CHAPTER 22
The door was heavy and scraped the base of the frame as I pulled it open, making a subtle entrance all but impossible. As we moved into the bar I said, “Let me do the talking,” but I wasn’t sure Donald heard me because he didn’t respond. The only answer was metal grinding metal as he closed the door behind us, the grating sound still resonating as I focused on the saloon. The lighting was sparse, and the place could’ve used a fan or two. The air hung stagnant and sour, and a colossal cloud of cigarette smoke filled the room like a dense fog. I smelled stale booze and sweat, cigarettes, a trace of marijuana, and the faint aroma of urine. To make matters worse, the lack of air circulation made the already high humidity nearly unbearable within the confined space, and I wondered how anyone stood it in here for any length of time.
The room was narrow and deep, and the building seemed to go back farther than the exterior had suggested it might. The ceiling, low and stained with years of abuse, gave off a claustrophobic feel, and an oak bar—large, long and battle-scarred—dominated the left-hand wall. Opposite the bar were a few small tables bolted to the filthy tile floor, rickety chairs scattered about, and an aged, silent jukebox.
Neither the tables nor any of the stools at the bar were occupied.
The bartender was tall, lanky, decked out in jeans and a leather vest with no shirt, and sported thinning but frizzy hair he had grown nearly to his waist. He turned and glanced at us with disinterest, undersized, rodent-like eyes blinking behind a pair of blue-tinted granny glasses. Without a word he returned his attention to a television over the bar.
The unfinished wood walls were decorated with an array of nautical effects—buoys, lobster pots, harpoons, fishing nets and the like—a couple dart boards, various neon beer signs and posters of scantily clad women draped over motorcycles, racing cars, or posing suggestively with various name brand beers or alcoholic beverages. Perched over the center of the bar, a wall clock that advertised Harley Davidson motorcycles blinked on and off in timed intervals.
Through the smoke and haze I noticed an open doorway beyond the tables that led to a back room of sorts. I was able to make out the corner of a pool table and could hear an old Zeppelin tune playing, distorted and tinny, like it was coming from an inexpensive boom box that had been turned up too loud. Some dark forms were moving around back there too, and a burst of laughter spilled out into the bar area, though I was relatively sure it hadn’t been directed at us. From where we stood, I couldn’t be sure they even knew we were there.
Donald remained close to the exit, leaned against the jukebox and pretended to read the song list. The bartender had his back to me, so I slid onto a stool closest to the door and said, “Can we get a couple beers over here?”
He finally looked at me. “All out of beer,” he mumbled.
I keyed on a full bottle of Jack Daniels displayed among a bevy of others behind him. “How about a couple shots of J.D. then?”
“All out of that, too.”
I refused to break eye contact, and so did he. “Well, then what do you recommend?”
He put his hands on the bar between us. “That you and your boyfriend go find someplace else to drink.”
I could feel Donald behind me, but he remained quiet. “Is Claudia around?” I asked.
“Who?”
“She waitresses here, or at least she used to.”
“This look like the kind of place that has waitresses?”
Donald was suddenly by my side. He put out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bar then lightly touched my arm. “Come on, Alan, let’s just go.”
I pulled the photograph from my pocket and held it up for the bartender. “This is Claudia. She and I had a mutual friend. He died. He left something to her and wanted me to get it to her, only I don’t know how to find her. All I know is she used to work here or hang out here or whatever. I really don’t give a shit, I only need to find her to—”
“Dude, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, OK? Why you coming around here hassling me? I don’t know you and I don’t know nobody named Claudia.”
“I’m not looking to hassle you.” I waved the photo at him. “I just need to talk to this girl, figured you might be able to help me out.”
“Well, I can’t.” He leaned closer for emphasis. “So fuck off.”
This time Donald gave my arm a tug. “Now.”
“Thanks, appreciate all your help,” I quipped.
The bartender smirked, and as I turned to leave I realized the three of us were no longer alone.
A man from the backroom had filtered out into the bar and now stood staring at us. Another person had remained behind him in back, but was almost entirely concealed in shadow and smoke. It wasn’t until I casually slid the photograph back into my pocket and dropped from the stool that I saw there was a second man who had circled behind us and was now leaning against the exit. Donald was a few feet to my right, pale and nervous.
The one close to us, a stocky man with a beard and greasy hair dangling from beneath an equally greasy red bandana, stepped closer. In his hands he held a pool stick. He seemed roughly our age, maybe a few years younger, but there was a lot of mileage on him so it was difficult to tell for sure. His jaw was set at an odd angle, his lips thrust forward to indicate that he was no longer in possession of a full set of teeth. “Everything OK, Mick?” Though his question had been directed at the bartender he never took his eyes from me. It was clear these guys had been ingesting more than alcohol in that backroom.
“They were just leaving, Tooley,” the bartender told him.
“Yes,” Donald blurted, “we were just—just leaving, actually.”
The man continued to stare at me as if I’d spoken instead of Donald. “They giving you a hard time, Mick?”
“Look,” I said, “I—”
“I wasn’t talking to you, boy.” The man came closer still.
I held my ground but said nothing.
An awkward silence fell over the room and I realized then that even the music from the back had stopped. Images blinked across the TV over the bar, but it too was silent. Donald’s discomfort was palpable, and he seemed unable to determine exactly what he should do with his hands. I was as nervous as he was, but knew if I showed it, we’d be in even worse trouble. The one called Tooley held my equally intense stare for what seemed forever, then slowly nodded and allowed a slight smile to tickle his upper lip. “What are you doing in here, boy?”
Call me boy one more fucking time, I thought.
The man by the door—who was considerably younger, taller, and had his hair pulled back into a ponytail—chuckled as if he’d read my mind. Although he was in his late twenties, from the look on his face I guessed he probably possessed the intellect of a dimwitted teenager. He wore jeans and a grimy Ozzy Osbourne t-shirt that was sleeveless and showcased an array of tattoos that stretched from his shoulders to his wrists. On his feet he wore jackboots. When he smiled I noticed a tiny black tattoo in the shape of an upside down cross just below his left eye. Among the coiled serpents, grim reapers, death masks and other odd symbols painted across his arms, I saw the words: Hell Bound.
“I’m looking for someone,” I said finally.
“He was asking questions about some whore used to come in here,” the bartender said.
“Which one?”
The men laughed.
“Claudia,” I said.
“But obviously this was a mistake,” Donald added suddenly, “and now we’re leaving.”