Jack's Place

I like neighborhood bars.

They harken back to a time before corporate edifices attempted to make themselves neighborhood-looking by putting big stools around small tables. Jack’s Place was a long bar accompanied by wobbly stools and low booths with sticky tables. Last night’s popcorn was still on the floor where the broom hadn’t quite reached under the tables. The neon beer signs hadn’t been dusted enough to remove the film, which dimmed the struggling light. On the wall, the TV bled colors so the sportscasters on the screen looked like they had fuzzy orange halos around red faces.

The bartender came back over. I downed the warm beverage and nodded that he could set me up with another of its kind. He gave a small head bob to show there was no harm in trying to make the first one last; serious drinkers liked to pretend they were not.

I supposed I could be thought a serious drinker; I was wearing a suit in a dive bar before dinner.

The jukebox kicked on and Frank Sinatra began to sing. The bartender turned the music down. He set my beer down on the little paper napkin already soaked with the condensation of the first bottle.

“You don’t like Frank?” I asked, digging a five out of my spending money from the leather day planner I jokingly called my little black book.

Probably because he was bored, he decided to give me an explanation; I had purchased two beers. “I like Frank fine. But, every day at the bottom of the hour, the jukebox kicks on if it hasn’t been played that hour—you know, to remind people they need to listen to music while they drink—and it plays “Luck Be a Lady.” Every damn day. At the top of the hour, it will play Creedence.”

“I like Creedence.”

“Yeah, you and everybody else.” Picking up the five I had laid down next to the beer, he moved away to the cash register. He was back long enough to place the change before going back to stocking the pullout. I took a pull of the beer and told myself that this was the last one. If the guy didn’t show up before the beer was finished, I was going to try again tomorrow.

It was amazing to me how difficult it was to notify someone that they had received money. I had been tasked by an out-of-state attorney to contact Carl Bailey about a small inheritance. Twenty thousand dollars. While twenty grand might not seem like a lot to some people, it was more money than I had. With the finder’s fee I would get, the money would cover expenses and pay bills without worry for the month.

In a way, Carl was buying my beer.

The money had come from an uncle who remembered a better side of Carl, leaving him the bulk of the estate. The problem had arisen in my search when the last known address—carefully gleaned from Carl’s arrest record—turned out to be the apartment of his ex-girlfriend. She had nothing good to say and no idea where Carl might be living. She did inform me Carl held a job of sorts at a local tire store. I went to the tire store pretending Carl was going to give me a good deal on new tires for my Jeep. The boss told me Carl’s days of handing out deals with his money ended the week before. However, the boss told me, he could knock off five percent if I really needed tires. I did need tires, but even with a five percent discount, tires were out of my price range. I thanked the man and told him I’d consider the deal. In the parking lot, I managed to swap a few words with a mechanic over a cigarette. He told me Carl had another gig at an oil change place but still went to, “that bar over near the veterinary place.”

I was now in “that bar.” Jack’s Place had to be the one; it was the only bar within the general area described to me by the wrench monkey. As I was sitting and sipping at my beer, Jack’s Place started to fill with the after-work crowd.

A woman in her fifties marched in wearing the logo of a local motel on the breast of an issued vest over a white shirt. Her gray-streaked hair was restrained in a failing pony tail and the makeup she wore had barely survived her work day. She slid into the seat which was presumably reserved for her and the bartender automatically began to mix her a drink. Tossing her purse on the bar, she freed a cigarette from its depths. She lit the 100, sucking on the filter as if it contained within its smoke a blend of everything she needed; friends, family, and peace. Her drink appeared with an ashtray. Still blowing smoke out of her mouth and leaking more from her nostrils, she wordlessly saluted the bartender and took her first drink since lunch.

“Oh, God, that’s good,” she breathed. “You make a hell of a whiskey sour, Ben.”

“Thanks, Rosie.”

She glanced down the bar where I was wishing Ben would appear with an ashtray. “You day drinking?”

“I am having a cocktail.”

“Beer’s not a cocktail,” she informed me. “Beer’s how you wash down a hot dog. Ben, get this gentleman a cocktail.”

I laughed.

Ben came over and stood by, waiting for my preference. Apparently, he knew this was an argument I was going to lose.

“Go on, honey, I won’t tell the old lady,” reassured Rosie.

“Whiskey Sour, Ben, and an ashtray.”

He put the ashtray out and left to make my cocktail. I lit up and Ben had the drink in front of me by the time I had taken my second drag. I lifted the glass toward Rosie. She returned my salute.

“You a salesman or a cop?” asked Rosie motioning for another.

Laughing around the cigarette, I shook my head. “What makes you ask that?”

