Chapter 6
As Nick drove to the Slippery Beaver, he contemplated his next move with Shauna. Bernie seemed like a sure thing for some unknown reason, regardless of the beautiful woman he’d just met because of the slobbery pooch. But he was afraid that once he took Bernie home, he’d lose contact with her, having no reason to return to the shelter. Then there was that whole voice thing. Nick’s imagination could get the better of him, and Shauna unexpectedly threw him off his game. The more he thought about, the more ridiculous it seemed. By the time he drove into the Slippery Beaver parking lot, he actually giggled to himself at the mere thought of it.
“No dog’s gonna drive me nuts,” Nick said to himself, “Because I’m already nuts! Ah, talking dogs. I should rent the “The Shaggy D.A.” after work. Maybe I’ll pick up some “Scooby Doo” or “Marmaduke.”
Nick hopped out of the pickup truck and jogged across the parking lot to the Brewery’s pine double doors. The brewery’s rustic build out didn’t go according to the original plans, but the end result couldn’t have worked out any better. The owners wanted to use reclaimed lumber from barns and the like until they discovered the enormous cost involved. Purveyors of fine rotted, moldy woods wanted upwards of twenty times the standard construction material costs, which did not include shipping expenses. As cool as it would have looked, they decided to focus on finely crafted beers and associated culinary treats, rather than diverting expenses to old, knotty lumber.
Instead, they used local Pine Valley, CO conifers, which, as chance would have it, possessed an unusually high amount of sap. During construction, it was common for the wood workers to get covered in the goo by the end of the workday as they put up paneling and flooring. It wasn’t unusual for staff and patron’s clothes to get stuck when leaning against unfinished interior wood walls. One could even still see it ooze from the knots in the wood on the walls. Fortunately, workers covered the floor with multiple layers of sealant, thus preventing the sticky sole syndrome. The pine flooring gave the place an old cabin feel as the soft wood floors quickly showed a weathered, beaten look. As the sap aged, glossy reddish hues seemed to splatter across the floor giving the appearance of burning embers embedded in the wood.
The brewery first opened its doors almost 10 years ago and remained the only brewery restaurant in Pine Valley to this day. Without any chain restaurants for competition, the Slippery Beaver remained the best venue in town on game days. The bar area flowed into the main dining area, separated by a long granite waist high wall that customers used both as seating and a place to rest their drinks. Many intoxicated patrons stumbled over this partition, and the locals named it “the great wall if inebriation”, honoring their fallen brethren.
Beaver sightings in and around Pine Valley remained conspicuously low, inciting much discussion among the locals as to the origins of their favorite establishment’s moniker. A four foot tall stuffed beaver sat perched on its hind legs in the middle of the bar back. Not at all unusual considering the brewery’s name and woodsy atmosphere, but the industrial size jar of KY Jelly that rested in the beaver’s two small paws gave rise to the owner’s true intentions; crude and juvenile by some standards, but as time passed it became more iconic than depraved.
“You’re late,” shouted the hostess as Nick picked up speed once inside the main doors.
“I’ve got a good excuse,” Nick said as he strode passed her.
“Yeah, I bet. What’s her name?” the hostess teased.
“Shauna and Bernie,” Nick responded as he ran out of sight through the swinging kitchen doors.
“Raunchy,” the hostess said, crinkling her nose. “Didn’t need to know about your three way, perv.”
Nick grabbed a white apron that hung on a hook by the time sheets that he regularly ignored. He reasoned that he mostly worked for tips, and the paltry hourly wage he garnered did not merit documentation. Nick tied the apron around his waist, checked to see if his pens were still in the front pocket, and made his way back around to the bar. This wasn’t a long term plan, but he did enjoy working on this side of the stools. Nick fantasized about one day becoming a successful writer and owning his own restaurant. He’d learned the food service business well, having worked his way through college, slinging drinks and cheeseburgers at several college town joints. Now the Slippery Beaver acted as a temporary bandage to ease his personal economic hemorrhage as he attempted to revitalize his writing endeavors.
Nick pulled his cell phone from his front shirt pocket as he felt the familiar buzz of a new message. He hoped Shauna had called and left a message, then quickly realized she did not have any of his contact information. Their entire bond revolved around a St. Bernard that he did not own and the Fairview County Animal Shelter that he visited only once. Ah, mon chéri, at least we will always have Paris, he whimsically thought. Nick dialed up his voicemail and waited for the message to begin.
