The Barkeep (6 page)

“Dalton,” she said into the phone.

“It’s Scott.”

“You find him?”

“I think you better get down here.”

“Did you find him?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

6.

BLUE STAR

T
he body sprawled on the sofa smelled god-awful.

Mia knew well the sickly smell of putrefied flesh and fat, but this stink was different. There were no signs of rampant decomposition here, no greening of the skin or bloating of the flesh, which meant that, except for the tang of fecal stench that slid through everything, Flynn had probably smelled this bad while still alive. It never failed to amaze her how low the high could send you spinning.

She stood with Scott in front of a green easy chair across the room from the dead man, while two detectives and a CSI unit worked the scene. As chief of Homicide, she would be supervising any prosecution that came out of this death, so she had apparent authority here, but still she knew her most important job at any crime scene was to keep the hell out of the way.

“Any idea when he died?” said Mia quietly to Scott.

“It’s hard to say without an official report from the coroner.”

“How long were you in Homicide?”

“Twelve years.”

“In that time you developed some skills, I assume.”

“I like to think I did.”

“Then quit with the pitter-patter and give me an estimate.”

“Based on the stiffness of the joints, the color of the skin, and the noticeable livor mortis, he died sometime last night.”

“How did you get inside?”

“Back door.”

“Did you break in?”

“That wouldn’t be legal, now, would it?”

“Answer the question.”

“Officer Blitner and I knocked on the front door. No response. We saw something that looked like a man on the sofa through the window. We knocked on the front door again and yelled out ‘Police.’ No response. I grew worried for the man’s safety, so we went around and checked the basement door at the rear of the house. It was open.”

“Unlocked or open?”

“Open, slightly. Fearing exigent circumstances, the officer and I went in, climbed the stairs, saw the body. Once I determined that the man was dead, I called Homicide, and then I called you. How’s that?”

“It’ll do. So what do you think?”

“It’s easy enough to figure, isn’t it?”

“Could it be anything else?”

“You mean could he have been murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Just tell me what you see.”

“There are no evident injuries to the body, no awkward limb positions or signs or rebuttoning or rezippering, so the man wasn’t moved or dressed after he died. His watch and a ring haven’t been taken, so there wasn’t a robbery. Everything
points to him putting the fix in himself. What’s going on, Mia? You act like you’re disappointed that this pain in our collective asses took a hit too many.”

“It just seems damn convenient, doesn’t it?”

“You bet,” said Scott. “And it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Will this keep us out of court?”

“Most likely.”

“Then cheer up, it’s all good.”

One of the detectives on the scene, a tall, lugubrious man name Kingstree, came over to the two of them. “You really don’t have to stay, Ms. Dalton. The way we see it, this isn’t anything more than a simple shot-in-the-arm gone wrong. Nothing to prosecute here, unless we find the knucklehead who sold him the drugs.”

“You sure?” said Mia.

“Take a look. The strap is still around his biceps.”

“I want you run the tourniquet for fingerprints,” said Mia. “The rubber should pick up a nice impression. And the rest of this room, too.”

“Whatever you say. But this is all pretty cut-and-dried. There was a nickel bag along with the dead man’s kit, a glassine envelope with a blue star printed on it.”

“Blue star?” said Mia.

“It’s a neighborhood brand.”

“Good stuff?”

“Narcotics tells us it’s pretty weak, actually. Low-grade, but plentiful and cheap.”

“Not quite overdose material for a lifetime pro like Flynn.”

“Sometimes the heart just gives out.”

“And sometimes the giving out is helped along. Is the envelope completely empty?”

“No, actually. Come to think of it, it’s still pretty full.”

“Then he must have used something else. Did you find a second envelope?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you better keep looking, huh, Kingstree? I’ll want an autopsy.”

“It’s an overdose.”

“Do it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And I want the stuff in the envelope tested too.”

“Fine.”

“And until you get notification from me directly, I want you to treat this as a crime scene and this death as an active homicide.”

“Anything else?”

“Just do your job.”

Kingstree glared a bit and then turned to walk back to his partner, shaking his head.

“That’s why you’re such a popular gal among the rank and file,” said Scott.

