A Rough Night at the Painted Lizard

By the time they found Lyle’s missing page, it was too late for us to do anything. They recovered it, charred but legible, in the breast pocket of his cheap smoking jacket. Our botched effort to abandon him prevented any believable alibi.

We clipped down the moonlit highway, fast. Each time “My Way” came through the radio’s airwaves, my heart plummeted. Even Lyle would’ve been disturbed by the song’s ever-present airplay on 97.5 FM (“Bringing you the oldies—in style!”). Running as we were on stale gas station coffee and raw nerves, the soundtrack was a twisting knife in our backs.

As Lacey so succinctly put it, “If there is a god, they’re just messing with our heads.”

My last cigarette drooped absentmindedly out of the corner of my mouth like a forgotten fishing rod, filling the car with a heavy shroud of smoke. I realized we hadn’t checked the meter before our hasty exodus.

“How are we for gas?” I mumbled.

“We passed that last station over an hour ago,” Lacey reminded me. Her knuckles were whiter than mausoleum walls around my Corolla’s faux leather steering wheel.

“It’s fine for now. Besides, we haven’t even touched the briefcase yet if we need cash—damn it, not again.”

Shakily, I grasped at the radio dial. For what felt like the eight-hundredth time, the treacly opening notes of Frank Sinatra’s classic cut through the stale night air.

“And now... the end is near…”

I twisted the volume knob until I felt it click. Lacey groaned pleadingly. Her eyes were a bloodshot abyss, absorbing line after line of yellow highway paint.

“It was bad enough at that karaoke dump. Now it’s like the only song left in the world,” she lamented. I took another drag and fiddled uncomfortably with a little black notebook in my cigarette-free hand.

Suddenly, my stomach was in knots. I realized one of the pages had been ripped out. Had Lyle gotten to it when I wasn’t looking?

Two months prior, I’d begun my tenure as the Painted Lizard’s resident bartender. It was the definition of a backwater dive, and Lacey was a regular. My dalliance with her was fledgling; our interactions were mostly limited to flirtatious drink orders and the erstwhile loaded glance. Still, I waited impatiently each night for her rosy bob to come swinging through the saloon doors.

“This place is my home away from home,” she’d tell me. “I just can’t decide which one to torch for the insurance.” She was a nut I was determined to crack.

The night Lyle arrived was atypically quiet for the Lizard. Fran, my ancient barmaid, was out sick with what she’d dubbed “a brutal shingles flareup.” Several of the regulars were sidelined by shrimp cocktail-induced food poisoning, courtesy of the previous nights’ dubious menu offering. There remained a sparse number of patrons, who despondently nursed their respective drinks in a collective funk under dimly flickering lounge shades.

Lacey was cracking jokes at the bar with Shifty, a genial alcoholic who was our unofficial mascot. In the background, a Clinton-era karaoke machine provided lackluster support to some balding trucker’s spirited rendition of “Careless Whisper.” He drunkenly teetered on the edge of the cramped plywood stage, his shirt unbuttoned in misbegotten pride.

“‘Notha one,” croaked Shifty, rattling a dingy screwdriver-cum-ice cubes in my general direction. His grimy, chartreuse-hued glass was a Painted Lizard calling card. I obliged him and poured my own for good measure.

“Hey now,” Lacey chided me with a coquettish smirk. “They paying you to drink?” Her floral-tattooed pointer finger twirled an empty glass in tiny circles on the polished oak.

“Well, they’re not paying me to take your bad attitude,” I huffed.

With less hesitation than the filthy glass deserved, I shot back the citrus-spiked vodka and peered over the rim at the new face darkening our door. This fellow was no regular. I watched with piqued interest as he selected a barstool, carefully placing a black alligator skin briefcase beneath it.

More cleaned up than the typical barfly, his steely grey eyes glistened placidly. I could see by their cold clarity that he was stone-cold sober. From his jacket pocket, he produced a little black notebook. He flipped through it rapidly.

I topped off Shifty and ambled over to the newly occupied stool. I announced my presence with a throaty ah-hem.

“What’ll it be, boss?” A wide grin rolled deliberately up to greet me.

“‘What’ll it be, bosssss?’” the new guy repeated. His cadence was bizarre, parroted back without meaning. “You addressed me as ‘boss?’ Such bucolic charm!” Swiftly, he tucked the notebook back behind his lapel. “I’ll indulge in your finest brandy. Would you join, by chance?” A glaze of sweat was coated across his ample forehead.

“Um, I’m happy to set you up, but I can’t drink on my shift,” I lied.

“Oh, come! None shall miss you at your post for the time being,” he insisted, an open palm gesturing to the nigh-empty lounge. The trucker’s karaoke set had transitioned to a wrenching rendition of “My Heart Will Go On.” The performance had essentially cleared the place out.

“Near… far… where-e-e-ever you are…”

“He’d love to join you! He’s been pacing with us all night,” Lacey called down the bar. She dangled my freshly drained glass in the air. Damn her.

I lined up two murky brandies, neat, and sized up my new friend. He was in his fifties, in athletic shape. His dirty blonde hair was combed back to his shoulders with a gratuitous coat of Brylcreem, framing a clean-shaven, sun-wrinkled grimace. His suit, a burgundy three-piece with faded golden accents, was a cheap tailor’s imitation of luxury business wear. A heavy gold watch hung around his disproportionately thin wrist. We raised our glasses. Salud.

