’s cheek in his palm. Kisses her again. “I plan to hold onto her as long as she holds onto me.” He smirks. Now not sure what they’re getting at. Yeah, everyone knows they’re screwing but...

  Sarah says, “Gotta play your cards right, cowboy.” She cups his hand.

  Kieron grins till he sees the ring on her finger. One of those shiny fuckin bits of jewelry he took from the old lady. It takes every goddamn bit of reserve he has not to snap. Not to slap her hand away. Not to shout in her face: What in fresh hell are you doing with that ring?

  She doesn’t know. She thought it was your grandmother’s. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t...

  He holds his grin. Kisses her one more time. His brain works like a hamster on cocaine, desperate to keep running on its wheel. He lets go of her. Walks around to the other side of the bar. He playfully hip-bumps Lizzy out of the way. Spins a bottle of whiskey in his palm before filling three shot glasses. One for each of them.

  He raises his shot. Says, “To the two best women in my life.”

  “Here here,” Lizzy says.

  Sarah winks at him.

  Kieron says, “Slainte.”

  The hamster in his head spins and spins and spins.

  All Kieron can think is: Today’s gonna be bad.

  ***

  Sarah heads upstairs to check on Aaron and take a nap.

  Kieron still pretends like nothing’s fucked and kisses her on her way out.

  Lizzy mocks them both with Oohs and Awws.

  Handfuls of idiots filter in and out of the bar.

  Lizzy says to Kieron on her way out: “Don’t fuck it up with Sarah. The girl’s a good one.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Then it’s quiet. Not a lot of people. Regulars. No Russians.

  Kieron uses the quiet time to sort out the fuckery with the ring. What’s he gonna tell Sarah? No, you can’t keep the ring. Why? Cuz it ain’t my grandma’s. Cuz I stole it from some old lady along with a bunch of other shit cuz I can’t pay the fuckin bills. And maybe if someone sees you wearing it, they’re gonna get curious and maybe you’re gonna get locked up or maybe something fuckin worse will happen cuz that’s how shit always seems to go.

  Sure.

  That’ll go over well.

  He rubs his forehead.

  The bar door swings open.

  Kieron watches two guys walk in and curses under his breath. “Fuckin cops.” Plainclothes, both. Kieron can tell by the way they look. And walk. He’s crossed paths with enough pricks in law enforcement to know that strut. That air of bullshit authority. Like, yeah, we’re the bosses of wherever we are. Even if they ain’t showing the badge, they’re wearing it and thinking about it. Just like they’re wearing and thinking about their guns.

  Assholes who peaked in high school.

  Part of his brain reminds him: You peaked in high school, dumbass.

  He knew today was gonna be bad.

  His mind goes to the pump shotgun they’ve got under the bar. It’s there in case some robber asshole comes in wanting to stick up the place. Thing about the shotgun is, it ain’t legal. Not even
close. And it’s loaded with slugs—not birdshot. So now there’s already something right in front of him he doesn’t want the cops knowing about.

  Christ, he’s told Sarah plenty of times how nervous the boomstick makes him anyway. Not cuz he’s afraid to use it. He afraid someone else might get behind the bar and use it on him.

  The two cops belly up to the bar. One Arab. The other a white guy with a little bit of a Southern accent Kieron picks up on cuz he’s seen a lotta episodes of Justified. They’re bitching at each other like a married couple.

  Kieron decides he’s gonna play it cool. They’re partners. Or at least folks who’ve spent a lotta time with one another. Easy enough to tell that. He puts his hands on the bar. Says, “Gentlemen. What can I get you?” He waits a beat. “And I guess I should go ahead and let you know: First drink for NYPD is free here.”

  The two cops blink once. Then smirk and pat each other’s shoulders.

  The Southern cop says, “I predict a good tip in your future. I think we’ll start off with two shots of Evan Williams.”

  Kieron nods. “Good pick. You know it —”

  “—Beats out Jack Daniel’s by about a hundred years,” the Southern guy says with a smile.

