The Last of the Smoking Bartenders

by C. J. Howell

  THE LAST OF THE

  SMOKING

  BARTENDERS

  A NEW PULP PRESS BOOK

  Copyright © 2013 by C.J. Howell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Visit us on the web at www.newpulppress.com

  for Olivia Bell and Raja West

  PRAISE FOR

  THE LAST OF THE SMOKING BARTENDERS

  “A zany, violent road trip through madness and paranoia. The Southwest as seen through the haze of a meth pipe while you cruise on a ninety-proof buzz. Visceral and intense.”

  —Mario Acevedo, author of The Nymphos of Rocky Flats

  “The Last of the Smoking Bartenders is hilarious and intense, a book that nailed my feet to the floor, grounding me to my favorite reading chair for two days and ruining all my plans. I love it when that happens.”

  —Matthew McBride, author of Frank Sinatra in a Blender

  “A heated adrenaline ride of pulp and madness, if you have a taste for the harsh, the downtrodden and the psychotic, C.J. Howell brings something fresh and entertaining to this landscape of storytelling, while flipping it on its ear. If not too bad for you!”

  —Frank Bill, author of Crimes in Southern Indiana

  “The Last of the Smoking Bartenders is a druggy road trip across a burned out southwestern landscape that’s both bizarrely off-kilter and strangely recognizable. With gallows humor and a keen eye for American absurdity, C.J. Howell has fashioned an apocalyptic epic that takes place in the here and now of our darkest national fears and neuroses.”

  —Jake Hinkson, author of Hell on Church Street

  Chapter 1

  I-70 West outside of Green River, Utah. Under the overpass it really wasn’t bad, almost cool in the shade. But it was 110 degrees in sun. And sun was everywhere. If Tom sat very still he didn’t sweat. But he would if he had to start moving, and move he must.

  Five hours. Five hours crouched against the concrete hull of the overpass and no rides. Tom stood and stretched. A classic white VW bus approached westbound, slowed slightly, and continued past. Tom watched the bus plow onward into the desert. When the engine’s whine finally merged with the cicadas, Tom spat once and sat back down. Even fucking hippies don’t pick people up anymore.

  Now it was decision time. Four miles back to Green River. If he started walking now he’d make it fine. But if he stayed out here, low on water, he might get too weak to make it all the way back to town. Best not to take chances in the desert.

  Tom reluctantly put on his dark wool overcoat. He simply didn’t have room for it in his pack, and he needed it. It got cold in the desert at night.

  He started out into the sun. His backpack, an Eastman day pack, was small but heavy, due mostly to the sack of coins at the bottom.

  The overpass may have been a bad call. Four miles back to town, the way he’d come. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the arc of the on-ramp was a good half-mile by itself. He’d been doing this long enough, and the distances that seem inconsequential in a car were always deceptively large on foot. But no one was picking him up in town, and once he’d started toward the interstate there was no choice but to keep going to the overpass. The only shade out here was man-made.

  Sweat began to trickle. The heavy lump of change in the backpack bounced off his tailbone as he walked. He followed his feet one step in front of the other over the sand on the shoulder of the interstate. As he reached the on-ramp he noticed a car slowing as it approached. He could tell right away it was a state trooper. Tom simply stopped and waited. There was no place to run or hide.

  The trooper rolled up to him and stopped. Tom took off his backpack and coat. He knew the coat made him look like a bum. You are a bum. He could smell his body odor rush out from the confines of the coat.

  You trying to get a ride?

  Yes sir.

  Tom smiled. He liked talking to fellow law enforcement, although he wasn’t stupid enough to tell this or any other lawman that they were on the same side.

  The trooper opened the passenger door.

  Get in, I got the air on.

  Tom got in, placed his pack and coat on his lap, and let the cool blast from the dashboard vent wash over him.

  You know you can’t hitchhike on the interstate.

  Tom nodded.

  I’ll take you to the greyhound station in town. You got money for a bus ticket?

