Last Call Read Online Free

“So what if I do? Who’s it gonna hurt?”
    “You, girlie-girl. It’s gonna hurt you. And it doesn’t have to be that way.”
    “Maybe it does.”
    Frank stands squarely during Joe’s full appraisal. She feels like she’s let him down, but she can’t change that. Finally he nods.
    “Maybe it does. Come on,” he says, swinging an arm around her neck. “Let’s get back to the party.”
    He leaves soon after. Lightly slapping her cheek, Joe tells Frank to be careful. And reminds her she has his number. Watching him leave, she’s surprised by the lump in her throat. She sips club soda so her crew can tie one on. As the funeral reception breaks up she pours them into cabs and sends them home with more sober revelers. She hugs Tracey and promises to call. She winds up alone in her car, driving with no destination. Like a serial killer, she cruises aimlessly until a perfect opportunity appears.
    It’s the Alibi. She locks her .38 into the lockbox in her trunk. In the bathroom she exchanges her uniform for shorts and a T-shirt from the backseat. They’re wrinkled and stiff with sweat, but there’s hardly anyone in the bar. Much of the Alibi’s trade is from downtown offices so the place is quiet on Saturday afternoons. The weekend bartender doesn’t know Frank well and tries to initiate conversation. When Frank shuts him down he takes up a position at the opposite end of the bar.
    She stares at the NASCAR race over her head and drinks doubles. She did what she had to do at the wake, but now her time is her own, and she intends to use it getting shitfaced. As she finishes her third Scotch, Johnnie walks in. She doesn’t admit how glad she is to see him. They order boilermakers and raise their shot glasses.
    “To Noah.”
    They order again. By midnight they see two of themselves behind the jeweled bottles in the mirror. The bartender’s afraid to cut the cops off and afraid not to. He’s relieved when Frank tells him to call a cab. She and Johnnie tumble out to the sidewalk, Johnnie bellowing, “I’m drunker ‘n a fuckin’ lord!”
    “Hella high,” Frank agrees. She sways gently while Johnnie waggles a finger. Or two.
    “La Freek.” He calls her by the old nickname only he uses anymore. “You’re drunker’n a fiddler’s bitch.”
    “Uncanny, Detective Briggs. No foolin’ you.”
    When the cab comes they go to another bar. By the time she gets home she has to kneel in front of her door and shut one eye to get the key in the lock. She gets in on the third try, stumbling past the flashing light on her answering machine. She knows who’s called and it’s too late to do anything about it. She drinks a big glass of water and takes four Excedrin PMs, hoping she’ll sleep through the worst of the hangover.
    It’s a good plan, but at dawn Frank is hugging her John. After she’s left with dry heaves she drinks more water and sticks her finger down her throat. When the water comes back up her stomach levels out. She chases two naproxen with an inch of Pepto Bismol and goes back to bed. The ringing phone wakes her. She reaches for it while assessing damage control. The hangover has left only a foggy head and sore stomach muscles.
    “This is Franco.”
    “Hi.” Gail’s voice elicits remorse mingled with caution.
    “Hey.” Frank makes an offensive play. “I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday. Johnnie and I stopped by the Alibi and kind of closed the place down.”
    “Kind of closed the place down,” Gail repeats, her words stuck in the wire like an icicle. “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that I might be worried.”
    “Honestly, yes. But by the time I thought to call you I was pretty smashed.”
    While waiting for Gail’s move Frank tries to remember how she got home. She walks to the living room window, doesn’t see her car in the driveway and assumes she had sense enough to take a cab.
    At last Gail says, “I hope you feel like bloody hell this morning.”
    “I do,” Frank