Last Call Lounge Read Online Free Page A

finally looked up at me. Up close, he looked young, baby-faced except for his nose which looked like it had been broken and badly set. His clothes were thin – black cracking shoes and stained work pants.
    “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.
    He looked sideways, closed his eyes tight, then nodded.
    “Sure,” he said with a nervous grin.
    Water dripped in the sink.  The tank of the toilet had a slow leak and every few seconds the water came back on.  I fiddled with my cigarette for a second, trying to put my thoughts together. Mullet-kid stood there, not sure what to do with his hands. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, hooked his thumbs over his belt.
    “What’s your name?” I asked.
    “Frank.”
    “I’m John.” I held out my hand for him to shake. He looked at it like it might be a trick, looked up at me, then shook it.
    “Look,” I said. “I don’t mean this as a judgment or anything. I really don’t care what you do, but I can’t have you selling shit in my bar.”  He looked up, mouth open a little, like maybe he was going to deny it. Then he scratched his temple with his little finger and leaned forward a little.
    “A friend of yours said it would be okay,” he said. He tried to smile but I glared at him and the smile fell.
    “What?” I hissed. “Who?”
    He smiled again but looked down at the floor.
    “Ray Fletcher?” he said. Suddenly there was a rock in my stomach, a huge heavy stone pit. Frank looked up. “You know – Worm?”
     
     
    I was aware of the smell of my cigarette, of Tracy yelling out in the main room to clear everybody out. I tossed my cigarette into the urinal and closed my eyes.
    “I never told Worm anybody could deal here,” I said. I opened my eyes and the kid looked scared.
    “Oh,” he said. “He told me it was okay.”
    “Get the fuck out of my bar,” I said.
    “Okay,” Frank said. “Sorry.”
     
    The house lights were on, the jukebox off. Tracy was washing dishes, her back moving rhythmically as she scrubbed on the brushes in the three-compartment sink. Mitchell was counting the drawer. He stopped when he saw the bathroom door open. Tim Cole was hunched in his stool, squinting. Other than that, the place was empty. I grabbed Frank by the arm, guiding him toward the front door. Mitchell walked out from behind the bar, ready to help. Frank turned as much as he could to look around the room.
    “Is that kid gone?” he asked. “The kid from the bathroom?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Everybody’s gone.”
    Frank frowned. I unlocked the front door.
    “Do you know him?” he asked.
    “Why?” I asked.
    He tilted his head.
    “I ended up with his money,” he said. “But he didn’t get anything.”  Frank looked over my shoulder, like maybe Jeremy might have been hiding somewhere. I pushed him through the door.
    “I’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” I said. I pulled the door shut and locked it. Through the glass, I saw Frank nod, look up the street, then cross over to the other side.
     
    I sat down next to Tim. Tracy handed me a shot. The TV was still on, the storm still spinning over Cuba.  I flipped open my cigarette pack, but it was empty.
    “Remember Kate?” Tim asked, although he was so drunk I didn’t think he even knew I was sitting next to him.
    I took one of his cigarettes from the pack in front of him. Mitchell came and stood in front of me, a shot in his hand. The night was officially over when Mitchell poured himself a shot.
    “What happened in there?” he asked.
    “We talked,” I said.
    Mitchell waited, but I didn’t offer anything.
    “And?” he said finally.
    I sighed, scratched my nose.
    “And I guess I have to talk to Worm,” I said.
    Mitchell rolled his eyes at me, shook his head and walked away. Mitchell knew Worm and hated him. Tracy watched Mitchell walk away, then came close.
    “Hey,” she said, smiling. She was leaning over and her shirt was falling open a little. “If you talk to Worm, would you