  Sure. Tom smiled again.

  You don’t look like it.

  Tom nodded in agreement.

  The trooper put the car in gear and wheeled it back onto the on-ramp with one hand. As the engine revved up, the blast from the air conditioner intensified. Tom enjoyed the sensation of motion, even if it was short lived. He eyed the console computer, the scanner, the radio. If he had that kind of equipment, any equipment, he wouldn’t be so desperate. Those he chased had everything. He supposed that’s why he couldn’t have anything. Traveling this way was the one way he wouldn’t be tracked. But money, Jesus, to travel without paper money was really pushing the point of diminishing returns. He’d devoted years to being under the radar, any radar, but what good was it if he never prevented an attack, if he got everywhere late?

  Green River was awash in dust and sand. The wind picked up outside the car. They passed a few houses abandoned decades ago, tumbleweeds bunched up against a low barbed wire fence, a new Shell station and food mart with a fairly brisk traffic of motorists fueling for either the fifty mile stretch to Grand Junction, Colorado, or the ninety mile stretch to Price, Utah, a few more abandoned houses and a few more occupied but in various stages of disrepair, and then Main Street with three blocks of the original 1890’s buildings, most storefronts vacant.

  The trooper pulled in front of a small stone building with a Greyhound poster in the window that no one would have seen unless they were looking for it.

  Eastbound comes at eight. Westbound comes at eleven.

  Thank you, sir, God bless.

  Yeah. You get on that bus you hear?

  Tom opened the squad car door and felt a blast of heat.

  Listen, I can take you to the shelter in Grand Junction. No shelter out here.

  Mighty kind of you, sir. But I’m moving on.

  All the same, I’m letting you know up front I’m gonna tell the Emery County Sheriff you’re here. If he finds you hanging around long enough he’ll put you in.

  I understand.

  Tom tipped the brim of his frayed Red Sox cap, almost a salute. He sat his pack under the Greyhound sign and watched the trooper wheel the cruiser back around and head back down Main Street toward the interstate.

  Tom had almost forty dollars in change, but he wasn’t about to waste it on a bus ticket. He removed a pack of GPCs from his inside coat pocket. Inside were three full cigarettes and half a dozen butts. He gently pulled one of the full cigarettes out, lit it, and took a big drag. He decided to wait until night. He sat on the sidewalk, legs stretched out, and watched the sky orange and then fade to purple.

  His sweat had cooled and dried, and he contemplated putting the coat back on. But he’d combed his hair and brushed off and he felt, at night at least, he was passable.

  There was more traffic than Tom would have thought. More than in mo
st little towns he’d been in. A car passed every so often, driving slow, with music seeping from the interior.

  The sound of glass smashing, probably a bottle breaking, caught him by surprise. He was jumpy from habit, not because he thought there was much to fear in this town, other than the elements and the police, of course. A figure emerged from one of the few side streets and ambled toward him on the other side of the street. The figure weaved a bit, not quite a stumble, swinging something big in one hand. When the man, it was obviously a man, drew parallel to Tom, he stopped and stared straight at him.

  Hey, the man called out and started crossing the street. Tom could see now the man wasn’t stumbling but limping due to a large cast over his right foot with a peg to keep the cast off the ground.

  Tom, alarmed now, pressed his back against the stone building and drew in his knees. He reached for his pack.

  Hey buddy don’t worry you wanna drink?

  The man extended what had looked like a club but now Tom recognized as a two litter plastic bottle of Coke.

  Tom didn’t move.

  Nice night huh? Slept out here many a night.

  The man was young, mid-twenties, soft eyes and full beard blending into his long hair. He had a toothy smile, although one front tooth was bent back toward his throat. The bottle still extended straight out at ninety-degrees.

  Tom took the bottle, two-thirds full, awkward, almost heavy in his hand. There was no cap on it. He took a swig of warm cola, sharp with what was probably Old Crow. He coughed, tasting fire in his breath. The man was clearly a vagrant. It was a wonder he hadn’t been picked up. Maybe it wasn’t so bad here, the Sheriff had better things to do.

