by Meg Muldoon
How helpless it made me feel.
And about how he still hadn’t called me back.
Chapter 13
“You’ve rigged the deck, you sneaky old dog,” I said, picking up another Skip-Bo card. “How do you expect me to keep coming back here if you go on cheating the way you do?”
Lawrence Halliday leaned back in his wheelchair, rubbed his full, white beard and smirked as he looked down at the few cards he was holding in his hands.
“Because I’ve got under your skin, that’s why,” he said. “Once good old Lawrence gets in a lady’s head, she can’t help but keep coming back. Drives her wild to be away from him.”
He winked at me.
“No need to feel bad about it, Bitters. It’s happened to the best of women. Lawrence is just too much for the lady folk to han—”
“You are one arrogant son of a gun, aren’t you?” I said, shaking my head.
He laid the last of his cards down on the table.
“A winning arrogant son of a gun,” he said, smiling at me.
I sighed loudly, throwing down the large stack of cards in my hand.
“You’re just lucky we’re not in the Old West,” I said. “I could have shot you for your cheating ways.”
“Sure, but then you would have deprived yourself the pleasure of my company.”
All I could do was shake my head some more.
Lawrence Halliday, or “Law Dog” as he’d been known once upon a time, was an 85-year-old sneaky, low-down, full-of-himself old man who could be a real pain-in-the-ass to me and to the people who took care of him at the nursing home.
But I loved him dearly anyway.
He’d been in the assisted living home for about four years now, ever since he had the stroke that had put him in a wheelchair. But that setback didn’t stop him from cheating at cards or flirting with all the nurses on staff. No. Despite not being as mobile as he used to be, Lawrence was the same old scoundrel he’d been his entire life.
“Well, that’s it for me,” I said, putting the cards back in the pack. “Being beat three times by you is quite enough for one day.”
“Aw, don’t be sore, Bitters,” he said. “Most folks would lose their shirt to me.”
We were sitting in the nursing home’s main dining room. It smelled of greasy mashed potatoes and old age, and like always, that made me feel a little uncomfortable. I wished that it weren’t so cold outside and that instead, we could be sitting out on the nursing home’s large deck, overlooking the river, far away from the depressing fluorescents of the cafeteria.
But despite the bad atmosphere, it was worth it to see Lawrence for our weekly donut day. Every Sunday morning, I’d come over with donuts, and he’d school me at card games.
He took another bacon maple bar from the pink pastry box, and bit into it. His eyes lit up behind his thick bifocals.
“It’s nice to know that some things never change,” he said, taking another large bite, closing his eyes and savoring each moment of the fried sugar dough.
Hank, who I always brought along when I visited Lawrence, sat with his head on the old man’s lap, looking up hopefully at the donut.
Lawrence broke off a small piece and dropped it down to the St. Bernard. He caught it in his mouth and chowed down, acting the part of starving and deprived dog. Which we both knew couldn’t be farther from the truth.
“So, seems like things are getting rougher at The Cupid these days,” Lawrence said, a passing concern flitting across his face as his eyes fixed on my swollen cheek again.
I shrugged.
“Just another Saturday night.”
“Wasn’t that way when I was in charge,” Lawrence said, a faraway look in his eyes. “The Cupid was a no-nonsense establishment back then where women didn’t get hurt.”
I pat his hand.
“I’m fine,” I said, for the hundredth time.
He grumbled something inaudible, taking another bite of his donut.
Once upon a time, Lawrence had owned The Cupid. He got the nickname “Law Dog” back then because he didn’t take crap from anybody, and because he was notorious for kicking people out.
Especially minors with fake IDs.
Which is how we had met, all those years ago, the night I tried to get in to see The Rusted Spurs.
I spent years being angry at him about that, but these days, it seemed like ancient history, given everything we’d been through together.
About seven years ago, Lawrence sold The Cupid and used the money to retire on. I think he’d have rather had his son or grandson take over, but neither of them had any interest in running the saloon.