“Nicky, this is your mother,” the message began. Her voice jolted Nick back from his romantic fantasy. “Your father and I decided to take a road trip. At least that’s what he insists we call it. He’s been reading a lot of Jack Kerouac lately, and now he’s got the traveling bug. Anyway, we thought we’d stop by that town of yours and spend a little time with you. I’ll call back when we get closer.” The message ended and the polite, computerized female voice informed him that he had no more new voicemails. Nick pulled the phone from his ear and gave it a perplexed look.
We’ll call when we get closer? Where were they, and when did they make this call? Nick looked at the telephone and realized his mother placed the call on his drive from the animal shelter to the Slippery Beaver. Mom and dad taking a road trip? Nick recalled childhood memories of family vacations that involved making the annual pilgrimage to the local Howard Johnsons because they had free cable and a swimming pool. As an only child, Nick’s parents allowed him to invite friends along so he had someone to play with at the pool. Those friends often regaled Nick of their family vacations to Disney, skiing in the Rocky Mountains, beach trips, and even the occasional international trip while they treaded water under the diving board of the hotel pool. At the time it all sounded kind of cool, but HoJo’s was cool too, right? As he got older he realized just how much his parents were home bodies, so an unexpected road trip was totally out of character.
“Got a new app?” Troy asked as Nick continued staring at his phone. Troy was a full time waiter at the Slippery Beaver, but looked more like he belonged in a Harley Davidson storefront selling motorcycles and all the necessary apparel one needs to look the part. He sported a Harley bandana on his head while a pair of motorcycle sunglasses hung on the rear collar of his Brewery T-shirt. Troy insisted that the shades were not a fashion statement, but a practical piece of equipment, as the foam edges on the lenses kept wind and other things kicked up off the road from getting into one’s eyes. Troy covered his arms in tattoos, some motorcycle related, but mostly things he found appealing at certain times in his life. The over-used barbed wire tattoo shared space with gothic skeletal designs, pictures of women, Asian lettering, and people’s initials paired with specific dates. It was an eclectic display to be sure.
“Nah, just a message from my folks. They’re coming to visit.”
“For how long?” Troy asked.
“They didn’t say,” Nick said, still looking at the phone.
“Oh, man, that’s not good dude. Are they getting a hotel or staying with you?”
“We don’t have a HoJo’s, so I assume they’re staying with me.”
“Not good, man. Not good.” Troy shook his head from side to side, picked up an order of drinks and returned to the main dining area. Nick knew there were lots of things to see and do between the Colorado Front Range and Las Vegas, NV. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me where they were or when they planned to arrive, he thought. As these thoughts ricocheted inside his head, the jukebox at the far end of the bar that sa
t by two worn green felt pool tables began blaring B.B. King’s song, “Paying the Cost to be the Boss”. Nick enjoyed listening to the blues, and he anxiously hoped the next few days would not be an exercise in living the blues.
As he collected his thoughts, Nick scanned the open dining room floor. Not too many customers, which was normal for early evening in the middle of the week. Aaron Flaraherty sat at the end of the bar sipping his usual Guiness Stout while he scanned the stack of local newspapers that sat next to his seat. Aaron worked as a local plumber and was a fixture at the end of the bar between 5pm and 7pm. Ever since his wife passed away five years ago, the Slippery Beaver became his dinner date Monday through Friday. He never got drunk and strictly adhered to his evening schedule, consisting of two stouts and the special of the day. A few regulars floated through from time to time, but none with Aaron’s consistency. Business dinners, friends connecting for a drink, a little pool shooting competition, and couples out on a casual date made up the standard Slippery Beaver patronage during the work week. The two men seated in the booth by the narrow hallway that led to the bathrooms stood out like a sore thumb.
Not that he knew every customer who walked through the door, but these two did not fit in with the rest of the clientele this particular evening. A young black man sipped on a soda while his middle-aged white counterpart stirred cream into a fresh cup of coffee. The young black man sported a dark leather jacket over a buttoned down collared dress shirt with a pair of khakis. His pants were neatly creased, and his shirt appeared rigidly starched. His Florsheim dress shoes poked out from underneath the table and emitted a shine that almost made Nick squint. His taut facial features gave Nick the impression that he seldom missed a gym workout, even though he couldn’t really make out his physique. The white guy wore a wrinkled Hound’s Tooth sports coat with a powder blue collared shirt that in no way complimented each other. His tan dress slacks looked frayed at the cuffs even from behind the bar, which was a solid 25 feet away. He sported a bushy mustache and at least a day’s worth of growth on his chubby cheeks and double chin. Nick wondered if he slept in those clothes and shaved in gas station restrooms when he got the chance. Nick got the impression that this guy regularly slept on couches.