  Thanks. I’m not sleeping outside.

  Oh, me neither if that’s what you’re thinking. Got a room above the tavern. Work there too.

  The man, Lorne was his name, sat right down on the sidewalk. He took back the bottle and drained a good third of it in heavy gulps.

  Good to sit down.

  They passed the bottle back and forth. Tom was feeling good in spite of himself. It wasn’t that he disapproved of drinking, but he needed to be focused now. He knew he was in dangerous land, and the least of his worries was that he had no transportation and it was ninety miles to the next town. He knew it was going to be a tough stretch, but the desert was proving a problem. Yet two conversations in one day had Tom feeling pretty good. There were weeks when that wouldn’t happen. And now the drink.

  The stars came out shimmering like tinsel, dancing and spinning small circles inside the dead black sky. The bottle turned mostly to backwash, but they drained it anyway. Lorne was gregarious, talking constantly, swinging his large chipmunk arms for emphasis. Lorne had driven out west from Florida—swamp Florida, not beach Florida—with a buddy four or five years ago. He lost the buddy along the way, some town in Oklahoma, or was it in the Texas panhandle? No, if it was Texas he was sure he wouldn’t have made it out either. Who could know? It was an endless string of towns all the same, a silo next to the rail yard on one side of highway, a bar on the other, a few rows of white painted houses and then another stretch of dirt to the next town. He’d run out of money in a little town in Colorado and was literally on his last bourbon and Coke in the corner bar when he met a chick. She was a raft guide, hundreds of them were in town for the summer season, camping by the Arkansas River, making forty dollars a day. They camped and she lent him the money for the one-week guide certification course, and he took a boat down once or twice a week. Something happened with the girl, or maybe the town, and now he was in Green River, Utah, the last place to pull the boats out of the river for the companies that float the Green River. Green River is the end of the road for the Green River! Lorne interjected into the conversation at least a half a dozen times.

  He tapped the cast over his right foot. It looked like it had gotten wet and was unraveling.

  Can’t guide with this thing, but I got lucky with the tavern, clean the floors and the bathrooms at four every morning, whatever else needs to be done. Got a room there too.

  Tom nodded, he had been thinking about the room. Lorne had mentioned that a half a dozen times too. Lorne wasn’t the type to deny a stranger a little spot of floor.

  Let’s go to the tavern, Lorne said, crushing the empty two-liter Coke bottle.

  The tavern was on the corner two blocks up. A neon sign hung over the door that read, Tavern. Stenciled in gold paint on the door was ‘welcome to the Tavern—live music since 1902.’

  Lorne grabbed the door. It jingled when it opened. Tom felt his pulse rise. It wasn’t often he went into public places full of civilians. Inside it was more crowded than he would have thought. A barrel-chested doorman nearly blocked the entire entrance. Tom was sure this was a mistake. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the Emery County Sheriff was drinking here, this being the only bar in town.

  Hey brother! Lorne screamed to the bouncer.

  Lorne was effervescent, hands everywhere. The bouncer reluctantly high-fived him. He eyeballed Tom closely, but let him pass, shaking his head and glancing toward the bar, a silent nod to someone to keep an eye on them. Inside it was warm, as if the bar was lit by candle light. Rows of bottles behind a long oak bar reflected the green and red neon beer signs along the walls. Tom was relieved to be let in, but self-conscious. Around him were red sun burnt faces, tourists fresh from their rafting trips down the Green River, unshowered and happy to be back in civilization replete with chicken wings and beer. With any luck, he would just be considered local color.

  Why’s it so crowded?

  Friday night, Lorne grinned.

  This was new information to Tom. Lorne pulled his long hair back beneath a dingy white baseball cap and headed to the bar. Tom was grateful there was an empty table against a wall with two folding chairs. The bartender, a big breasted woman probably younger than she looked, greeted Lorne with a hug. She poured him a shot and one for herself. They clinked glasses and tapped them to the bar in unison before downing their shots. She poured a pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon and pulled out two icy mugs from the dented beer cooler. Lorne grabbed them and spun to see where he’d left Tom.

