~ Body Count Rising ~

by

S. E. Schenkel

Tony’s Tavern. Dark, moody outpost. A way station for a few drinks and a different kind of connection and camaraderie. Only tonight, something more in tune with work had brought me here.

I stepped in and let the pub’s door do its slow-moan-close.

Patch was behind the bar shining up a mug.

“When are you going to oil those hinges?” I asked, parking my butt on an old, worn stool.

“Why would I do that? It’s part of the atmosphere. Besides, it tells me when someone’s coming or going.” He set a bottle of Miller on the counter and shoved it my way.

“This guy still here?” I asked.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of here? What’s he got? One foot in an alternate universe?”

“If that’s your take on being smashed, then yes.”

I turned. Didn’t need a calculator to add up the clientele—barely needed one hand.

“Which of the few?” I asked.

“The old man. And I can do without the sarcasm.”

“Which old man? From what I can see, they all fit that category.”

“Back booth.”

“I hope you didn’t get me here to listen to the blubbering regrets of some drunk.”

“Hey, he wants to hire a PI and he’s got a wad. Besides, I thought you were hurting for business.”

I smiled at Patch. “Didn’t know you took the agency’s fiscal health so much to heart.”

“And I didn’t know you were so indifferent about finding work.” Patch wiped the counter with a stained gray towel.

“Does he know the agency only takes cases dealing with missing persons?” I asked.

Patch nodded and kept wiping the counter. Eyes down, attention any which way but toward me.

“Did he pay you to call me, get me down here?” I watched my long-time buddy weigh his response. He was obviously debating between the comfort of a lie and the sharp edge of the truth. Don’t know why he bothered. A lie wasn’t likely to get past the forty odd years we’d known each other.

“How much?” I finally asked.

“He gave me a hundred, all right?”

“Really? A hundred. You must have done a good job of selling me.”

“Yeah, and it wasn’t easy. Had to make up a lot of stuff.” Patch smiled, which was always an interesting event since he only had one eye to telegraph amusement. Sort of like trying to grin with half a face.

“What’s your sugar-daddy’s name?” I asked.

“Sometimes you are such a jerk, Acey.”

“At least I have it down to ‘sometimes’.”

“Well, I resent your implication.”

“Enough to give up the hundred?”

He pulled a single bill from his pants’ pocket and slapped it on the table. I reached for it; he snatched it up.

“You had me worried,” I said. “Thought maybe you’d grown some morals.” I pointed at the beer. “Take that out of the hundred. And getting back to this potential client, what’s his name?”

“I don’t ask for names, just orders and payment. Besides, why should I do the prep work for your cases?”

I picked up my beer and headed for the back booth. It was too dark to be sure, but I had the impression my approach had triggered the old man’s flight or fight response. When I saw his hand bolt from the table to his belt, I pulled up short.

“The bartender tells me you’re looking to hire a PI,” I said.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Tapp. Acey Tapp.”

He pointed to the far side of the booth.

I sat, took a swig of beer and set the bottle down near an opened pack of gum. Juicy Fruit. My favorite when I was a kid.

The two of us studied each other.

I said, “Since you have my name, how about you tell me yours?”

The old man took a piece of gum out of his mouth and stuck it to his wrist.

I said, “Most people decorate the underside of the table.”

“I’m not done with it.”

“Hope you’re done drinking,” I said. “If your slurs get any worse, I might need to call in a translator.”

He finished what little was left of his drink, tapped the table with the butt of the glass and then held it up to get the bartender’s attention.

“I really think you’ve had enough,” I said.

“It gets me where I need to be and I’m still on my way.”

“If you ask me, you’ve gone past your stop.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, like way past.”

“You look out your window and I’ll look out mine. We’re bound to see things differently.”

“I see myself wasting my time,” I said.

“And I see myself sizing you up for a job,” he replied.

There was a long silence.

The old man started to drool.

Great. I get to take slurs and endure slobbers to just trade jabs.

Another whiskey appeared, courtesy of Patch. I watched a twenty find my buddy’s paw, heard the old man tell him to keep the change. Watched Patch walk jauntily back to the bar.

I said, “You’re a pretty big tipper.”

“It’s my money.”

I shrugged.

“You from around here?” the old man asked.

“Yeah, born and raised. What about you?”

“I hear you got a very special lady in your life,” said the old timer.

“You heard that, did you?” I glanced toward the bar. “What else did you hear?”

“That you pretty much lived an aimless life until this lady got you all squared away with yourself. And that you and she are as cozy with each other as one hand is with the other.”

“Someone’s got a big mouth,” I said.

“Yeah, and that same someone’s got a big opinion of you. With some envy thrown in.” A sadness flooded the old man’s features. A serious wave, not just a little swell and lap. Made me wonder if the envy referred to was his own.

He took a long sip of his fresh drink and set the glass down hard. Way too hard.

I said, “Good thing they make the bottom of those glasses the thickness of a paperweight.”

“You played football, too,” he said.

“Yeah, and hockey and I can fiddle my thumbs and cross my eyes and I got a wart on my rear. And now that you know everything about me, why don’t we talk about why I’m here? Because if we wait much longer that whiskey is going to make mush of your words.”

He picked up the glass and took another sip.

I sighed and tried to drum up some patience. Especially since I was personally acquainted with the expectations linked to booze. Like it could cough up courage, or hope, or peace, or just plain oblivion. Make things right. Heck, in truth it did provide a sort of fool’s paradise. And when you’re desperate for anything that smacks of heaven, you make do.

As I fashioned excuses for the boozing and the attitude, I kept the old man in sight, little winks of him popping up on one side or the other of my Miller as I took sips.

The light from the wall lamp aged him even more than my original estimate of seventy. Had me clocking him as approaching eighty or worse. He was certainly still a mountain of a man, albeit lean. Even seated and hunched, he was a head taller than me. He also carried loads of wear and tear. His jowls were elongated sacks that rode his mouth like miniature saddle bags. Arms weren’t all that bad. At least they’d been treated to enough work to keep them looking reasonably firm.

As for his teeth, they were yucky enough to make you wish folks could talk without opening their mouth. He sure wasn’t big on cleaning up before going out, and if he did have money to burn, as would seem to be the case, he wasn’t wasting it on clothes. Stained, white baggie t-shirt, washed out ragged jeans. Tramps dressed better.

His hair was doing fine. Had a mane as thick as a jungle bush with the color and consistency of cottage cheese. I thought of asking him if the kinks were natural or the aftermath of a perm.

I asked, “How about an even playing field?”

“Playing field?”

“Yeah. As of right now you know more about me than some of my friends, and I’m basically sharing a drink with a stranger.”

“You want to know my life story?” he slurred.

“Short version, yes.”

“My life...” He gave off one of those chuckles that suggested anything but amusement. Then he looked me in the eyes and said, “My life is an accident that happened on the way to the cemetery.”