The Last of the Smoking Bartenders

by C. J. Howell

  Tom wheeled about like a sailor returned to dry land. The people stared. The sky was blue. A brilliant blue cast against the white building and the red sand. The street was virtually empty, other than the truck he’d rode in on, which soon executed a three point turn and went back from whence it came. Across the street from the store was a small post office, a fenced red brick branch of Arizona Power and Light, and a pawn shop with a sign over the roof that said simply, ‘Guns.’ But that side of the street was deserted. All the people were in the shade of the General Store’s portico, watching Tom.

  One of the women sitting on a bench beside the door said something in what must have been Navajo, and the row of people against the wall erupted in laughter. A pink and green shawl wrapped around her shoulders, covering a white embroidered blouse. She motioned her hand at him, palm forward, fingers coming down in a digging motion bending at the wrist. Tom first thought that she was shooing him away. Not an altogether unexpected reaction. Small towns discouraged new vagrant arrivals, content with the ones they already had. But she seemed to be smiling, her maw a black hole, toothless save for two oddly placed teeth set in her lower jaw. But she was smiling, dimples even, and insistent. Tom realized she meant to call him over with her hand gesture. He wiped his brow and cautiously approached the General Store, stooping under the awning to get in the shade. An old man squatting on his haunches against the wall said something and received another round of laughter. The woman’s colorful shawl extended all the way down to cover a woven basket at her feet. She lifted the ends of the shawl to reveal a mound of warm frybread.

  One dollar. She held up a solitary finger.

  Tom paid her in nickels and dimes, and she handed him four large pieces of frybread wrapped in napkins. Tom sat crosslegged against the wall and ate a piece. He pressed his back against the cool adobe. It soothed the knots and dissipated the heat radiating off of him. The woman took a piece of frybread from her basket and ate it slowly. They ate in silence.

  Chapter 5

  Hailey was good looking. She knew she was good looking because people told her so. They told her so a lot. She knew she wasn’t stunning, but then again, stunning was good looking with a three beer buzz.

  She sat at the corner of the black lacquer bar at the Barking Spider, a slender hand toying with a vodka tonic. She should have driven up to Bartonville to interview witnesses, but the episode with the dog had rattled her. It upset her how much she needed the dog, and how fragile he was, even though he could have ripped her throat out in one swift motion, if he so chose. So instead of doing her job, however she decided to define it, she’d driven straight home and deposited the dog inside to both their great relief.

  The Barking Spider was in a nondescript strip mall a few miles from her house down Old 63. Next to a music shop and a karate studio you wouldn’t have known it was a bar except for the neon Coors sign behind a black window. It was dark inside, lit by the glow of three televisions and two rectangular lights suspended above two pool tables.

  She came here often, although no one seemed to recognize her. The bartender did of course, but he never spent much time trying to engage her. She spoke little enough to indicate she didn’t want to talk, but just enough to not seem too weird. He figured she just liked to drink, just came here to drink, which was true. Or maybe it wasn’t. After her third vodka tonic she looked around at the few customers, even though she didn’t need to. She knew without lifting her head that there were six men in the bar—two a few stools apart on either side of the register, two at a corner table next to the black window with a view of the parking lot, one working the Golden Tee machine, and one staring at the jukebox. She could tell you their approximate ages, height and weight, and income bracket. But she looked around anyway. She didn’t need to come here, she could easily drink at home. It wasn’t what the bartender guessed, that she drank in the middle of the day because she had kids at home or was playing hooky from work. So why did she come here?

  The man who was at the jukebox took the seat next to her. She scolded herself. Funny how one lapse in concentration somehow made her approachable. Sympathy for the Devil launched out of the jukebox.

  Buy you a drink?

  No thanks.

  A shot then? Come on, do a shot with me.

  She knew the man, had talked to him a few times. He was in his mid-fifties, white curly hair mushroomed off his head. She knew he was a drywall contractor, not that he did any of the drywalling, had Mexicans for that. She also knew he cheated on his taxes, but that never really changed her opinion of anyone. He was friendly, always friendly.