“Popularity is for prom queens,” said Mia. “Do you see a tiara on my head? They do what I tell them and we all get a stat. That’s the way it’s been from the beginning.”

“Seeing you in action makes me so happy they transferred my ass to Missing Persons.”

“I didn’t know you liked your new post so much,” said Mia.

“It’s grand.”

“Too bad, then. I’m getting you assigned to me for the next couple of weeks.”

“Shit,” said Scott slowly.

“It’s about time you saddled up again, you old fraud.”

“What the hell’s flown up your butt, anyway?”

“I think this guy was axed.”

“You’re hallucinating.”

“You’re probably right,” said Mia Dalton as she stared at the dead body of Timmy Flynn. But even as she said it, she didn’t believe it for a second. Flynn was murdered in the coldest of blood, and it had everything to do with Mackenzie Chase. This was the moment, this was a gift. One way or the other, this time, now, she was going to put all those doubts about the Chase case to rest. And sadly, she already sensed where it all would lead.

Justin, Justin, Justin, she said to herself. What the hell have you done?

7.

LA BOMBA

Z
enzibar was an austere, windowless room on the bottom floor of a brownstone office building. You stepped down a half flight from street level, pulled opened the solid black door, and entered a classic
izakaya
, or Japanese pub, with a low wooden ceiling and a mural of koi on the scuffed walls. But when Marson bought the place, he added burgers and wings to the menu, Guinness on draft, a jukebox of classic rock, Monday Quizzo and Wednesday karaoke. With its original theme completely muddled, it had turned into your basic neighborhood dive, only with cleaner lines and backlit liquor shelves that made the bottles glow in all their unreal colors.

Like every bar in the city, Zenzibar had waxed and waned in popularity over the years, but the latest wane had been long and deep. Zenzibar became known as overpriced and undersexed, the perfect lounge in which to be alone with your cocktail and your thoughts, and Marson spent nights rechecking the receipts and deciding which bills to pay. But then Justin Chase, attracted by the bar’s name more than anything else, had drifted in off the street and asked for a job. Zenzibar was still a neighborhood joint, but now it was a busy one. A few mentions in the papers, some choice reviews on a handful of
popular blogs, and Justin behind the bar had brought in the hordes. Marson, barely cracking a smile, had immediately upped the drink prices. Each night he stationed himself at the far end of the bar, running checks and filling the waitstaff’s orders, while Justin worked the wood, serving a diverse crowd of hipsters and suits, posh girls, and college kids, and his own crop of regulars.

“Where were you last night?” said Lee, sitting on her usual stool in the middle of the bar.

“Something came up,” said Justin as he washed a stack of pints one by one.

“We missed you,” she said. Lee, who drank Cosmos, was tall and way too glamorous for Zenzibar. Tonight the top of her dress dipped well below the start of her cleavage, which meant she had changed out of her business attire before stopping at the bar. She was either dolling up for her night of drinking or for Justin, and either way she was headed for regret. “Still, I hoped you might call. I waited up all night.”

“You weren’t staying up for me, you have insomnia.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have called.”

“And then what?” said Justin.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re right. What was I thinking?”

“Lee?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve been so tired lately.”

“You should go home and try to get some sleep.”

“It’s the trying that’s making me so tired.”

“I think it’s finally over,” said Larry, from the stool next to Lee. Larry, who drank draught Yuengling by the pint, was huge and bald, with tattoos up and down both arms and on his neck. He worked as a trainer at a gym on Twelfth Street, and would often frighten his clients into that extra rep, but his heart was as tender as his body was ripped. As far as Justin
could tell, that was his problem right there, which meant that Justin had spent untold hours pretending to listen to Larry’s romantic predicaments. “The long distance finally killed it,” said Larry. “I mean, I’m kidding myself here, aren’t I?”

Justin didn’t answer because Larry didn’t want an answer.

“Why would I even want another chance to have my heart ripped out? I’m ready to move on, finally. I mean it’s been six months without a word.”

“That is a long time,” said Justin, trying to be helpful and realizing his mistake right away.