Troy returned to the bar and dropped off two empty beer mugs and a martini glass. Nick picked up the glassware and brought it back around to their industrial dishwasher behind the bar. It was a slow night, and Troy stayed to talk.
“I hate nights like this,” Troy said. “I’ll be lucky to break $50 in tips if things don’t pick up.”
“Not much hope in that on a Wednesday,” Nick said.
“Tell me about it. I’ve got the pool guys coming to the bar to get their drinks and a bunch of salad eating, water drinking hacks on the floor. Not to mention the odd couple in both 7,” Troy said, referencing the white guy and the black guy.
“Yeah, what’s up with them?” Nick asked.
“They’ve been here for the past hour, nursing ginger ales and bugging me about coffee refills. If you ask me, they’re cops, but not local ones. I’ve never seen either of them before.”
“Why cops?”
“Classic salt and pepper team. How often do you see frazzled, middle aged white guys hanging out with clean cut African American young men at breweries and not even bothering to have a few beers?” Troy glanced over his right shoulder at the two unsuspecting men. “Yeah, definitely cops. The old, crumpled veteran detective and the clean-cut, by-the-book rookie right out of the police academy working on the big Pine Valley stakeout. I wonder which one of them finds it more painful?”
“Maybe they’re waiting on the white guy’s daughter, and the other guy’s the boyfriend,” Nick reasoned.
“If that were the case, old dog would be hitting the beers by now,” Troy countered. “Besides, they have that cheap feel to them, like most cops.” Nick couldn’t argue with the cheap comment because he sensed it, too. You pick up on these things after a while in the business. If you don’t, you end up busting your ass for some lousy pocket change left on the table as some type of semblance of a tip. Troy was right about one thing for sure. Cops were cheap.
“Too bad we don’t have donuts on the menu,” Nick quipped.
“Not that they’d look at a menu and order something,” Troy responded.
Nick took a peek toward the policemen and noticed them looking his direction. Nick averted his gaze and pretended to count customers in the main dining area. He scanned the floor from left to right and back to the left again. By the time his eyes fell back on booth seven, the cops passed something between themselves, studying it intently. Their brows furrowed at what Nick assumed to be a photograph. Just as Nick felt he had eyed them for too long, both cops shot a look his direction. Nick spun on his heels and grabbed one of the television remotes. He began scanning channels on one of the bar TV sets, trying to look and feel as nonchalant as possible. This is nuts, he thought to himself. Why are they looking at me? I haven’t committed a crime. On the other hand, I don’t even know if they’re actually cops. After a few minutes of self-contemplation and mindless channel surfing, Nick turned to ask Troy a question.
“Hey, what if they’re not actually…..” Nick began. Instead of seeing Troy at the bar, he stood face to face with the black man from booth seven. The man raised his glass toward Nick.
“Can I please get a refill?” he asked. Nick stood motionless for a couple of seconds before reaching for the man’s glass without saying a word. “It’s ginger ale,” the man said.
“Right,” Nick said. Nick looked into the man’s face and immediately looked down at the ground as he shuffled his feet back and forth as the glass filled. Nick placed the glass on the bar in front of the man, but did not make eye contact. “No charge,” he said, feeling the necessity to sound relaxed and casual.
“Thank you.”
The man walked away from the bar, and Nick wiped down the granite surface in expanding concentric circles, doing his best to look busy. Nick glanced toward booth seven and saw the older man watching the other who was still walking back. The older man turned his palms up toward the other guy as if asking a question. The man with the ginger ale gave a thumbs up to the other with his free hand as he slid back into the booth. They both opened their menus, and Nick’s mind raced as he tried to interpret the thumbs up. Was it an O.K. to order dinner? Was it a signal that my drink’s all good now? Or did it, in some unknown way, reference him? Nick began to feel increasingly self-conscious.
“Hey, they’re finally opening the menus,” Troy said as he returned from the dining area. “Maybe they’ll actually order now.”
“Yeah, that would be swell,” Nick said looking at the clock. “Just what I need. A surveillance team until my shift ends.”
The Bernie Factor Page 6