“Dale and Courtney still at each other’s throat?” he asked.
“Those two are more mismatched than a cat and a snake,” I said. “All they do is fight. Which means I’m the only one in the place who works.”
“Who was playing there this week?” he asked.
“Some band, called themselves Cattle Carnage.”
“Were they any good?”
“I think Dale and Courtney’s fighting provided better listening,” I said. “Or nails on a chalkboard, depending on your tastes.”
He smiled.
“Some things never change, but I guess The Cupid just isn’t one of those things,” I said. “The acts that come through these days are a real sad sight.”
“Needs new ownership if you ask me,” Lawrence said, stuffing the last of the donut in his mouth. “That place used to be the pride of Broken Hear—”
Lawrence stopped mid-sentence as his eyes drifted up behind me. They suddenly grew wide.
“Quick! Cover up them donuts. Nurse Ratched is coming through.”
I took the cue and draped my jacket on top of the pink box, covering it over completely. I heard soft footsteps on the linoleum behind us and then saw her shadow fall over Lawrence’s face.
Obviously, her real name wasn’t Nurse Ratched. Lawrence, along with lots of other residents in the assisted living home, liked calling her that because of the parts of her personality that resembled the hated nurse in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I, myself, didn’t think she was all that bad of a person. Belle O’Malley was just a middle-aged lady with a hard, thankless job.
But if she caught old Lawrence snacking on some donuts, I knew neither him or I would ever hear the end of it.
“Well, hello, Loretta,” she said, stepping in between me and Lawrence.
I looked up at her, noticing she was wearing a nurse jacket dotted with little kittens in raincoats. She had a lukewarm smile on her face, and I could read suspicion in her eyes. She glanced down at the jacket spread out awkwardly across the table.
“Hi, Belle,” I said. “How are you today?”
I gave her my best nothing-to-see-here grin.
“Just fine. Dear me, what happened to your eye, Loretta?”
I glanced at Lawrence, who had his most well-behaved, respectable face on.
“Ah, just a hazard of my job at The Cupid,” I said, playing it cool.
“Well, you ought to be more careful, dear,” she said, glancing over at Lawrence. “Mr. Halliday, it’s time that you have your medication.”
Lawrence sighed.
“Are you sure about that, darlin’?” he said.
“Mighty sure,” she said, glancing at her wrist watch.
“Well, Loretta, looks like I’m in popular demand,” he said. “But don’t get jealous of me and Belle here. Despite what it looks like, we’re just good friends. Isn’t that right, Belle?”
“If you say so, Mr. Halliday,” she said, grabbing the handles of his chair.
Lawrence winked at me.
“Don’t let this old man get fresh with you,” I said, glancing up at her. “You know that he’ll try.”
She cracked a smile like she wasn’t used to it.
“Oh, believe me,” she said. “All the girls on the staff know all about old Lawrence Halliday.”
I smiled back.
Belle
wasn’t a bad sort at all. The residents in this place just gave her a bad rap.
She started wheeling him away, but he put his hand up to stop her for a sec.
He turned around to look back at me.
“Uh, I meant to ask,” he said. “You, uh, you hear anything from my grandson, Bitters?”
I looked out the window, trying to think how best to answer the question.
I wanted to lie to him. Tell Lawrence that I had heard from him. Tell him that he was doing great in Austin. That he’d be back to visit him soon. That he loved and missed his grandfather.
But I knew that Lawrence was old enough and smart enough to see through any lies I might tell.
“No,” I said. “I haven’t heard from Jacob in a little while.”
His face fell a little, and Anabel wheeled him away across the cafeteria room, leaving me with a half-full pink box of donuts and a sinking feeling in my gut.
I wished I was a better liar.
Chapter 14
As I was leaving the old folks home, I got a text message from Dale, asking me to come to work early.
