The Barkeep

by William Lashner

  19.

  GIN GIN

  The squat woman who answered the door squinted her squinty face at the figure standing in her doorway. The sun was shining directly in her eyes. The man before her was apparently more shadow than substance, and seemingly unfamiliar.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Hello, Aunt Vi,” said Justin.

  The woman put a hand up to shield her eyes and took a closer look. “Is that you, Justin?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Why, you been missing so long, sweetie, I thought you were dead.”

  “No such luck. Can I come in?”

  “What for?”

  “Just to visit.”

  “I don’t got no money.”

  “I don’t want money.”

  “If that’s true, it’d be a first for your clan. Come on in if you want,” she said, turning from Justin and shambling into the darkened interior. “And close the door behind you.”

  Violet was Justin’s mother’s sister. She needed a cane to support her weight as she made her way to a dark, plainly furnished parlor with the curtains drawn and the television on. Short gray hair, an untucked shirt over sweatpants, white sneakers. She had been a beauty once, with three kids and a doting husband, but alcohol had taken a toll on her looks. Now Violet had let herself go until she could barely make it out of the house to buy her Oreos and booze. But if you looked closely, beneath the folds of flesh ravaged by bitterness and drink, you could see the lovely creature she had been, and what she had been then was just as bitter and vindictive as what she was now. If anyone knew who might have wanted Justin’s mother dead, it would be sweet Aunt Violet.

  “Pour me a drink,” she said after dropping into the lounger in front of the TV.

  Justin found the small bar in the corner of the room and read the labels of the bottles all standing in a row. “Gin, gin, gin, and gin,” he said. “What’ll you have?”

  “Gin.”

  “Anything in it?”

  “Gin.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “And pour one for yourself,” she said as she lit her cigarette.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Too early?”

  “By a couple decades.”

  “You always were the careful one.” As she took the filled tumbler from Justin she gave him an appraising look. “But you don’t look so careful any more. What did you do to your hair?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There’s the problem right there.”

  “You want to turn off the TV so we can talk?” said Justin.

  “Why would we do something like that?”

  He reached over, took the remote control off the small table next to the lounger, pressed the red button. Some soporific talk show died on the screen.

  “They were going to give a recipe for jambalaya,” she said.

  “How are you doing, Aunt Violet?”

  “How do you think?”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  It didn’t take long to catch up on old times. There was no deep connection to revive, no store of fond memories to share. Aunt Violet was one of those estranged relatives who only showed up at the occasional Thanksgiving or Christmas celebration, or the occasional family funeral, to spew her bile. The other relatives shook in their boots when she approached with something to get off her chest. Even the dead ones.

  Violet’s ex-husband was now in Florida with some skank he had picked up in church. In church, could you believe it? And Violet’s three children were scattered in states far from Philadelphia. She wasn’t on speaking terms with the first, she was fighting with the wife of the second, and the third lived in Seattle. “I guess San Francisco wasn’t far enough.” The kids didn’t visit much, which suited Violet fine, since a visit only meant the grandkids ran wild while her children talked incessantly about their lives, like everyone cared. “What is it with this new generation?” she said, the half-drunk gin in her hand. “All they care about is themselves.”

  Justin tried to catch up Aunt Vi on his life over the past five years, a heavily truncated version with just the least interesting details, but he stopped right in the middle when it became clear that Aunt Vi didn’t give a damn, which was a relief. Neither of them gave a damn about the other; they were family after all.

  “I visited my father in prison the other day,” said Justin.

  “How is the old bastard doing?”

  “Not so well. He still says he didn’t kill my mom.”

  “What else would he say?”

  “Aunt Vi, you always know stuff, all the good stuff at least.”

  “I have a taste for the unvarnished truth,” she said before taking another gulp of her gin.

  “So what I want to know is whether you think my father is lying.”

  “What do you think yourself, Justin?”

  “The moment I found her dead I knew it was him.”

  “And he’d have reason to have done it, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your mother didn’t love him.”

  “After all his infidelities, could you blame her?”

  “I’m not talking about at the end, I’m talking about the very beginning. Your mother never loved your father, and that’s the truth of it, the truth behind everything. She used him all along, like she used everyone her entire life, and that’s why things turned out the way they did, you ask me. I’d say she deserved what she got.”

  Justin tensed his jaw for a moment. “That wasn’t what I asked. I asked whether you thought he had killed her.”

  “It’s all part of the same thing. You want the truth or you want the story that makes you feel all good and squishy inside?”

  “The truth.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because I have some to tell.” She lifted her near-empty glass. “Fill me up and then buckle your seat belt.”

  20.

  BITTERS

  “What has your father told you about your mother?” said Aunt Vi.

  “That my mother was the love of his life.”

  “Could be. And if so, there’s the root of all his misfortune right there. Where’s that drink?”

  Justin took her glass and brought it to the bar. This was the second full glass of gin he had poured for her, and the first he had poured for her was most likely not her first of the day. As the clear liquor spilled into the glass, he imagined all the empty bottles piling up in the recycling bin outside.

