Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 11/01/10 Page 5

  He didn’t deserve this. What did a solid education and a twenty-year career matter? How were his ethics and his morals going to help him now? At ten o’clock in the morning he walked out out of his office building for the last time. Seven years devoted to this company and all he had was a small box with his books and a dead geranium in a plastic pot. He paused next to the trash can outside the lobby and dropped the petrified plant inside. He was locked out. The thought of pulling into his driveway and walking to the front door in the middle of the morning made waves of liquid heave up the walls of his stomach. He couldn’t go home, not yet.

  His 1997 Porsche 911 was four spaces from the entrance to the building. It screamed midlife crisis, but he didn’t care, at least it was paid for, one thing he wouldn’t have to give up as he watched the rest of his life melt away. First to go would be dinners out, followed quickly by green fees. Next would be cell phones and cable TV. How much would he lose? The house? His wife? Which would come first: a job offer or economic recovery? There was a good possibility that neither would happen this year. He opened the trunk, put his box inside, and slammed it closed.

  With a little too much pressure on the gas, he raced out of the parking lot and up Avenade Road. He zipped around the tight corner of the freeway on-ramp. He needed a shot of whiskey. Where did a guy go to find whiskey when the 101 freeway was still clogged with late commuters? As he traveled southeast, the sun against the windshield disoriented him. During both legs of his regular commute, the sun was behind him. He put on his sunglasses to eliminate the glare.

  One exit down, he eased the Porsche off the freeway. If he turned back and crossed the overpass, he’d be in East Palo Alto, a pocket of low-income apartments and high crime in the midst of the surrounding wealth created by Stanford University and the high-tech industry. It was a place that was sure to have bars where he could cruise in the gutter with drug dealers and the chronically unemployed. It wasn’t the safest choice, not a place he should go at night, for sure, but mid morning was probably safe.

  He pulled into the gravel parking lot of a place called The Wet Spot. A nice smooth drink would calm the hammering that had been beating at the back of his skull since he’d walked into the conference room and seen the fat white severance package lying on the table. The pounding battered images of Lin’s face against the soft tissue of his brain, followed by the kids, then thoughts of sending out resumés, being reduced to begging his friends and former colleagues for work. Networking. You found a job through connections. Begging. He wanted a fog in his brain, he wanted to get plastered. He wanted, for once in his life, to be irresponsible, to not care about whether he was parking the Porsche in a safe neighborhood, not care that he should start networking immediately instead of drinking in a dive bar in an area of town where a senior product manager in khaki slacks and a pale blue button-down shirt didn’t belong.

  Inside it was as empty as he’d hoped. He hooked his sunglasses into the open neck of his shirt. At first, he couldn’t see anything but the glow of the mirror behind the bar. It was five feet high and ran the entire length of the bar, the only bit of ambience in a place that featured a scuffed linoleum floor and stools that wobbled. The oak bar top had the finish rubbed off in spots. He slid onto a bar stool. A woman pushed her way through the swinging door behind the bar. A female bartender. Great. He wanted a silent, scruffy old guy, not some chick who would want to talk.

  “Waddaya drinking?” She put a lime on the counter below the bar and sliced it in half. She had fat wrists and fingers, but the rest of her wasn’t overly pudgy. Her hair was tugged into a tiny knot, pulling at the skin of her forehead and cheeks, which made her look as if she was experimenting with what a face lift might look like. She was short, with broad shoulders, and wore a bright green T-shirt that sagged around the neck.

  “Crown Royal. A double.”

  She sliced the lime halves into wedges with a knife that seemed unusually sharp. She put the lime sections into a bowl and rinsed her hands and dried them. She lifted the Crown Royal bottle off the shelf below the mirror. A stream of whiskey slid like a ribbon into the glass and she pulled the bottle aside with a flick of her wrist. She placed it on a white cocktail napkin stamped with a shamrock. “Twelve bucks.”

  “I’ll start a tab.”

  “I only run tabs for regulars.”

  He leaned to one side and pulled out his wallet. He laid his credit card on the bar. “Can you keep it open?”

  “After this first charge. Gotta make sure it’s good first.”

  He took a quick swallow from the glass. Maybe he should just slam it down and walk out. He was probably the most solvent customer she’d served all month. Of course, bartenders were supposed to be good at reading people. He wondered if she could read the desperation that crept from his gut to his throat, if there was something about the twist of his lips that made her know that by the time the next statement came, paying his bill might not be the top priority. But his credit was good today. She had no right to treat him like a drifter.

