Deadly Games. Steve Frech
afraid I can’t let you harass them like that. If you come back, I’ll call the cops.”
“Fine,” she fires back, not missing a beat. “Maybe I’ll just have a drink. It’s a free country.”
“Yeah but, see, it’s not a free bar.” I step inside the door.
“You need to talk to me! I can get your story out th—”
“There’s a TGI Friday’s up the road. It strikes me as a little more of your kind of place.”
I close the door and lock it.
There’s a brief staring contest through the glass before she turns and leaves.
Once she’s out of sight, I sprint to the bathroom and vomit.
This is the longest damn shift of my life.
Katie and I have barely said two words to each other. I want to ask her for more details about her talk with Detective Mendez yesterday, but there’s no time for talk and she doesn’t seem very receptive. We’re still putting on our little show for the customers, but the ass-slaps are half-assed, the innuendo is weak, and I’m on a short fuse, which is obvious to all.
Things that I normally let slide are setting me off.
A group of office bros order a round of drinks but only one at a time, which is a massive headache. I make one drink, bring it to them, then they order another drink. If you’re in a group, order your drinks all at once. Good bartenders can work on three or four drinks at a time. They’re going one by one.
“Come on, guys,” I sigh after their fifth drink order. “Let’s act like we’ve been to a bar, before.” That stops them in their tracks. Katie shoots me a look.
Later on, a man studying the bottles in the display asks, “What’s the cheapest thing you’ve got here?”
“You,” I reply.
He blinks like I just slapped him in the face, which I sort of metaphorically did. He walks back to his table, has a quick word with his friends, and they collect their things and leave.
To top it all off, I’m catching snippets of customers talking about Emily’s murder. It’s not much. Not everyone knew her, but there’s enough that I try to discreetly eavesdrop on the conversation, only to find that, like Genevieve, I know more about what happened than they do.
An hour later, a young-looking girl orders a Long Island. I ask for her ID and she hands me this utter monstrosity of a fake. There’s no hologram. The picture is dark and obviously photoshopped. And here’s the secret to spotting a fake ID: a blind person can do it. It’s not how an ID looks, but how it feels. Is it flimsy or hard? When you handle hundreds of IDs a night, you know what a real one feels like in your hand. This thing is as hard as a rock. Avalon is a wealthy town, so we get our fair share of rich kids who have spent a lot of money on fake IDs and I’ve seen some damn good ones, but this is laughable. Normally, I’d hand the ID back, and wish her good luck someplace else, but tonight ain’t that night.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What?”
“What is this?” I ask, holding the ID.
Her eyes go wide. “It’s, uh … It’s my ID.”
“Okay, I don’t know how much money you paid for this, little girl, but you should ask for a refund.”
She wilts but for some stupid reason keeps pushing it. “It’s … It’s real.”
I sigh. “The image is shopped and too dark. It’s hard as a rock and there’s no hologram.”
“I—I left it in the wash.”
“Now I’m worried that you don’t understand how a washing machine works.”
“Okay … okay. I’m sorry,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’ll take it back.”
I nonchalantly toss the ID into the trash behind the bar and nod at the door.
“Get out.”
Stunned, she turns and quickly leaves.
Wonderful. I’ve turned into the asshole bartender I’ve always hated.
“Clay?”
Alex is staring at me from the end of the bar. He’s been watching me and obviously doesn’t like what he sees.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
I walk over. “What’s up?”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. You want to take a break? I know it’s been a crazy forty-eight hours.”
“No. It’s okay. I don’t need a break.” It’s getting late in the evening and the last thing I want to do is stop working because I’ll start thinking.
“All right,” Alex says, “but if you could do everyone a favor and stop being a jerk, that would be great.”
“She was trying to use a fake ID.”
“I get that, but she’s not the only person you’ve been a jerk to this evening, is she?”
My shoulders drop. There’s nothing to say in my defense.
“Sorry. I’m just on edge.”
“Listen, I know that Mrs. Parker was one of your regulars and these past few days have been kind of crazy and if you need a break to calm down, that’s fine. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
As I turn back to the bar, I catch a glimpse of a lonely figure sitting at a high-top table against the wall across the room.
Genevieve Winters.
She’s sipping a cocktail by herself, eyes locked on me. In front of her on the table is a notepad.
There’s a knot of businessmen two tables over, sizing her up, deciding who’s going to make a move.
How did she get in here without me seeing her?!
Once our eyes meet, she casually glances down and starts writing in her notepad.
“Alex! Alex, hold on.”
Alex halts his retreat to the office.
“What’s up?”
“See that woman sitting over at table twenty-four?”
He glances over and definitely sees her.
“What about her?”
“We have to kick her out.”
“What are you talking about? She’s been here before.”
“She’s a reporter. She was waiting for me when I opened up and started harassing me. She said that she was going to ask customers about Mrs. Parker’s murder. She’s gotta go.”
He takes another look.
“She’s not talking to anyone right now.”
“But she might.”
“We’re not kicking her out. She’s minding her own business.”
“But—”
“Clay, we’re not kicking out someone for calmly having a drink at a table, especially if they’re a reporter. I wouldn’t want her writing about it.”
“She’s a reporter, not a Yelp reviewer.”
“Whatever. If you’re not going to take a break, then you need to calm down, stop being a jerk, and do your job, okay?”
With that, he turns and goes back to the office.
Through