  Make it something easy.

  Purple Hooter, no wait, Kamikazes then.

  She nodded.

  The bartender poured vodka, triple sec, and sour in a metal mixer, clamped on a pint glass and shook once, and then poured out two shots and one for himself. It wasn’t often the blonde, he didn’t even know her name, was being social.

  The contractor had a wide frame, broad shoulders, a square block head, and a gulf-filling twinkle in his eye. Not fat, but thick as a tackling dummy. Jeans, Old Spice, and a blue denim shirt. He leaned in close when he talked, bourbon on his breath. There seemed to be no space at all. She clinked shot glasses with the man and drank the tart shot with one gulp. The bartender waved his glass in their general direction. The man squared up and smiled.

  What’s your name sweetie?

  She nodded to herself, pretending like she was struggling to swallow.

  What’s yours? Larry McCabe she thought to herself.

  Larry McCabe. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

  Well Larry, thanks for the shot. She patted the cuff of his denim shirt and grabbed her keys and sunglasses off the bar.

  Why you gotta rush off? You gotta man at home?

  Oh yeah, I got a fat hairy man at home.

  She flipped open her phone and showed him the picture on the screen. It was a dog, asleep on the couch, head propped up and eyes just barely closed like a sleeping seal.

  Aw that’s a good looking boy, what kind is he?

  She set her purse back on the bar.

  I have no idea. I’ve asked three different vets and gotten three different answers.

  Fucking vets will tell you anything.

  Tell me about it. Really, he’s got about six different dogs in him.

  His mama got around.

  Oh, she was a total whore. Must have been queen of the dog park.

  Best not to tell the boy.

  I would never! He’s just a little boy!

  Hey lemme see that again.

  She handed him the phone.

  You know why they can never tell you what he is?

  Why?

  That’s dog’s got coyote in him.

  And suddenly it made so much sense. The weird blue eye. The crazy fight or flight mohawk and curled lip snarl. Feral aggression just below the domesticated veneer, predatory, all claws and teeth. The way other dogs and people avoided him.

  Really, coyote, you think?

  Sure, well, a Cahouly dog anyway.

  She repeated the words, Cahouly dog.

  He made off with any chickens? Livestock?

  No, he’s very well mannered, and cleanly.

  You’ve tamed the beast then, good maternal instincts.

  Yeah right.

  Good breeding stock.

  She laughed and looked up at him, blonde bangs in her eyes. She didn’t mean to give him that look.

  This is mine.

  He took a photo out of his wallet of a pretty girl and little black dog.

  My daughter. Sent her to school up in Colorado, at the university, she does nothing but snowboard, ride she says, five years now, she picked this little guy up and she can’t even care for him properly, new apartment doesn’t take dogs or some shit, pissed all over her place anyway, so he’s staying with dad now till she gets things sorted out.

  Hailey looked at the picture again. Chow mix, black tongue hanging out.


  Well, at least she’s enjoying life. Smarter than the two of us.

  No, she’s a good girl. I’m proud of her. She’s my whole life. I’ve bonded with the little guy now anyway, I’d hate to give him up.

  The remaining men in the bar had coalesced around a game on the TV above the other end of the bar, and the bartender, who’d been washing glasses and listening to Hailey and Larry’s conversation and was beginning to feel slightly embarrassed for doing so, drifted away to join them. The warm yellow-orange glow of the bar now seemed debilitating, dark. She tried to find the door with her eyes. All she saw was Larry’s wide frame.

  Yeah well, I should get back and feed the dog.

  I’ll bet he’s fine, probably feeds himself anyway. You find a lot of missing cat flyers in your neighborhood?

  No, really, can I have my phone back? Larry still had her phone strangled in his hand, flipped open to the picture of the sleeping dog. He looked at it, paused, held it in two fingers and dangled it in front of her. She reached for it but he pulled it back, grinning.