He had some nerve sending me a text like that after the disappearing act he pulled the night before. But me, being a better employee than he or Courtney deserved, headed over to The Cupid anyway.
I had become a bartender for two reasons. The first was that it worked perfectly with my matchmaking gifts, back when that sort of thing mattered to me. The bar was the number one place where people came to when they were looking for love. True, most weren’t looking for their soulmate when they sidled up next to a stranger and bought them a drink. They were looking for something a little more immediate. But still, the main thing was that they were looking. And that always made my life easier when I didn’t have to do too much convincing.
The other reason I became a bartender was because I loved music. Especially the kind that The Cupid used to be known for. And because I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life, and I was wholly uncoordinated when it came to playing a guitar or other instrument for that matter, I settled on becoming a full-time music appreciator-slash-bartender-slash-matchmaker as my profession.
But between my own love life troubles, and Dale’s poor management skills, I was beginning to wonder whether or not I shouldn’t find something else to do with myself other than tending bar in the middle of nowhere, listening to bad music acts.
And the things that Raymond were saying about me finding a more respectable line of work were starting to sound more and more reasonable.
Maybe it was time to grow up. Maybe I didn’t have to necessarily become a hair dresser, but maybe I should find a job in an insurance firm like Beth Lynn, or a law office or something. Come to work wearing a blouse and heels rather than a hip-hugging shirt that made me feel chubby and slutty and old all at the same time.
Maybe I had been clinging onto the past for too long. Maybe it was time to start looking around for another reality.
I drove down Bond Street, passing by the town’s good old Wagon’s Ho! mural and pulled into The Cupid parking lot, parking next to a few familiar cars. I got out, and Hank followed close at my cowgirl boot heels.
Dale didn’t usually like me bringing Hank to my shift, even though just about everyone else in the bar went crazy for the St. Bernard. Dale didn’t really like dogs much, but I figured if he wanted me to come in early, then Hank was the price he’d have to pay.
I pulled back the saloon’s heavy door and walked inside. Hank Williams III was playing on the jukebox, singing about getting drunk with all his country heroes. A couple of familiar faces were sitting at the bar.
But for the most part, the place was cleared out. The way it usually was on a Sunday afternoon.
Courtney was standing behind the bar when I came in, and a look of relief swept across her face.
“Bitters, can you help these gentleman?” she said.
Courtney was a lot of things, but a bartender she wasn’t.
She was dressed in one of the bar t-shirts, which somehow looked worse on her than it did on me. Her frazzled orange hair was pushed back into a loose ponytail. Over the years, her hair had gone from a smoky red to a bright orange through a series of progressively bad dye jobs.
I went around the bar, took off my jacket, hung it in the back and came back out, ready to work.
“You ever think about cutting this pooch loose, you let me know,” a familiar voice said from the other side of the counter. “I’d be first in line to take him.”
Dry Hack Jones leaned down and rubbed behind Hank’s large ears. Hank leaned his head back, and a few strands of saliva rolled out from the sides of his mouth.
I’d never known such an attention-loving dog.
“Well, if that day ever does come, you’ll be the first to know,” I said, both of us knowing that it never would. “Now what are you drinkin,’ Dry Hack? The usual?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.
“One gin and tonic coming right up.”
Dry Hack was one of the bar’s most loyal customers, and one of my favorites, partially because of the large tips he left behind. He got his nickname “Dry Hack” from the long bouts of coughing that would sometimes plague him. He served in Operation Desert Storm, and blamed his coughing on having to breathe in all that sandy desert air all those years. He’d been wounded during his time in the army, and walked around with a limp these days.
He lived on disability and spent what little money he had drinking at The Stupid Cupid Saloon and talking with whoever had an ear to lend. He was a Civil War buff, and sometimes would give me a play by play of the battle of Antietam or the Siege of Vicksburg like it was a Monday night NFL game, and I had asked about the score. But I didn’t mind it. He had a way of telling stories that kept your interest.
