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CHAPTER 21, EXCERPT 1
Neither Doughboy Loy nor Artie Autry was at the Paul Bunyan. Not yet anyway. Frank took a seat at the bar and ordered a Coke. That’s right, a plain Coca-Cola—with ice. The bartender, John Burke, knew Frank, and gave him a sideways look but poured the soda from the gun and served it without comment. Which was good, because Frank didn’t want to get pissed off before he had a chance to ask Burke any questions.
Frank was feeling all right with the concussion thing except that parts of his break-up talk with Nikki were playing back in his head non-stop, against his will and out of his control, the words just popping into his consciousness like cold winds blowing through a broken window. And yeah, shit, there was a little dull ache starting up—just a little—but he wasn’t going to indulge himself. Avoiding the booze helped on that score. Drinking and wallowing in self-pity was a lifestyle around here. Everywhere, for that matter. More wisdom from Frank Ford’s ten years of slinging booze in a dive bar.
Frank put a dollar on the bar and Burke pushed it back at him. Frank left it there. “On the wagon, Frank?” Burke said, flashing a knowing grin.
“You could say that, I guess, John. Doctor’s orders. I, ah, sustained a concussion last week and they tell me booze is not good medicine for such things. And here I always thought a little of the Irish cured all ills. Now they tell me, eh?”
“Well, you know, man, life is nothing but a continuous string of surprises interspersing with the abject boredom.”
Jesus, talk about your brain twisters.
“I hear that, John, I do. Hey, ah, seen Doughboy Loy in here tonight by any chance?”
“No, haven’t seen the fat fuck. Doesn’t mean he won’t stumble in later though. Usually comes in sometime before close. Depends on if he’s selling or looking to buy, I guess. Leo doesn’t want him in here but I usually let him slide if it’s just me working. Loy’s such a pathetic bastard that I even hate to waste my time booting him out. Fucker whines and complains like an old woman, never fails. ‘What’d I do, John? Why you always picking on me? I’m behaving myself…’ Sonofabitch carries on, man.”
“I heard he was in here with my little brother on the last day Ray was seen alive. That true?”
Burke frowned. “Yeah, he was, Frank. Him and Artie Autry. The gruesome twosome. I already told that to the cops.”
“I also heard that, John. But I’m not sure the cops really care what happened to Ray. Once the thorn is removed from the side, nobody cares about the thorn anymore.”
“That’s deep, Frank.”
“Someone told me Ray and Autry were going at it in here that day. That true?”
“Didn’t seem like much out of the ordinary, y’know. Like I told the cops, Autry was just getting up in Ray’s shit like he always did and Ray was throwing it back at him like he always did. Just another wonderful Happy Hour at the Bunyan….”
“You happen to hear anything they were saying?”
“Just when your brother was walking out. He was yelling at Autry, ‘You’re not going to do this, Artie, I won’t allow it. Not this time.’ Shit like that. But Autry just sat there laughing at him in that snaky way of his.”
“Autry been in much since then?”
“Now that you mention it, no. I think I remember him being here only once after that. And he’s not one you tend to forget, know what I mean? Just the look on his face drives customers away. I heard he and the Doughboy moved their operations up to the Filling Station.”
“You don’t say. Right in my neighborhood.”
Then Burke had to wait on some customers and Frank slouched on the barstool, sipping his Coke. Frank figured he’d wait for a while in case Doughboy or Autry showed up. He was contemplating getting a pocketful of change from Burke and calling all the bars Doughboy was known to haunt, but the thought brought on a rush of fatigue. Besides, in all his years at the Metro, he could count the number of times someone actually answered a page on the fingers of one hand. And shit, now the goddamn Coca-Cola was making him sleepy, the caffeine having an opposite effect, it seemed.
Burke came by and nodded at Frank’s empty glass and Frank nodded back out of habit, and Burke filled the glass with ice and shot in the Coke. Frank sipped some more, fidgeting on the barstool and looking in the bar mirror, observing the crowd behind him. He could feel a headache coming on. And by the time he drained the Coke, he was yawning and thinking he might take a cab up the hill and check out the Filling Station, which, coincidentally, was the establishment Nikki worked at when he first met her.
Man, he could feel the universe throwing things into the shaker and getting ready to pour.
Frank left the Bunyan and stepped out into the night air—smoke free, man—and realized he didn’t have much of a plan, no modus operandi—no clue. Two blocks to the west he could see cabs in front of the Greyhound Depot and he wondered if Waverly was driving tonight. But then thought, No, better avoid that. Avoid him.
Faced with having to actually do something instead of just thinking about doing something, his mind was a blank. That is, the future was a blank slate with all kinds of murmurings, innuendo, and accusations rumbling around it like a chorus of Shakespearean witches. Fighting against the strong urge to go home and finish off that joint of without seeds Waverly gave him and float off to peaceful slumber, Frank decided to work his way up the hill on foot, stop at the Filling Station and see if old Doughboy Loy was selling his wares in that popular shit hole on Fourth Street. The idea woke up the thumping rabbit in the pit of Frank’s stomach and filled him with a seemingly inappropriate sense of urgency. He believed he could feel everything coming to a head, the universe sending out energy and messages…
He just had to tune in to the right network.
(To be continued)
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