  “Eleanor married your father because he could support her the way she felt she deserved to be supported,” said Aunt Vi, the filled glass now in her hand. “She wanted to be a poet, like she was another Sylvia Plath waiting to shock the world. As if the world isn’t shocked enough already. But she knew she’d never earn enough to pay for her ink and her loft. Your father had a good job, and stood in line to inherit the factory. If she married him, she could keep her artistic pretensions.”

  “That’s pretty cold,” said Justin.

  “You said you wanted the truth.”

  “Maybe not that much truth.”

  “Your mother was all ice, sweetie. But she was in love, actually, when she got married, just not with your father. She never fell out of love with her high-school sweetheart. You would think Eleanor would have gone for one of those angry boys in jeans, or a skinny misunderstood beatnik. But Austin was the high-school quarterback.”

  “Austin?”

  “Austin Moss. Mr. Good Looks, Mr. Popularity. Everyone loved Austin, everyone wanted to be loved by Austin. He was in my class, older than Eleanor, and we’d had a thing for bit. You know, smeared lipstick in the back of the car, a loosened belt buckle, a tired jaw. And the way he purred, you could tell he liked it. We weren’t going out or anything, but there was always the spark of possibility. I still remember how it felt when I heard the news in the hallway about my sister and Austin. Like a punch to the gut.”

  “You sound like you still haven’t gotten over it.”

  “I n
ever get over anything. That’s my secret.”

  “That’s a tough way to go through life.”

  She lifted her glass in a mock toast. “You might not believe it now, but I was the pretty one. I was the one that made the boys swoon. I had the tits of a pinup. Now they need to be pinned up before they reach my knees. But for her to be with Austin seemed a violation of the rules.”

  “Rules? What rules?”

  “There are always rules in family, dear. That’s why family life is so miserable. I was older by a couple years, but Eleanor was the special one. The favorite. My life turned dark the moment my parents brought her home. I remember staring at the little baby, thinking how beautiful she was, reaching in to touch her. And then she started crying, and my mother snatched her up, like she thought I was about to strangle her, and my father shushed me quiet, and they left me alone as they took her upstairs to fuss over her. And they never stopped fussing. And I was left to fend for myself, living under the shadow of the comparisons.

  “‘How come you don’t get good grades like Eleanor? How come you don’t have good manners like Eleanor? Eleanor won another literary award. Why don’t you ever win anything? Why can’t you dress more like Eleanor? Why do you have to dress like a slut?’

  “Growing up with Eleanor was like growing up in a vacuum, because she sucked all the oxygen out of any room she was in. She was kind and sweet to me because she was in a position to be kind and sweet to me. And everyone always told me how lucky I was to have such a lovely little sister. And all I wanted was to pull out all her hair like I had pulled out the hair of all her dolls. Because I knew the truth, that all she ever cared about was her own damn self. Your father learned that too late.”

  Justin felt strangely divided as his Aunt Vi spewed out the bitterness that had been eating at her like a cancer for almost the whole of her life. It was tragic in its way, how she had held onto it all these years, but it was not a surprise. He could always sense it in her during those family occasions: the cutting competitive remark, the dark expression on her face during unguarded moments. But as he saw his mother through Aunt Violet’s eyes, he realized with a start that the vision wasn’t shockingly off. His mother had been self-absorbed and a little selfish, and Justin himself had felt the sting of being on the wrong side of those aspects of her personality.

  “Eleanor was the smart one,” said Aunt Vi, “the artistic one. That was her role. I was the pretty one, the slutty one, the one that got the boys. The rules were simple. I wouldn’t ever join the literary magazine and write poems about seagulls.” She downed the last of the gin. “And she wouldn’t fuck the high-school quarterback.”

  “You know what, Aunt Vi? It’s time for you let that one go. All the bitterness, it just eats you up inside.”

  “Maybe I like the feeling.”

  “And that’s why you drink?”

  She looked down at her now-empty glass, lifted it up and shook it. “Give me a refill?”

  “How about some juice or something? Maybe toast?”

  “You’re useless,” she said as she started to push herself out of the chair. She rose a bit, wobbled, and fell back down. “Crap. Do you notice the similarity in names? Your name is one purposeful letter away from Austin’s. You were her memorial to the love she tossed away. No wonder you were always her favorite, why she ignored Frank and doted on you. The patterns repeat, don’t they?”

  “So why didn’t she marry this Austin?”

  “He couldn’t give her the life she wanted. And your father was nothing if not a persistent suitor. From the moment he met her, he was lost, and eventually he wore her down. He promised her a nice house, time to write, a family, and a nanny to take care of the family. Though she didn’t love him, she wanted all those things, so she allowed herself to be bought, it was that simple.”

  “Is anything that simple?”

  “This was. Your mother confided in me, told me her situation with your father, asked my advice before she said yes.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I had married for what I thought was love and it was already turning to crap. I told her to be smart and take the money.”