“You think so?” said Larry, his face suddenly suffused with hope. “Really? Because Quentin said he needed a break. Do you think six months is a long enough break? Should I give him a call?”

“Hey, Justin,” said a kid stepping up to the wood with a book-sized package wrapped in brown paper, “could you hold this behind the bar for me?”

“No,” said Justin.

“Dude, come on. I don’t want to have to be lugging it around while I mingle, know what I mean?”

“The coatrack’s next to the men’s room.”

“But then I’d have to keep my eye on it.”

“You care if you lose it?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, I don’t. But if I take it from you, suddenly I’m the one who has to keep his eye on it. What’s in it anyway?”

“Nothing much.”

“Then it will be safe enough on the rack.”

“Dude.”

“It’s a rule. Nothing behind the bar. So what are you having?”

“A bottle of Rock.”

“Coming up.”

“What do you recommend to put me to sleep?” said Lee.

“Warm milk?” said Justin.

“How about another Cosmo instead?”

“But I know he’s thinking about me,” said Larry. “Because I’m thinking about him. Pittsburgh might be three hundred miles away, but the emotions are flying back and forth through the ether.”

“Is that the way it works?” said Lee.

“Sure, why not?”

“Because it seems to me that the more I think about them, the less they think about me.”

“That’s because you’re too good-looking,” said Larry.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“The most beautiful are the most forgettable, that’s just the way it is. Now Quentin is just ugly enough to be memorable. And I know he still cares, because I can feel it. I know he still loves me, he just doesn’t know how to tell me.”

“Buy him a fucking cell phone,” said Lee.

“Hey guys, what’s shaking?” said Cody, bellying up to the bar in a loose bowling shirt. He was short and wiry, with an unkempt Afro and the nervous face of a ferret, always glancing side to side, whether for predators or prey it was hard to tell. A manila envelope in his hand, he took the stool on the other side of Larry. Cody, who liked his drinks sweet, was an operator of sorts, although of exactly what sort was hard to tell. He was on a first-name basis with staid corporate lawyers and gold-toothed North Philly bookies, and it wasn’t clear if he flirted with the line or just ignored it completely. The only certain thing was that he was a very bad gambler.

“You look cheery,” said Lee.

“I caught a piece of information today that I intend to
parlay into mucho dinero, my amigos. When I stepped out the door this morning, I was wondering how I was going to pay the rent, and now I’m thinking of booking a cruise.”

“Where to?” said Lee.

“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking Paraguay. Don’t know anything about the place, but I like the sound of it. Paraguay.”

“That would be a hell of a cruise,” said Justin. “What are you having, Cody?”

“Surprise me. Something new and cruisy, fresh and fruity.”

“Have you met Larry?” said Lee.

“Hold this back there, would you?” said Cody, sliding the envelope to Justin.

Without saying a word, Justin smoothly snatched the envelope and dropped it into a drawer. Then he started preparing Cody his drink.

Justin’s following as a barkeep was surprisingly loyal. Whenever Justin changed jobs, and he changed jobs often, applying his philosophy of drift to all facets of his life, his following followed. There wouldn’t be any announcement on the Internet or a flyer posted on a tree. One day Justin would be there behind the bar, mixing drinks and raising his eyebrow in feigned interest while the pub owner smiled contentedly at his suddenly burgeoning business, and the next night he’d be gone. And then, a few weeks later, word would get out that Justin had reappeared, and slowly much of the crowd from the first bar would slip over to the second.

It wasn’t that Justin prepared brilliant drinks that no one else could match. His drinks were solid, yes, and his repertoire wide—Justin could whip up a Sazerac or a New-Fashioned as tasty as any in the city—but there were dozens of inventive mixologists plying their trade in the city who used artisanal spirits, house-made bitters, and complex recipes to craft
exquisite jewellike drinks that Justin didn’t care to try to match. And it wasn’t that Justin was a brilliant conversationalist who befriended his customers. Justin made it clear to all that as a professional bartender he was decidedly not your friend. Instead there was a core group that followed him from place to place, almost as a sport. And once this group switched, so did many others, a popular pub crawl taking place in slow motion. And at the head of Justin’s core group were Cody and Larry and Lee.