The Barkeep

by William Lashner

  “Why are you lying to an old dog like me?”

  “Habit?”

  “That was one screwy crime scene.”

  Justin kneeled down and took out a French press from deep within a rarely used corner cabinet next to the stove. He began ladling coffee into the press. One tablespoon. Two tablespoons. Three tablespoons. “It all looked pretty straightforward to me,” he said without looking at the detective. “I mean, the gun was in her hand, right?”

  “That it was.”

  “Any note?”

  “No note, but we found some interesting stuff that we wanted you to look at. Of course, you had disappeared.”

  “But you knew where to find me.”

  Scott took a photograph out of his jacket pocket and tossed it on the table. “You ever see these before?”

  Justin leaned over and gave it a look. A pair of dangling diamond earrings in a drawer, next to some other stuff. There was something about the earrings that tolled familiar, but Justin couldn’t figure out what.

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  The detective pulled the picture back. “They seem to match a set of earrings that were found missing after your mother’s murder.”

  “Let me see them again,” said Justin quickly. When the detective gave him the photograph, he looked more closely. And he remembered his mother, dressed to the nines, leaning over him and giving him a kiss as he sat in his pajamas in front of the television with Frank. Hanging from her ears, glistening like a constellation of stars…

  “Oh my God,” said Justin just as the kettle started whistling.

  “And we found some powder right next to the earrings,” said the detective as Justin went over to take the kettle off the stove. “Powder that might link up to the drugs that killed Timmy Flynn.”

  “That’s almost hard to believe,” said Justin as he poured the heated water into the French press and fitted in the filter.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “But it all makes some sense, doesn’t it? If Mrs. Moss was responsible for my mother’s murder, then she might have kept the earrings that were stolen from the scene. And later she might have sent that sleazebucket Nicosia to kill Timmy Flynn to keep my father in jail, which would explain the powder. And somehow she must have gotten scared that it all would be figured out, and that was why she killed herself. It seems a clear enough connection.” He paused a moment, tried to make his question feel as offhand as possible. “The only mystery is how she would have found out that you were looking at her.”

  “I called her and asked her some questions about your mother that night, that’s how.”

  “So that’s it. Don’t you see?”

  “Yeah, I see it all right,” said the detective as Justin slowly pressed the plunger on the French press. When it was down as far as it would go, he poured a mugful for Scott. “I don’t have milk or sugar, but I could put in soy milk and honey if you want.”

  “Soy milk and honey?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll have it black.”

  “Good choice,” said Justin as he set the mug before the detective.

  The detective took a sip and winced. “You having any?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Well, aren’t you something.” He took another sip. “This whole scenario of yours is pretty damn neat, wouldn’t you say? I been doing this for longer than you’ve been alive, and they don’t come tied any tidier than this. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect someone had tied the bow himself.”

  “That’s because you don’t want to admit that maybe you made a mistake six years ago.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing, Justin. When I was your age, sure, last thing I ever wanted to admit was that I blew it. It was a pride thing, I was swollen with pride. I made detective four years in, and for weeks on end I strutted around like a mummer on Broad Street. But at my age now, the only thing that’s swollen on me is my prostate. I am more than ready to let go of my mistakes, if they are mistakes.”

  “Maybe my dad is one of them.”

  “You think?”

  “I don’t want to blame anyone, Detective. But if my dad didn’t kill my mom, then I am partly responsible for putting him in there. I want to be responsible for getting him out. And maybe I’ll have my dad again. Maybe things will end up being the way they were before.”

  “What would the Buddha say about that?”

  “Frankly, I don’t give a damn.”

  “You ever hear of a girl named Rebecca Staim?”

  “No.”

  The detective looked at his coffee. “She was a Penn student, one of those foolish kids who think they can change the world. Took a semester off to do volunteer work in Guatemala, that sort of thing. A kid bound for disappointment, but who knew what she’d accomplish before that happened. She was killed a few days ago in a burglary gone bad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “She was the one fatality in a wave of successful burglaries that hit Center City last week. And here’s the thing. There’s a connection—tenuous as hell, but a connection nonetheless—between what happened to her and what happened to Flynn. And maybe to what happened last night, too.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, yet. But I will, trust me on that. You know anyone who has suddenly seemed to fall into some money?”

  Justin thought about that for a moment and then felt a chill. “Not me,” he said, trying to cover his reaction.

  “I know not you. What would you do with all that cash? Buy a bigger TV?”

  Justin laughed a little too loudly. Scott stood.

  “Thanks for the coffee, though it was more than a little stale and could have used some fixings. We’re not through here, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’m going to need to talk to that Annie Overmeyer, too.”

  “I’ll let her know if I see her.”

  “You do that.” The detective stepped over to a coat flung on the couch. He picked it up by the collar, gave it a quick look, found the bloodstains right off, and then held it out for Justin. “And you might want to give her this too.”