“Pink, if you’re curious,” he said after our matching swigs.

“Sorry?”

“Lyle Pink, that’s the name. Are you the acting en solo at the proverbial 'watering hole' this evening?”

“I am, yeah. The help took a sick day.” Lyle nodded and sucked at his crooked teeth, staring at me eagerly.

“Fortuitous, my friend. Fortuitous for you.” He vigorously shook a finger at me. “Now enlighten me: do you find your labors’ compensation to be satisfactory?”

“I do okay,” I intoned flatly. My impatience flourished. “What are you getting at, man?”

From behind, I heard a crash of broken glass and stifled laughter. I whirled around to see Shifty toppled over on the filthy ground. I moved forward to help, but Lacey was a step ahead. “Let’s get you to the restroom, you old lightweight,” she teased.

“My, such displays of class,” Lyle scoffed. “Evidently I’ve come to the right place.”

“Look buddy, if there’s something else I can do for you, you know where to find me,” I replied coolly.

“Your candor is admirable, sir,” he said. “I shall stall you no longer; I wish to submit an offer.”

“Ooh, don’t tempt me,” I snorted. Eyes rolling, I lifted the last of my brandy to my lips.

With unbroken eye contact Lyle lifted his briefcase to the bar, aligning it neatly before himself. His elongated fingers briefly drummed its lid in consternation. Then with a loathsome sneer, he unfastened its latches in a practiced motion. He turned the case toward me and cracked its lid. Within it were several stacks of $100 bills. I spewed my brandy.

“I implore you to reconsider.”

Onstage, the trucker was still hitting high notes. Passionately, he launched into “My Way.” That would be the first of many times I’d hear it that night.

“I just adore old Blue Eyes, don’t you?” Lyle squealed. “A mind like his—so pregnant with insight to the human condition—is in short supply these days.” He cheerily toasted his glass to the oblivious singer. “My friend, what do you know of the human condition?”

“I know it can be mightily improved with that kind of cash,” I said, my eyes glued to the briefcase.

“Ah, bingo! Now we’re operating on a common wavelength. As mentioned, I’ve come with a proposal." Picturing my crummy studio apartment and busted ride, I was all ears.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Within my accoutrement is a sum valuing $20,000. I am prepared to hand it over to you immediately. All I ask in return is the completion of two simple tasks.” Effortlessly, he reproduced his little black notebook. “The first: inscribe your name within these pages.”

Lyle passed the book to me. I regarded it suspiciously. He followed it with a black fountain pen. The request was curious, sure, but what the hell? I accepted the pen and jotted down my name on a fresh page.

“What’s next?” I shrugged.

He left the notebook on the bar. “You may keep the diary; my need for it has expired,” he said officiously as he reclaimed the pen. “Now, our next item of business is slightly more complex in nature. You must burn down the establishment.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s no euphemism, friend. You’ll receive your reward when these walls are rendered to ash. This opportunity will not be issued again. I will depart if you so wish, but your financial windfall departs with me.” His cold eyes pierced through me. My subconscious vaguely registered “My Way” starting up again.

“I’m not burning down the bar, buddy!” I shouted.

“Who’s burning down the bar?”

Lacey had returned, sans Shifty. She pulled out a stool and lit up an American Spirit. “Shifty’s in there hurling his guts out, poor thing. What’d I miss?”

Lyle cleared his throat and reiterated the proposition.

“So if I sign my name and commit some petty arson, the money is mine?” Lacey reviewed. “Sounds good to me. What do you say?” She snatched up the notebook and scribbled her name under mine. I quickly took it back.

Then, before I could stop her, she lifted a fifth of absinthe from behind the bar and proceeded to splash it across the wooden surface.

I was utterly dumbstruck. Lacey glanced my way and burst out in laughter.

“Relax, man! I gotta say, a lot of weirdness goes down in here, but this is an all-timer. Where’d you come up with something like this?”

“This is no joke, my dear,” Lyle gravely insisted. “The proposal will soon be rescinded.”

I haphazardly attempted to clear the doused bar with a dishrag, but it would be for naught. Lacey threw her head back in a wicked cackle, accidentally dropping her cigarette in the process. It hit the absinthe puddle and ignited a blaze. The performing trucker remained unfazed; it was time for another go around with Sinatra.

“Ah,” smiled Lyle. “The final curtain.”

What happened next was a blur of confusion and panic. The fire quickly spread beyond any hope of control. Lacey shrieked continuously in terror. Lyle sat unmoving from his perch, smiling serenely as Sinatra warbled on; I collected the briefcase and notebook with no protest. As the flames climbed to the ceiling, I grabbed Lacey by the wrist and hustled us toward the door. In a burst of flames, we narrowly made it through the exit as the trucker hit his final crescendo. Momentarily, we watched as the Painted Lizard became engulfed in a fireball. I handed her my car keys. I was in no state to drive.

“Yes, it was my waaaaaaaay…”

We were only on the road for a couple of hours before flashing red and blue lights appeared in the rearview. It was the final nail in the coffin. When Lacey and I were led in cuffs to the highway patrol cars, I caught one last glimpse of her eyes. They lit up the night with a cold, grey clarity.

Patting me down, patrolmen found the notebook easily. It matched the torn page with our names written on it, which they’d found on Lyle’s smoldering body. If that evidence hadn’t sufficed, the empty briefcase in my trunk initialed “L. Pink” certainly buttoned matters up.