  Kieron nods again. “Yep.” And suddenly he can’t tell if he wants to drink with the pigs or shove em out the door.

  One question looms in his mind: Are they here to fuck with me about the old lady’s place?

  ***

  THE THING.

  This bar. It’s a dump. And it’s too goddamn far from the apartment in Queens. Joe really wanted to come here so fuck it. At least it’s near-ish to the F line.

  That’s what goes through Saim Dajani’s head when he eyeballs the bartender. The guy’s tall with a medium build. But dark circles under the eyes. Like the guy hasn’t slept well in a decade. Or more. And maybe the bartender hasn’t. Not like that’s Saim’s problem. Thing Saim doesn’t like is how the bartender sizes both him and Joe up. Reading em. A bit much.

  Saim’s also thinking about how he got a week’s suspension for killing a couple bad guys who wanted to rob a bank and maybe kill some cops. How the fuck is that fair?

  You killed two of the bastards but Joe cuffed the third one. Arrests are better than bodies. Plus Joe shot the way he was trained to—center mass.

  Saim mumbles. “Shut up, brain.”

  Then the bartender says NYPD get their first drink free and Joe’s just happy as a pig in dirty shit to hear that.

  Saim thinks: How’d this guy make us as cops so quick?

  Saim and Joe are wearing jeans and shirt and jackets. No uniforms. No badges.

  Maybe the bartender’s an ex-con. Got those hard lines on his brow. More hard lines that streak down his cheeks. Looks tired all the time. Maybe a junkie who kicked the habit and now he’s slinging booze in an effort to earn money some way that doesn’t involve fucking someone over or getting fucked in return.

  Or maybe he didn’t kick it and is just good at hiding it.

  This bartender. Why’s he looking so hard to make out cops?

  Junkies aren’t exactly known for their calm disposition…

  Saim goes over the sheets for the Lower East Side in his head. Tries to put the bartender’s face on any mug shots. Tries to attach his description to open crime files. And can’t.

  So Saim prods a little. “You get a lotta cops in here?”

  Joe drinks and watches the Knicks play the Pacers on TV. He’s not paying too much attention to the conversation, but he’s listening.

  The bartender shrugs. “We don’t get a lotta anybody in here. Some regulars, cuz of where we are. Then stupid college kids thinkin we might not card. Why?”

  “Eh. Nothing really. Just funny how you assumed we were cops.”

  The bartender smiles. “But you are cops. I mean, hey, if you’re not, that’s fine. I can be wrong. I’ll just have to add twelve bucks to your tab, but that’s no big thing, is it?”

  Saim and this bartender look at each other. Sorta smile like it’s a joke. Except it ain’t. They’re both giving off a certain vibe.

  The bartender reaches his hand out. Says, “Name’s Kieron. You are?”

  Saim says, “No offense, but I’m not planning on being a regular. I live in Queens. But the name’s Saim.”

  “Sam.”

  “No. S-A-I-M, with a little oomph toward the ‘I’ and the ‘M.’ Like Say-im. But subtle.”

  “Say-em.”

  “Y’know... Sam’s fine. That’s what Joe calls me anyway.”

  “Your partner.”

  For a second, Saim mistakes that to mean “life partner”—as in gay as gay can be—but he realizes that ain’t it. The bartender means beat partner. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, so you’re cops. And that first drink’s free.”

  Saim shrugs. “I’m all right with that. But I’m still curious about how you picked us out so fast. You got someone looking for you?”

  “You sayin you’re looking for me?” That same smile from Kieron.

  A smirk. Like he’s so clever and playing it off.

  And maybe it is just that. Maybe Saim needs to calm the fuck down, considering he shot a coupla dirtbags a few hours ago. Takes the bloodlust a while to die down.

  Or maybe this guy’s just guilty as hell of something.

  That cop radar going off.

  The Knicks make a ridiculous play on TV. Joe claps. Orders another beer.