  Justin took hold of it sheepishly.

  “You don’t think it’s weird?” said the detective.

  “You ever been crazy for someone, Detective?”

  “In my time.”

  “Tell me, how weird was that?”

  50.

  SOMETHING WET

  The spate of violent deaths seemingly stalking his family’s past was not what scared Justin to the bone. And while the peculiar vulnerability he felt now when he thought of Annie Overmeyer was as alarming as it was delicious, that wasn’t it either. Nor was it the questions that still had to be answered about Birdie Grackle, that murdering son of a bitch, or Cody’s strange new affluence, which was the first thing Justin thought of when Detective Scott asked about anyone falling into money. No, what terrified Justin the most was that, in the course of a single night, he had reverted back to that which he had been before blood and death twisted his life onto a new course; he was once again a young man with a future. Not as young, true, and with a future not quite as bright, absolutely, but still.

  He felt the frightening power of all his possibilities as he sat stiffly and waited in the visiting room at Graterford. This was no longer just a visit with a lifer in prison, this was a visit with his father, who might soon be released and become again an integral part of his life. And in a way, that made it so much harder.

  When his father was finally escorted through the locked door, Justin stood and wiped his hands on his jeans.

  “Justin.”

  “Dad.”

  There was an awkward moment as they stood face-to-face, Justin noting a bruise beneath his father’s eye. Justin’s father reached out his hand. And Justin gave it a shake. And then quick as a breath, as if embarrassed by the press of flesh itself, they took their places acros
s from each other at the table.

  “How’s it going?” said Justin, looking away from the bruise.

  “The same. Every day in here is the same.”

  “You getting by okay?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  Justin turned his gaze directly on the bruise. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Do you want the details?”

  Justin thought for a moment. “No, not really.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  They talked about nothing for a bit—the weather, politics, Frank and Cindy and the kids. They talked about nothing because Justin was somehow afraid of what was behind the door of the huge something he was there to talk about, afraid of the disappointment that would inevitably be found there. And was it inevitable? Of course it was; he was dealing with his father. But when the nothings petered out, he gathered his courage and said finally, “I have some news.”

  “Good news?”

  “Not if you’re Janet Moss. She killed herself last night.”

  “My God.”

  “She shot herself. In the head. This was after a detective asked her some questions about Mom. And in her house they found a set of earrings.”

  Justin’s father leaned forward. “What kind of earrings?”

  “Earrings that matched the description of a set that was missing from our house.”

  Justin watched as his father absorbed the news and made the calculation. After a moment his father softly banged the table with a fist. “Who knows about this?”

  “Just the police for now. And they might have a link between her and what happened to Uncle Timmy.”

  “My lawyer’s name is Sarah Preston. She needs to know everything. Everything, Justin. Will you do that for me?”

  “You know what this means?”

  “It only means I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

  “You don’t seem as excited as I thought you would be.”

  His father pressed his lips together and lowered his voice like he was telling a secret. “You know what kills more people in here than a shiv in the shower? Disappointment. If you start getting ahead of yourself, each day is like a kick in the teeth. Just tell everything to Sarah.”

  “Okay. I will.”

  “Good boy.”

  “This is going to do it, Dad. You’re going to get your new trial.”

  “We’ll see.” His father looked away, as if struggling to take it all in while keeping his emotions in check, and then he turned back to Justin and stared at him for a moment, as if he were studying a stranger’s face. “And if I do get the new trial, then what?”

  “The prosecutors won’t move forward. They can’t. Any first-year law student could punch a hole the size of the Holland Tunnel through their case. The whole thing will be dismissed.”

  “And then what. I mean, what will it be like between us?”

  “You’ll be out.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “I didn’t do much of anything. I just—”

  “Stop. Justin. For six years I’ve been telling everyone who would listen that I didn’t kill your mother. Others, like Frank, might have believed me, but you were the one who actually did something about it.”

  “Maybe that’s because I had something to do with you being in here in the first place.”

  “You just told the truth, son. I don’t hold that against you, I never really did. If I vented, it was just because in here everyone needs a target. I know I wasn’t much of a father.”

  “Dad, stop.”

  “No, listen. I was the worst I could possibly be, arrogant and self-absorbed and intolerant of any of my own flaws that I saw in my boys. I was a bastard, and when I cheated on your mother, even though it was part of our arrangement, I was also cheating on you. I choke on my own bile when I think of the way I was.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Of all the things I regret in this world, I regret that the most.”

  “You were what you were, but that’s the past. We’ve all moved on.”

  “Some failures you never move on from.”

  The guard from the door stepped over. “It’s time, Mac.”

  “Thanks, Rondell. This is my son Justin.”

  “Nice to meet you, Justin.”

  “He graduated Penn Law.”

  “That’s pretty fancy,” said the guard. “Very nice. Where do you work now?”

  “Zenzibar,” said Justin.

  “International, huh? Good for you. You must be proud as punch, Mac.”