  “They seemed happy enough when I was a boy.”

  “Well, of course they did. Your father was still in love, your mother was still writing. But she grew a bit sour when her career never took off like she had hoped.”

  “I remember her at one point getting a little depressed. She would stay up in her room and we were told to stay away and fend for ourselves.”

  “She was paying the price for her choices. And the more she felt like her specialness was dying, the less she gave to anyone around her. Why the hell do you think your father started sleeping around? Why do you think he ended up with that girl you testified about at the trial, the one he introduced you to over dinner that night a few weeks before the murder? What a juicy morsel that was when it came out.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “The papers had a field day. And everyone acted like your mother had been the one betrayed by his affair with that girl. But the truth was, my sister had been betraying your father the whole of the marriage by not giving him the two things he needed most. Other than oral sex, I mean.”

  “Aunt Vi, could you not.”

  She laughed, a throaty, vicious laugh. “What I meant was love and affection. The things my special little sister was never capable of giving to anyone.”

  “She loved me.”

  “Yes, dear, because you were so special, too.”

  “Do you think my father did it?”

  “Did what?”

  “Bludgeoned my mother to death?”

  “My honest opinion? No. Truth was, he did still love her.”

  “So who did it if it wasn’t him?”

  “Who knows? Maybe it was a botched burglary. Maybe someone had been stalking her.”

  “Let me ask you a question. Was there a woman who might have wanted my mother dead? Someone serious enough to have her killed?”

  “Other than me?”

  “You?”

  “She was my sister. Of course I wanted her dead.”

  “You cried at her funeral.”

  “Did I?”

  “There were a lot of dry eyes, but not yours.”

  “Allergies.”

  Justin stared at the slumping figure of his aunt, and a wave of pity rushed through him. So many casualties. “Have you ever tried yoga?” said Justin.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I’m not. I could help you, start you out with a few basic moves. Yoga could smooth away some of your rough edges.”

  “I don’t want them smoothed, don’t you understand? My bitterness is about all I have left.”

  “That’s too sad.”

  “Oh, stuff your tofu up your ass.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I will.”

  He stood, leaned over her, kissed her sweaty forehead. She reached up a hand and touched his cheek, the same cheek that had been ravaged by the attack in his house. Her touch felt surprisingly good. He closed his eyes and saw his mother reaching out for him.

  At the door, he stopped and turned around to take a final look. She was sitting in her chair. The TV was back on. She was smoking another cigarette. “Good-bye Aunt Vi,” he said.

  “What about the girl?” said Violet, face turned toward the television.

  “What girl?” said Justin.

  “Your father’s little slut, the one he introduced you to. You’re looking for someone who wanted your mother dead? What about her?”

  21.

  GRASSHOPPER

  Derek does not want to understand all the twists and turns of Vern’s master plan. If he tried to keep all Vern’s sinister lines from snagging, he would only end up with an impenetrable tangle of fishing line and a hurting head. Making the plans and seeing them through is Vern’s job. But what Derek does understand is that Vern is screwing up.

  It was the untidiness of the last e
rrand Vern sent Derek off to perform that first clued Derek in to the trouble. When you leave a dead body, there is no one left to give a description. That has always been Derek’s primary advantage in the business. You look at Derek and you see someone who sweeps the floor at a McDonald’s, or who attaches plastic leaves to fake plants. Cops cruising by always give him a wave, and Derek waves back, grinning all the while. And everyone feels good, and no one suspects anything, and Derek likes it just like that. He has always hidden in plain sight, with no one left breathing to paint a description.

  But Vern’s instructions were to leave the man with the long dark hair alive, to simply recite the script and then be on his way, and so he did it just as Vern told him to do it. But when the policeman came knocking, Derek had no choice other than to run. And as he ran, he glanced back to see if the policeman had yet come through the door. And when he glanced back, the man with the long dark hair caught a glimpse of Derek’s face. Just a glimpse, but even a glimpse is enough when you have a face like Derek’s.

  Derek told Vern what had happened, and Vern told him not to worry about it. That Derek will have the chance, eventually, to shut the man’s mouth but good. Still, there he is, the man with long dark hair and no TV, able to recognize Derek on sight, able to give a description. And when Derek complained again, Vern gave him one on the side of his head and told him to shut up. And so he did. But now when the cops cruise by, Derek’s grin is not so secure.

  So that was the first clue that things were falling apart. The second clue was that Vern was followed home last night.

  As Vern staggered into their hotel, knocked woozy by his nightly dose of alcohol, he failed to notice the man slipping around the corner after him. Vern was too drunk to see it, but Derek does not drink. Derek was sitting on the stoop of the gated side door of the apartment house across the street from the hotel, scratching at one of his fleabites, when he saw the short man with the sharp, pointy face cautiously slide around the corner. The man moved carefully, his side almost rubbing up against the stone before he disappeared into the arched entrance of the hotel. The man left the hotel a few minutes later, walked beyond the hotel’s entrance, turned around, and stared up at the wall of windows.