  Lorne, stay away from the customers now, she yelled with no effort to keep her voice low.

  Lorne returned with the pitcher and two frosty mugs. Tom reached for his bag of change to make his contribution, but Lorne put up his hand and shook his head no. Tom was mesmerized by the heavy bar mugs, so cold that an icy film formed over the top of the beer. The beer was delicious. They clinked glasses.

  Here’s to beer.

  Lorne drained his beer, foam streamed from the corners of his mouth and clung to his beard. A band began playing from a low stage at the back of the bar. The sound was deafening.

  These guys rock, come through every summer.

  The three piece jam band started into a cover of Tombstone Blues.

  The sun’s not yellow—it’s chicken! Lorne yelled giving the thumbs up, and he was up off his chair and pushing toward the front of the stage. The foot with the cast on it wobbled under his weight.

  Tom clutched his beer in both hands, watching the ice melt. He took a short drink, and then a long one. It felt good to be in civilization. A makeshift dance floor had formed, a ring of onlookers with four or five couples dancing in the center, and Lorne of course. Tom tapped his finger on his glass to the beat. The wind picked up outside, and a tumbleweed pressed up against the window and then rolled passed. Tom filled his mug, less frosty now, from the pitcher and sipped it down. When his mug was empty again he waited for Lorne, not wanting to take more than his share of the pitcher. But Lorne appeared to be talking to an actual girl, one apparently too inebriated to notice Lorne’s funk. She was in her early twenties, blonde hair pulled back, solid Midwestern arms and thick legs. Tom figured she was one of the rafting guides, probably didn’t shower much herself. Tom poured the rest of the pitcher into his mug. He sipped the last beer as slowly as he could, but eventually it was empty and he felt
immediately vulnerable for no longer being a paying customer. He thought he saw the bartender glance his way and shake her head. Lorne was dancing with the girl, or at least dancing next to her.

  Lorne, I told you to stay away from the customers! the bartender yelled over the wailing guitar. Lorne spun around on his cast and shot the bartender a look, almost knocking the girl down in the process. She punched his round chest playfully but signaled with her hand that she was sitting down. Lorne kept dancing.

  The empty pitcher stared at Tom. Eventually the doorman took the empty pitcher back to the bar to be washed. The table was as empty as the desert outside. Tom began to sweat. He had no idea what to do with his hands with nothing to hold onto. They felt awkward on top of the table, but he felt too shifty if they were under the table. Lorne was right in front of the stage, eyes closed, playing air guitar. He almost looked like he was in the band.

  Eyes were on Tom, he was sure. The pressure proved too much. Tom stealthily dug into his backpack, and without exposing his bag of change removed sixteen quarters. He made his way to the bar, no one particularly getting out of his way. The bartender crossed her arms and waited.

  Excuse me, Tom whispered, raising a finger.

  Can I get you something? she said, shaking her head.

  Pitcher? Tom tried to smile.

  Of? The crossing and recrossing of arms.

  Whatever’s cheapest. Tom shrugged, smile gone.

  She poured a pitcher of Pabst.

  Three-fifty.

  Tom counted out fourteen quarters. He took the pitcher and placed two quarters on the bar for a tip. She made no move to pick them up.

  Tom drank the pitcher slowly, but not so slowly he couldn’t enjoy it. The band moved into an acoustic set, a soulful string of bluegrass and old coal miner folk songs. Couples took a seat to get a breather, with mugs of beer and rounds of shots. The room was dark and warm. Lorne returned but wasn’t saying much. He leaned way back in his chair, his beer resting on his belly. He sang along with the band he’d seen many times, turning to Tom when he knew a lyric. ‘Eat, when I’m hungry…Let me drink, when I’m dry…Two dollars, when I’m hard up…Religion, when I die.’