  “I sure am. I’ll be there in a minute, Rondell.” He waited until the guard was back at the door. “He’s a prick except when there’s family around. But Justin, what I wanted to say, if I ever get out of here, I swear I’m going to make amends for the way I was before. I’m going to be the kind of father you deserved. I know it’s too late, I know I can’t make up for what I was.”

  “Dad.”

  “What I want to say, and it’s hard for me, but it’s this. I love you, son. I never told you enough.”

  “You never told me at all.”

  “Maybe it was too scary for me to express, but I did. And I do. And everything will be new if I get out. I promise.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “I just wanted to say that.”

  “Okay.”

  “I guess it’s time.”

  His father stood and Justin stood with him. They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment. Justin saw more tears in his father’s eyes and had to look away for a moment. His father reached out a hand and Justin took it. And they shook. And then, suddenly, before Justin even knew what was happening, they were hugging, hard, like they hadn’t done in years, like they hadn’t done ever. And Justin felt something wet on his neck. His father’s tears? On his neck? It was impossible and it was happening.

  Sometimes, against all odds, the deepest, most unlikely dreams come true.

  Justin watched through his own tears as his father pulled away, nodding with an exaggerated show of self-possession even as he wiped his eyes and nose with his palm. And while Justin watched his father turn and make his hunched walk to the exit, Justin felt the peculiar lift of a young man with a future when the future begins to come into focus and it is lovely beyond imagining.

  But before Justin’s father reached the door, he stopped and turned around again and came back to Justin, gripped his shoulder, pulled him close so he could whisper.

  “Could you do one thing more for me, son?”

  “Sure, Dad. Anything.”

  “That girl I was seeing, Annie? Annie Overmeyer? She’s still living in the city. Find her and tell her I’m going to get out, finally. Tell her to hold on a little bit longer and then we’ll be together, forever, just like I promised.”

  51.

  CHAMPAGNE COCKTAIL

  His name was Mark from King of Prussia. He traded stock options for some firm with three names on Market Street that Annie Overmeyer had never heard of and he smelled of a cologne notable for its not-so-subtle hints of oak and arrogance. He was talking now about a killing he had made in the market that very day, amused at his own brutal cleverness. A Rolex sprouted on the hairy wrist of the hand that was wrapped firmly around a glass of high-priced Scotch; his other hand rested heavily on her thigh. When in the midst of a whispered comment his tongue burrowed into her ear, it was as blunt and wet as a salamander’s snout. And every time he squeezed her leg, it was like he was crushing her soul.

  It had started with Mark from King of Prussia like it always started with the Marks from King of Prussia, with a drink. The trader had been sitting at the other side of the bar, and he had given her the eye, his trading eye, she assumed. She had smiled back, out of mere politeness or, maybe more truthfully, out of long-ingrained reflex. And next thing she knew a Champagne Cocktail was coming her way.

  “This is from the gentleman over there,” had said the barkeep as he presented her the drink, seven words like seven slaps on the face, coming as they did from Justin Chas
e.

  That cold son of a bitch.

  It was her own fault for letting him seduce her in the first place. Not seduce her into bed—there was no trick in that, a line as stale as week-old bread and a bottle of Jack or Jim was all it took—but seduce her into thinking that his being with her was maybe more than just another notch on his futon, albeit a notch supercharged with a little oedipal hot sauce. There is no fool like a slutty fool, as Annie insisted on proving again and again.

  Their morning had been as brilliant as their previous night, sweet and rough and wildly romantic, and neither had been touched with the lubricating mendacity of alcohol. For a moment she let herself believe what before she had always known to be lies. But when he came back up the stairs after dealing with that cop, he was already someplace else.

  “I need to run an errand,” he said.

  “Good, because I have a report I need to finish at work.”

  “I’ll call you there.”

  “I might answer.”

  “You’ll answer,” he said, and he was right. She would, he had made a believer out of her. A believer in what? In the stupidest of things, that something bright and full of promise might reach down and save her life. Justin ex machina? Why not, why the hell not? And the kiss that followed was just as passionate as all that had come before it, just as true, and when it came to kisses, she knew true. It carried her home on a cloud. She went to work late, hid at her desk, and spent the day waiting for his call.

  And waiting. And waiting. Not that she didn’t deserve it. Not that the city wasn’t full of men who had spent untold hours waiting for her calls just as she was waiting for his. But there she was, waiting. And waiting.

  She knew she was in trouble when the delivery boy brought the flowers, a large bouquet of daffodils and daisies and white roses. Her heart soared and swooped in flights of rapture. White roses. Who could resist? She was like an actress reciting to herself her acceptance speech while waiting for her category to be called at the Oscars. But the boy gave her not a glance as he passed her desk and placed the flowers on a desk at the other end of the hallway. For Phyllis, a truly sweet woman whose face, at that very moment, Annie wanted to rip off her skull.