“So what’s new, Dry Hack?” I asked, placing the gin and tonic in front of him.
“Not a thing, sweetheart, not a thing,” he said. “That’s a nasty shiner you got there. How’d it happen?”
“I got in the middle of something last night that I shouldn’t have,” I said.
“I’m sure the other guy looks a lot worse,” Dry Hack said, taking a swig of his drink.
“I wish,” I said, thinking about Kirby’s sweaty, fat face. “He did leave behind his credit card though.”
“Well, there you go,” Dry Hack said. “You oughta go out and buy yourself a new wardrobe with that.”
“There’s a thought,” I said. “But knowing Kirby, the thing’s probably maxed out already anyway.”
“Kirby Carruthers? He’s the one that lay the hurt on you?”
I shrugged.
“In a roundabout kind of way.”
“Well, next time I see him I’ll be sure to give him hell. Son of a bitch can’t be doing that to my friend.”
Dry Hack finished his drink, and I got him another one, already knowing that he’d be asking for a second round.
“You hungry, Dry Hack? Is there anything we can get you from the food cart?”
He shook his head.
“Not yet, Bitters. I’m gonna sit here and work on my appetite a while. Hey, you seen my true love yet?”
I smiled.
Dry Hack was one of the few people that I had confided in about my, uh, gift. Unlike most people, he actually believed that I got visions. Every time I saw him, he asked me the same thing: if I had seen his soulmate.
And the answer was always the same. Sadly, I had yet to have a vision of Dry Hack’s true love.
I shook my head.
“No. I can’t control them all that well,” I said. “Wish I could. Lately I’m getting bombarded with all these ones for Beth Lynn.”
“Aw, that’s okay,” he said, taking another long swig of his drink. “I’m a patient man.”
Just then, I felt Courtney at my elbow.
“Dale wants to see you, hon,” she said quietly, in the same kind of tone that a teacher might use when sending a kid down to the principal’s office.<
br />
“About the bar fight last night that he wasn’t here for?” I asked.
“He just wants to see you.”
I threw down the bar rag.
“Dry Hack, you think you can look after Hank for a minute?”
“It’d be my pleasure,” he said, rubbing behind the big dog’s ears.
Hank let out a pleased growl.
I left the front of the house and went around back to Dale’s office.
Ready to give him hell if he was going to scold me for what happened the night before.
Chapter 15
“So you see, Bitters, I’m between a rock and hard place with this one.”
I sat there, feeling like my gut had just been ripped out.
Dale sat behind his messy desk, stacks of disorganized files and papers piled so high it almost blocked my view of him. He ran a hand through his thinning hair.
He looked tired. His skin had a shiny, oily look to it, the way it got when he had a hangover. His eyes were small and swollen.
“This is a joke, right?” I said. “You’re just having some fun with me, aren’t you?”
Dale sighed, his large gut heaving along with his chest. He crossed his arms over his midsection, tucking his balled-up hands underneath his armpits.
“Things just aren’t like how they used to be in the old days, Bitters,’” he said. “I’ve done everything I can think of, but we’re still losing money here on a daily basis. I’m sorry, but we’re in a full May Day tailspin right now, and that means we have to get rid of any excess weight.”
“You’re saying I’m excess weight?” I said, standing up angrily.
“Dammit, no. That was the wrong way to put it. What I’m saying is that while Courtney and I enjoyed having you work here, we jest can’t afford you anymore.”
“Who’s gonna tend bar with me gone?” I asked.
“Courtney’s gonna step in.”
I scoffed.
“That woman doesn’t know the difference between Johnny Walker and Patron.”
I felt like steam was going to start coming out of my ears.
“Be that as it may, there’s not much more I can tell ya,” he said. “You’ve given us a few really good years, and we’re grateful. But if we don’t start bailing out water, the ship is going to go under. You understand?”
