“Buy them a drink? They’re breaking the law.”
When the first cop didn’t respond, Landon knew the conversation was over.
That guy should be bumped up
to detective
, he thought.
Seems your theory is right on. I’ll find
out later tonight
. Then he walked away.
The lyrics to Morrissey’s “The More You Ignore Me” echoed in the mind of the man sitting at the bar watching women file in, then scatter; some to the dance floor, some immediately to the bathroom, and a few straight to the bar. He looked at each one through the thin veil of smoke and low-lights, and against the backdrop of black walls. He looked at each one, and not one looked at him.
He sipped his manhattan slowly, glancing up through his thick, black-rimmed glasses at the mirror behind the bar to watch the young women order their drinks. He licked the sweet vermouth off his lips while watching.
The short, overweight man with receding, curly dark hair liked the darkness of the club. It was where all the wanna-be vampires hung out, and all the clientele wore black. About twenty people populated the dance floor, approximately five of which were male.
The man at the bar blended in well with the unspoken dress code. He wore black shoes, dark jeans, and a black Joy Division t-shirt that looked like it may have fit him well fifteen years earlier. He sat at one of the best-lit spots in the establishment, and yet still sat within the shadows. Here he was out in the open and hidden all at once. He was hiding in plain sight.
“Get ya another?” asked the bartender.
“Yeah,” the man answered, still watching the women in the mirror.
Throwing a napkin on the bar, the mixologist set down the man’s drink and moved on to two blondes a couple of stools up the bar. The man took a small sip, licking his lips—not enough sweet vermouth. The bartender had been in too much of a hurry. The customer raised his hand to get his attention.
“What do you need?”
“It’s lacking the proper amount of sweet vermouth,” he answered condescendingly.
The bartender threw a couple of splashes in, set the vermouth down behind the man’s glass, and walked away. The customer was about to get his attention again when a brunette caught his eye. She stood about 5’5” with a thin build and shoulder-length hair. In bright clothes, she stood out from the crowd. She scanned the bar, as if looking for someone she knew, but with no luck. It was obvious that she had never been here before, and that she was alone.
He watched her walk to the bar, stepping sheepishly around everyone else so as not to be in their way, even when walking behind them. As she sat at the opposite end of the bar, the Psychedelic Furs’ “Love My Way” surrounded them.
“Get ya something?” the bartender asked, tossing a napkin in front of her.
“Shirley Temple, please,” she responded with a shy smile.
“I’ll get that for her,” the man said, smiling as he sat on the stool next to her.
“Thank you. You don’t have to do that,” she said as if being asked to the prom, but turning down the invitation because she knew that either she wasn’t worth asking or it was all a joke.
“No, please, allow me,” the man said. “I’ve been sitting here for a while waiting for friends, but I don’t think they’re coming. Are you meeting someone, too?”
“Yeah, co-workers. I don’t usually go out, but they talked me into it. I’ve never been here before. Have you?”
“No. It’s my first time—at this bar and in Louisville. My name’s Jerry,” he said, extending his hand.
“Hi, I’m Christy. Where are you from?”
“East. I like this music,” he said. “And oldies. You like oldies?”
“Not really.”
“What do you—” A gaggle of young women bumped into him, interrupting him and spilling his drink. He stared at them as they continued on, not one of them turning around to apologize. He called the bartender over and requested another drink. Then he heard the ringing from her purse. She reached in and pulled out her phone.
“No, I’m at the bar. Yeah, the one near work. Oh, you meant
that
one. I’m okay. There’s a nice guy sitting here with me, I think his name is Joe. No, you don’t need to. I think I’m just gonna go home. I’ll see you Monday. I told the babysitter I’d only be out a little while. Don’t worry about it. Yeah, I’m sure. You guys have fun. Bye.”
“Let me guess, they’re at the other bar and not coming here,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s okay. It’s late anyway. I need to get home.”
“I understand. You have a child?”
“Yeah, a girl. I appreciate the drink,” she said. “You’ve been very nice.”
“Walk you to your car?”
“No, thanks. I’m okay,” she answered.
“Okay. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” He watched her walk toward the door. Echo and the Bunnymen’s “The Killing Moon” began to play.
From the shadows, Jerry watched as Christy neared her white Chevy Aveo, digging in her purse for her keys. She turned as he approached. The music vibrated through the bar’s outer walls.
“Hey,” she said. “Did you forget something?”
“Yeah,” he answered, picking up his pace. “I forgot to tell you that I’m lonely.”
He swung with a right and struck the left side of her face, spinning her around. Her jaw slammed into the top of the car, and she collapsed. Bending down, he hit her once more for the knock out. Two minutes later they were gone.
Landon Murphy hadn’t finished what he started at the reception. He wasn’t finished drinking. Walking toward the black BMW parked near the stairwell of the Galt House’s garage, he began taking off various pieces of his suit—the jacket, the tie.
He threw the few accessories into the trunk and almost cracked the lid slamming it shut. Gripping the steering wheel, he started the car, the CD player resuming in the middle of Fuel’s “Hemorrhage (In My Hands).” No, he was far from finished with drinking.
As the car pulled onto the semicircle nestled between the two towers of the Galt House and wound its way around onto Fourth Street, Landon turned up the volume, rolled down the windows, and picked up speed. He noticed all the looks from the passersby on the street as they watched him speed through the streets of downtown, down Broadway, with all his car windows down on a night with the temperature in the teens. The wind whipped in and out of the car, Landon’s red hair rustling about his head. The December air rushing in wasn’t a problem. Extreme cold doesn’t bother werewolves.