  Saim shakes his head. “Nah. We’re not looking for you.” Puts the breaks on. “Just, y’know, the cop shit sticks with you. I see a guy eyeing me, I wonder what he’s thinking. That’s all. Sorry.” Not really meaning the apology.

  Kieron pours Saim a shot of Evan Williams. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Just tip.” Smirk.

  Saim takes the shot. Smiles. “All right.” Not trusting a fuckin thing the bartender says.

  ***

  Kieron’s glad when the cops start talking shop. Means he can keep his mouth shut. Avoid saying anything stupid. Just listen in case the two Blues give up any good info.

  They don’t.

  But he learns something when he turns on the local 11 o’clock news in the bar.

  The graphic next to the anchor’s head shows a gun. Sirens. A bank. Kieron’s not looking at the closed captioning—he’s trying to serve drinks and listen to the cops—till he realizes the cops have stopped talking.

  The cops’ silence gets his attention.

  Now he’s watching the TV. He shushes one of the regulars and turns up the volume.

  The anchor says, “—If it wasn’t for the heroics of NYPD officers Saim Dajani and Joe Leonard, it’s almost certain we would have seen more innocent people harmed and possibly killed today. Patricia McNamara is at the scene with a live report. Patricia?”

  The screen changes. The images of two smiling, freshly-uniformed officers fill the TV.

  The Patricia woman starts to drone on about a bank robbery and...

  Kieron thinks: Oh no.

  The left one is the Southern dude. Joe.

  The right one is Saim.

  Kieron thinks: Fuck.

  People in the bar realize that the two cops are sitting right there. Right next to em.

  The news report TV goes on: Saim and Joe killed two goddamn bank robbers. And then pulled in the third for charges. And on top of that, they saved damn near twenty people.

  Kieron thinks: Cops are bad enough. These two assholes are hero cops. And they saved a bunch of people around the fuckin corner. Which means this area is part of their beat. Fuck shit ass piss.

  He wants em out of the bar.

  But soon the heroes are enveloped in a small crowd of people offering congratulations.

  Kieron blinks and rubs his face. He puts his charm on. Slides two free shots over to Saim and Joe. Says,
“On the house.”

  Saim and Joe take the drinks.

  Kieron still thinks: Fuck.

  ***

  Hours later, Saim stumbles out. Drunk off free booze from barflies.

  He wonders how he’s gonna keep tabs on the bartender.

  He’s got time on suspension to figure it out.

  16.

  Kieron watches the clock. The cops are gone, but he’s feeling paranoid as hell. He wants the night to be over. Now. He considers tossing the regulars out early. Shutting the doors. Except Saim or Joe might be watching. Which’d just be another sign he’s guilty of something.

  Christ.

  Sarah’s upstairs with Aaron.

  He should be there.

  Playing with LEGOs. Building Aaron’s ship.

  Lying next to the one woman he thinks might not destroy his soul.

  He could bring up a bottle of Jameson. Sit with a glass and watch Supernatural with his boy. Aaron always did like that show and—

  The two idiot Russian thugs walk in.

  Kieron turns his face away. Grimaces. “When it rains it fuckin pours. Pinko commies.” He grabs two Baltikas from under the bar. Pops their tops and sets them up for the thugs. He smiles at em. Says, “You guys are late.”

  Fearless Leader says, “We been busy.” Smiles. Takes a pull from the bottle.

  Boris laughs. “Yeah. Busy.”

  Kieron says, “Hey guys. I ain’t your keeper. I’m sure my regulars got plenty of shit they gotta do when they ain’t drinking in my place.”

  Fearless Leader says, “We had a good day. Keep the beers coming.”

  Boris says, “Definitely a good day.”

  Kieron smiles. Shrugs.

  Thinks: Well, that’s good and creepy.

  ***

  Before too long the thugs are going back and forth about chicks. Blondes they wanna bang. Brunettes they’d love to strip down and get fuckin. Mostly it’s boring. Cuz it’s the same kinda dumb shit that dumb men around the planet talk about when they’re drinking.