THE LAST RESORT BAR
An uncharacteristic mood swing. Serge jumped and reflexively glanced behind his stool. Nothing there.
Coleman killed another longneck and slammed the empty on the bar. “What’s the matter?”
“Not sure. You know how you sometimes get the feeling you’re being followed?”
“No.”
Serge took a swig of spring water. “I’ve been having them more and more lately, and I don’t understand why. Well, actually I do.”
“Really?”
“Hasn’t it ever struck you odd that, given my lifestyle all these years, I’ve never been caught or clipped? I’m good, but not that good.”
“What are you saying?”
“Everyone’s luck runs out sometime.”
“Serge! Don’t talk like that!”
“It’s okay.” He placed a consoling hand on his buddy’s shoulder. “Life’s already rained an abundance of blessings on me.”
“But you’ve always had a wild imagination. Nobody’s following us.”
“Probably right.” He raised the water again. “Must be all in my head …”
A new customer appeared in the doorway, slowly scanning the dim room before taking sideways steps along the wall. He clutched a folded newspaper to his chest like it concealed a grenade.
“Still,” said Serge. “There eventually has to be a time. Everyone’s got a bullet with their name on it.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in that fate stuff.”
“I don’t,” said Serge. “I’m more afraid of bad ratings.”
“What do you mean?”
The new customer tiptoed around the near wall, clandestinely sliding behind Serge’s chair.
“My life’s so weird, it’s like I’ve been walking through the script of a sit-com.” Serge drained his water. “I’m just worried the universe will grow tired of my character and write me off the show. That’s why I chose this seat.”
“Why did you choose it?”
“Got views of all three assault ports: entrance, side door and bartender’s service exit. If the script guy comes in here …” -he patted the gun butt under his tropical shirt-“… I’m doing some rewrites.”
“Maybe I can help,” said Coleman. “I’ll stay alert for anyone suspicious who might come in here lookin’ for you.”
“Someone already has.”
“Where?”
“Right behind me. Don’t look-“
Coleman looked.
“Thanks.”
“Serge, he’s got something hidden in his newspaper.”
“I picked up on that.” Serge slowly slipped his hand off the bar and down to the bulge under his shirt.
“Think it’s a hit?”
“No,” Serge said sarcastically. “He just popped in to give a complete stranger a whole bunch of money.”
“Serge, he’s coming toward you! He’s lifting the newspaper!”
Serge simultaneously spun on his stool and whipped out the pistol, aiming it sideways, low in his lap, so only the new customer could see.
The man froze and took quick, shallow breaths. He looked at the empty stool on the other side of Serge from Coleman. “May I?”
“Knock yourself out.”
The man sat and placed the folded paper on the bar in front of him. “Are you Scagnetti?”
“Nope.”
“Never mind. It’s better I don’t know your real name.” He glanced at his watch.
“You’re early.”
“Why put things off?”
The stranger’s eyes shifted a final time before surreptitiously sliding the folded paper to his right.
“News-Journal,” said Serge, keeping aim from below bar level. “Excellent paper.”
“Thought you’d be more muscular.”
“I make up for it with deceptive speed, Zen-like mental toughness and champion bird calls.” Serge’s free hand lifted the newspaper’s front edge, revealing a bulky brown envelope tucked inside. He lifted the flap and peeked like a poker player. Thick wad of bills.
“It’s all there,” said the man. “Two grand.”
Serge reached under the money, pulling out a Polaroid, a scrap of paper and a house key.
“My wife and the address.”
“I guessed that.” Serge slipped the photo back inside. “How’d you know it was me?”
“That tropical shirt.” He pointed down. “And the particular stool you’re on, just like Vince said.”
“Vince?”
The man covered his mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to use his name.”
“What else did Vince say?”
“That you could make it look like an accident.”
“Anything else?”
“Make her suffer.”
“That I don’t do. You want her to suffer, grow some balls and handle it yourself.”
“I’ll pay an extra grand.”
“How much screaming do you want?”
“This isn’t a joke!”
“See me laughing?” Serge stood with the newspaper. “Consider it done. But you need to do a few things.”
“Like what?”
“You know that other bar south of the crossroads?”
“Yeah?”
“Make yourself visible. Have a few pops, talk to everyone. Keep asking if the clock over the bar is right and all that police-show alibi shit. And don’t leave the bar for anything, especially the bathroom, even if you have to piss like a racehorse. Some asshole will always say ‘Yeah, he left to take a leak,’ and the three minutes you took will later balloon into a half hour when the cops grill him, long enough to get back and forth from your house. Last question: Any kids?”’
“Two. They’re staying out of town with my mother.” The man looked down; his voice became tentative: “When will I know?”
“I’ll find you. Now git!”
The man scurried out of the bar.
Serge slid over a stool. He reached inside the brown envelope, removed some of the cash and stuck it in his hip pocket. Five minutes passed.
A muscular man in a tropical shirt stepped through the doorway. Gaunt, sun-dried face like a walnut. He headed directly for the bar and climbed on the stool Serge had just vacated.
Serge turned. “Scagnetti?”
“Got something for me?”
Serge slid the newspaper over.
The man peeked inside. “Looks light.”
Serge shook his head. “It’s all there. A grand.”
“A grand? It’s supposed to be two.”
“That’s not what Vince said. I give two to him and one to you.” “You were supposed to give me the two! Fuckin’ Vince, holding out.”
“Does this mean it’s off?”
“No,” snarled the man, pulling out the photo and address. “I’ll deal with Vince later. How do you want it done?” “Double tap to the back of the head.”
“But that’ll draw attention your way. Sure you don’t want me to make it look like an accident? The latest thing is getting run over by your own car in the driveway.”
Serge shook his head. “Even make it easy for you. I’m going home to play with the whore first. You’ll find her tied up and gagged in a closet.”
“You’re one sick bastard! Why not just finish it if you’re going that far?”
“Need to establish my alibi when the forensic team pegs time of death. Give me four hours to reach Miami, well outside the margin of error.”
“That puts us at five-thirty.” He looked up from his watch. “Which closet?”
“Uh …”
“You don’t know your own house?”
“Of course I know my house! The front closet. You’ll probably hear muffled screams.” The man left abruptly.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “I have no idea what’s going on.” “We’re driving over to the address.” “But you only kill jerks.”
“I’m not going to kill her. I’m going to save her.”
“Shouldn’t you go to the police?”
“Are you listening to yourself? Go to the police? Me?”
“I meant call anonymously on one of those tip lines.”
“There’s no guarantee they’ll nail him. And even if they do, he’ll still eventually get out because it’s only attempted murder. You saw that level of rage-‘make her suffer’-she’ll always be in danger unless I tie a bow on this. Luckily, her husband mistakenly came to an undercover citizen. Guys like that turn my stomach.”