“You know how many suits we get in here just drinking?” She pulled on her cigarette and blew the smoke up at the ceiling. “Usually, it’s traveling salesman, or a cop looking for some poor schmo who skipped on a warrant.”

“I’m just a guy who has a suit to wear.”

Rosie grinned. “Process server.”

Returning her grin, I shrugged. “I’ve done that from time to time; Parker, Private Investigator.”

She nodded like that was her next guess. “You looking for a cheater? Everybody in here cheats one time or another.”

“Not this time,” I said. “I’m giving away money.”

“No shit? Why did I buy you a drink if you’ve got money to give away?”

“Because it’s not my money.”

We both took a long pull at the short glasses. Ben raised an eyebrow. I signaled for him to refill both our glasses. He removed the dregs of what we had left. In a magical minute, full glasses were in front of us again.

“If you don’t mind me asking, who is the lucky winner?” she asked carefully, as if I might be revealing state secrets.

“Guy named Carl Bailey,” I said. “He’s supposed to hang out around here.”

Rosie summoned Ben. “Hey, isn’t that pervert who comes in here named Carl?”

“You’ll have to give me a little more to go on,” responded Ben from where he stood shining a glass. Rosie looked at me. From the little black book, I pulled out the only photo I had of Carl Bailey; his mug shot. Rosie slid from her seat and Ben stepped from his station. They peered hard at the picture in the dim light. Rosie tapped the face in the picture on the proboscis.

“That’s him.” She pushed the snap shot back toward me as Ben nodded in agreement. “What’d he do to get that portrait taken?”

I took the picture and slid it back into the planner.

“You know—,” I left the sentence hanging so that she could fill in the blank with her own version of Carl’s life. “So, he comes in here?”

“Regular as a daily shit.”

I looked to Ben for confirmation. He shrugged. That was about as much as I was going to get from him. Rosie pulled her purse close and took a seat nearer to where I perched on my own stool. A couple of men came into the bar, loud, crass, and working hard to display their blue-collar roots. One of them stopped in the doorway on seeing my suit and his friend paused as well. The first punched the other on the shoulder.

“I think we’re in the wrong place.”

“Didn’t know there was a dress code,” helped his partner.

Ben stared at the two of them. The first held up his hands in surrender and ordered a pitcher of beer while the second dropped a bill on the bar.

“Let me know when that’s gone,” he said, then followed the beer to one of the tables. Ben watched them a moment before picking up the bill from the table. The door swung open again and Rosie and I cast our collective gaze at the opening.

“Hey, Carl,” said Rosie. “Come here.”

The man at the door wore jeans and an unbuttoned work shirt over a stained t-shirt. He sported a thin beard, receding hairline, tired eyes, and a nose too large for his long face. Carl cast a glance at the comedians in the booth. They raised mismatched glasses of beer to celebrate his arrival. Giving them a nod, Carl slid over to where Rosie sat, ordering a bottle of MGD. Ben put the champagne of beers in front of Carl as soon as he ordered it. Rosie leaned back so Carl could see me.

“Carl, this guy’s got some news for you,” she said without preamble. This was not how I wanted to introduce myself.

“I ain’t got no money,” said Carl instantly, eyeing the suit.

“I understand,” I told him. I walked around Rosie to stand so Carl could eye me easier. He appeared to be sizing me up; he must not have liked his odds, because his next move was to apprise the distance to the door. I cut off his calculations with a raised hand. “Hold on, I’m not here to serve you with any papers.”

“Yeah? Then you’re the first a guy in a suit who isn’t going to fuck me,” said Carl, grabbing the beer and taking a swig.

“Remember Uncle Walter?” I asked him.

He looked confused a moment before nodding. “Sure, Uncle Walt. My mom’s brother. I used to stay with him when my mom couldn’t take it anymore. He die?”

I wondered why his first thought was to make that assumption; but, being his mother’s brother, that was the logical conclusion when strangers asked if you remembered them. “My name’s Parker. He left you a small inheritance. Could we go somewhere and talk?”

Carl laughed. “Shit, this is as good a place as any.”

I shrugged. From the little black book, I pulled free the envelope detailing how Carl could pick up his money. He looked in the envelope.

“Where’s the check?”

I sighed. “The letter details how you can get that.”

Carl stared. “How much do I get?”

“Twenty grand.”

“Twenty thousand dollars?” announced Carl. “Damn. All at once?” He drank from the bottle, grinning as he stood straight and slapped the counter. “I’m gonna quit my job.”

“It’s not a lot of money,” I said.

Carl looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Do you know how much I made last year?”

Probably more than I had. “You know you’ve got to call the attorney to get the check?”

“Got it, buddy,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Creedence began to play.

Why not one more?