Landon, looking human ninety-nine percent of the time, was always a werewolf. That is to say, there were never times when the wolf inside didn’t make its presence known, even when he performed innocuous tasks such as grocery shopping. Every time he entered his favorite Kroger, even when he had was there for something else, he stopped at the meat department. There he stood, salivating, mouth closed, at the red, raw flesh lying just beyond the glass. Yes, even when he looked normal, even when he wasn’t moving among shadows, but stood in the light, the werewolf was there, itself like a shadow.
He drove until he reached a bar called the Outlook Inn. Parking on a side street, he flashed his license to the young, bald man checking IDs at the door and proceeded to a seat at the bar.
“What’s the occasion?” asked the bartender, noticing what was left of the customer’s attire.
“A wedding,” answered Landon, hoping the guy would simply ask what drink he wanted, make it, and go away.
“Were you the groom?” the man persisted. “I’d say you’re not off to a good start if you’re here alone on your wedding night,” he said, laughing.
“No, not the groom.”
“How was it?”
The bartender wasn’t going away. Ten other people sitting at the bar and the bartender focused on Landon. Then he noticed that everyone else had glasses or bottles in front of them, and they were all at least half-full. The man looked like he belonged in a nineties grunge band. Landon thought about the bartender’s last question.
How was it?
Then he practiced his answer in his head.
Well, let’s see. I turned into a werewolf and killed a man
who kidnapped a little boy.
“It was fine. Shot of Jameson,” he ended up saying. He knew the bartender was just doing his job.
Landon put the shot glass to his lips and felt the warmth of the liquid as it ran down his throat. He wasn’t a big whiskey drinker, but when he did drink it, Jameson was his top choice. He ordered a Guinness and walked around to the room on the other side of the bar that contained pool tables and a jukebox.
His phone rang. “Sorry, I forgot to call. The boy is secure; the threat eliminated. I’ll be ready for the next assignment tomorrow.” Landon abruptly hung up.
He walked over and looked through the song selection. There was hardly a CD he didn’t know. The jukebox was one of the things for which the Outlook Inn was known. Much of the music it contained was from the alternative side of the nineties. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Counting Crowes, Dave Matthews Band, Gin Blossoms, Live, they were all here. He scanned each one, looking for something specific—and stopped.
It wasn’t long before the first lyrics to Love Spit Love’s “Am I Wrong” permeated the bar—
There’s too much that I
keep to myself…It’s like glass, when we break, I wish no one in my place
. Richard Butler’s gravel voice echoed Landon’s feelings with the perfect pitch. He swallowed the first sip of Guinness of the night, and though he didn’t consciously go looking for the memories, they inevitably found him.
He thought about a dream he had when he was around the age of five, one that, for one reason or another, haunted him to this day. He stood in a lush, emerald green field surrounded by rolling hills. On one of those hills in the distance, a castle perched under a cloudy sky, a stone beacon for all travelers in the sea of green. Standing there, the cool wind rushing about him, three adults dressed in ancient druid clothing, approached.
As they drew closer he could see that two dark-haired men flanked a woman with dark red hair. They stopped about ten feet from him as a fear began to slowly fill his mind. Then the woman spoke, “Do not be afraid; you are one of us.” He immediately awoke and never again experienced that same dream. Only later in life, while searching for answers in Ireland, would he discover the connection.
He thought about the various women he’d met over the years. There were those he met at different places of employment, through friends, and in bars. One in particular stood out, though. On New Year’s Eve, 1993, Landon ventured to a lounge in the East End. The place was small, darkly lit, with the bar placed squarely in the middle of the establishment. In the far corner was the stage where local music acts performed, except for tonight.
Recently there had been some interest in a new kind of interactive entertainment, karaoke. Landon, intrigued, picked up a Budweiser and a seat at the bar. Currently onstage was a petite blonde busy butchering a song that he didn’t recognize, not that any song sung by her
would
be recognizable. Nor did anyone care; this wasn’t a competition. Plus she was cute. When the young blonde left the stage to the roar of a cheering crowd, the next performer was called up to the microphone.
“Next up we have Morgan,” the host bellowed like he was calling names on
The Price Is Right
.
Up sauntered a thin, upper-five-foot beauty with the blackest hair Landon had ever seen. Her confidence radiated as she took the microphone while the party at her table whooped and hollered.
Morgan performed the best rendition of “Seven Year Ache” Landon had heard outside of Rosanne Cash herself. He ordered another Budweiser before he finished his first, got up from his seat, and moved to a chair closer to the stage. During the bridge of the song, their eyes met for a second, her browns catching his blues. She had the voice of an angel.
He watched her walk back to her friends, then turn and look at him as she sat at the booth. He just kept thinking how beautiful she was. Throughout the evening, each checked periodically to see if the other was looking, and they were, every time. Finally one got up the courage, probably liquid courage, to walk over.
“Buy you a drink?” asked the woman with the midnight black hair.
“Absolutely,” Landon answered, flashing his smile.
She bought him a Budweiser, his seventh of the evening, and sat in the chair closest to him, crossing her tight-blue-jean-covered legs. Some guy named Corey did his best to bring out his inner David Lee Roth for Van Halen’s “I’ll Wait.” Diamond Dave, he wasn’t, but anyone who had enough guts to get up and sing should be allowed to live out the fantasy.
“Never seen you here before. What’s your name?”
“Landon.”
“Hi, Landon. I’m—”
“Morgan. I know,” he interrupted. It was impossible for her to hide her smile. She didn’t even try.
“You haven’t gotten up there yet. You gonna pick something?” she asked.
“No, I’m not the singing type,” he said, tipping the bottle back.
“Really? What type are you?”
“I’m the star-performer-in-other-areas type.”
She grabbed him by the hand, stood, and gave her friends a wink as she led him out of the bar to her Pontiac Firebird. The ride to her house was quiet, neither feeling the need to say anything.