  He winked at her.

  She stared back at him.

  Fine, no need to be a bitch.

  She snatched the phone from his right hand, but as she did he grabbed her left wrist and pinned it to the bar.

  I’m just messing with you—don’t go now.

  She froze for an instant, mouth slightly agape, blood draining from her face. Her wrist was locked to the bar. He stared down at her, blue eyes crystalline as November sky.

  Hey Larry, what’s going on? The bartender took two steps toward the back of the bar.

  Are we talking to you?

  The bartender was silent.

  Mind your own fucking business.

  Hailey felt paralyzed, drawn within herself, her will just out of reach. She looked down at herself as if outer body, looking from a thousand feet in the air at the barroom below, an exit, blocked by Larry, pinned in at the back corner of the bar, trapped in a five-foot corridor between the bar and low wall separating the pool tables. She picked up her purse with her right hand and moved to get off the stool, but Larry held her left wrist firm.

  Let me go…I have to go.

  Her voice was small, without wind.

  Larry looked down at the hand, as big and round as the end of a dumbbell. He spread his fingers and released her wrist.

  She gathered her things and hurried out of the bar. As she pulled the door open, a blast of cold air hit her, and a whistling gust whipped her hair from one side to the other. Outside it was night, the same color as the darkened windows had been inside the bar, a clear desert night. They were all clear desert nights. She struggled across the parking lot, slammed the door of the 4-runner shut behind her, and studied the rear view mirror for any sign of someone coming out of the bar after her. But there was no one.

  Chapter 6

  Lorne first became conscious of a repetitive scratching noise, the dull dragging sound of something scraping against metal and glass. He then became aware of pain in his knees and back, aching muscles screaming to be stretched. His foot throbbed. He tried straightening his legs, but they were jammed. Consciousness quickly bubbled up to the surface and he tried opening his eyes and found only one lid would function. He panicked, bolted himself upright, ripping his face free from the vinyl seat cover to which it was stuck.

  The Malibu. He was in the back seat of the Malibu. Tom was gone. A foot and a half of bent metal molding that had popped out of place rubbed back and forth against the side of the car, making that scratching noise that permeated his sleep. He could tell it was morning by the quality of the light. Beyond that he knew nothing.

  He wedged himself into the front seat, found the door handle with his pinkie finger, and tumbled onto the road. He found himself elbow deep in loamy red sand. The sand had been blown into a drift as high as the rear wheel well. Two deep ruts in the sand trailed the Malibu to its inexplicable resting place. They were at an intersection of sorts, between what looked like a foot path and a bend in the road. There was a house a hundred yards behind, and two randomly placed off the road ahead. Other than that there was just empty desert and the road stretching to oblivion.

  He stood up, stretched, scratched his ass, looked around in all directions, and hacked up a wad of phlegm.

  Fuck me, he said aloud.

  The Malibu looked half-submerged. Every wisp of wind washed more grainlets of sand higher against the sinking frame. He knew it wouldn’t start, but he had to try. Fortunately, the keys were in the ignition. The engine rolled over once, a slow grind like hand cranking a jammed pencil sharpener, then nothing.

  He scanned the interior of the car. No water. He felt through the trash on the floor. No food. He found a beer at the bottom of a cardboard twelve pack. It felt hot to the touch. He got out of the car and cracked it open, white foam spewing from the lid. Even piss warm it tasted good. Lorne was grateful.

  He looked out at the open range. It might have appeared that he was contemplating his options, but in reality he just stared blankly at the expanse. He finished the beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it in the backseat. He tried not to litter when out in nature. He dove again into the trash on the floor hoping to find another beer. When he picked his head up he was startled to see a figure through the windshield. He extracted himself from the Malibu ass-first, revealing half of his pasty white buttocks. He pulled himself upright and straightened his pants. An Indian boy of sixteen or seventeen stood a few yards away, examining him.

  You lost?

  Uh, yeah…I’m lost.

  Where you trying to go?

  Uh, Well…I don’t know where I am so I don’t know where I’m going.

  The boy thought about that for a time. He was not a bad looking boy, thin with a long face, long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  Car trouble?

  Lorne, hand on his hips, kicked the dirt.

  Yeah…yup, car won’t start.

  Looks stuck too, the boy said.

  I ’spect so.

  They stood silent for a while, the boy studying the car, and then Lorne.

  You looking to buy something?

  Lorne cocked his head. He took a step back. A slight smile out of the corner of his mouth.

  Well, what do you got?

  You want green?

  Lorne thought about that. He still had a few joints stashed somewhere, a couple in the car and one or two in the various inside pockets and folds of his army surplus utility pants and jean jacket. He knew what he really wanted.

  Can you get white?

  The boy spoke slowly, eyes on Lorne, nodding his head to an imperceptible rhythm.

  No coke…we got glass. You go fast?

  Glass will work.

  The boy squinted into the sun. He looked Lorne up and down.

  You got money?

  Shit yeah, Lorne said, hands on his hips, sweating and panting now, pawing his foot at the dirt like a talking horse playing tic-tac-toe. Lorne handed the boy a twenty-dollar bill. The boy took it slowly. He watched Lorne for a long while, making no motion to leave.

  Aren’t you afraid to come to the res?

  Lorne started to laugh and then thought better of it.

  No, why…should I be?

  The boy shrugged.

  Most people are afraid to come to the res.

  Lorne chuckled, thinking now that this was getting a little too weird. The self-preservation instinct, generally ignored, making a feeble motion to be heard.

  I don’t want any trouble.

  The boy stared at him, uncomprehending. Black eyes, opaque, giving away nothing.

  No trouble, he said finally.

  Wait here.

  The boy turned around and walked up the road, his high-tops kicking up a cloud of red dust. At the bend in the road he didn’t turn but rather kept going straight, hopping over a low ditch to one of the three lone houses. The houses sat askew, neither lined up with each other nor the road, as if laid out on the streets of a town that n
o longer existed. They looked government issue, one-story square blocks long ago painted tan with brown doors and window shutters.

  Lorne stretched, spun a slow circle, and pondered his luck, already feeling a little speedy, pulse rising, feet tapping. The boy was gone for a time. No noise or movement came from the house. Lorne began to wonder if he’d been had. But where would the boy go? Could he slip out the back of the house and disappear with his twenty? There was nothing around for a hundred miles. Had he imagined the boy? Was he imagining everything? He thought then of the burning transformer, and about what had happened at the mine. But he quickly blocked it out. That was all Tom’s fault anyway. He seemed far away now. Maybe it never happened.

  He heard a low distant rumble. A large flat bed truck with dual rear wheels came up the road behind him. He stepped into the ditch at the side of road. The truck carefully edged past the Malibu. A half dozen men were in the back. He held up a hand in greeting. A half dozen dark heads turned to watch him. He briefly wondered if he should hitch a ride. Rides seemed few and far between out here. But the boy had his money, and the promise of something he couldn’t leave behind. The truck slowed down and then kept going when Lorne made no move to run after it. And then the door to the house opened and the boy reappeared, evenly covering the ground toward him in his steady gait. And then Lorne only thought about one thing.

  Here.

  The boy placed a tiny heat sealed baggy in Lorne’s hand. Lorne looked at it, an eighth inch of white crystal flakes at the bottom of the bag. He closed his hand tight around it. The boy turned to go.

  Hey, where can I go...you know...to do this?

  The boy shrugged.

  And a little help here’d be nice. Lorne held his arms out and gestured to the desert. I mean where the fuck are we?

  The boy turned back around to face him. He squinted and studied him some more, internally debating without moving a muscle.

  You got any more money?

  Yeah, Lorne puffed up defensively, testing out a hint of anger. The boy was impassive, unflinching. He saw things for what they were.