  He poured half the brown liquid at the back of his throat and shuddered as it sliced its way down his esophagus. He liked the brutality of it. He liked the sudden rush of numbness and the heat and the softening of that hammer pinging against his skull. What would it be like to become a drunk? Maybe he’d never go home again, just disappear and run up bills at the bar until his credit card was canceled. It wouldn’t take long to run out of easy access to cash. Then what? He picked up the glass and flung the rest of the liquid into his mouth and ordered another drink, one shot this time. There was already a buzz inside his head and a relaxing of his shoulders. The bartender’s eyes were on him, cold and disapproving. Did she feel superior because she was pouring and he was drinking in the middle of the morning? He didn’t know what he’d done to cause that look.

  The shot went down more quickly than he’d planned and he was faced with an empty glass. His head felt fuzzy. He really should order a beer, but then, why bother? It would make him feel the urge to piss sooner and all he wanted now was to keep that full, cottony sensation behind his eyes. The disapproving look was blurring and her face looked like a lump of dough, her eyes dark spots like burned bits that had pressed against the side of the oven and picked up soot.

  The door opened and a blast of sunlight hit the mirror. High heels clicked across the linoleum. He felt the heat and shifting of someone settling onto the stool next to him.

  The woman reeked of jasmine perfume. He turned and tried to focus his eyes. She was blonde. The roots had grown out nearly an inch from her scalp, making the rest of her hair look filthy, as if it was stained with some kind of yellow, rotted material. Her eyelids were coated in bright blue shadow and a darker blue line was drawn under her bottom eyelashes. Without even pretending to be subtle, she laid her hand on his thigh and pressed her fingers around the inside of his leg. He pushed her hand away. The moment her hand was gone he felt two things—he wanted another drink so he would stop thinking like the good little boy that he’d always been. And he wanted her fingers back on his leg.

  He ordered another double. He laid his palms on the bar and checked to see whether his fingertips still registered the hard press of the wood. How did he go about asking for those long, delicate fingers back on his leg, trailing over his inner thigh, making him forget how useless he was, making him forget that he’d ever been good? He couldn’t just raise his finger like he did when he ordered more shots.

  In front of him, a white bowl had appeared, filled with peanuts. He fumbled in the bowl. He picked up too many nuts and most of them slipped out of his thick fingers. The woman’s hand darted out and grabbed a few peanuts. She dropped them into a mouth that she opened like a bird’s beak receiving a worm. The nuts fell perfectly inside her rounded lips, proving she wasn’t drunk or high. He stuffed nuts into his own mouth, picked up his glass with salty, greasy fingers, and took a slow sip. No need to turn into a drunk during his first hour on the loose. He would take things graduall
y. He wanted to stay numb, not make himself so obliterated that he passed out, then woke with a clear head. And a missing wallet.

  When he reached for the nuts again, the blonde pounced her fingers on top of his.

  “You’re a sharp-looking guy. What are you doing here before happy hour?”

  “Got laid off.” He took a swallow of whiskey, it scraped across his tongue like a matchstick.

  “That’s too bad.”

  She didn’t sound very sorry.

  “Sure is.” Words erupted out of him as if he had been waiting all morning to tell someone what it felt like. “I worked seven years for that company. I’m smarter and better educated than half the losers that still have jobs. I have a great resumé.”

  “I bet you do, hon.”

  Her words should have sounded trite, like someone paid to listen, but they didn’t. Somehow, her voice was warm and he felt that she really cared, that she wasn’t going to push him to find a new job as fast as possible. Of course, why would she? It wasn’t as if she depended on his support. Not like Lin. And the kids. It wasn’t his fault. Surely Lin would see that. Or maybe it was his fault, always following the rules, always trying to do the right thing, thinking education and hard work paid off. What an idiot he’d been. He’d also thought it was important to be loyal to his wife. He never looked at other women, much less flirted, but here he was, longing for a stranger with unwashed hair and jeans that rode low over the rounded flesh of her hips when she leaned forward. Her black T-shirt, a silver emblem announcing she was a Raiders football fan, rode up her back. The view was delightful.

  Why be good if it got you nowhere? All the really smart guys got what they wanted and got out. The politicians, the financial institutions, the CEOs of the auto companies. Heck, his own CEO. How did the guy sleep with millions under his pillow when people who made a fraction of what he took home were deemed unnecessary?

  Maybe he’d see where he stood with Lin. Perhaps he’d called it wrong and she’d pull him into warm and loving arms when he got home instead of letting loose a string of sharp questions, blurting out her fears accompanied by slamming cabinet doors. Why tell her to her face anyway? Just because he thought he owed her that? What about himself? What did he owe himself, for once in his life? This time, he would take the easy way out. He yanked his BlackBerry out of the holster hooked to his belt and scrolled through the list of frequently called numbers to Lin’s cell number.

  She answered on the first ring.

  “I got hit.” He spit the words into the phone.

  “Hit?”

  “I told you the layoffs were today. I got let go.”

  “Oh no.”

  "Worst economy in fifty years. Out the door like I was a clerical worker. However, apparently I’ve done ‘good work.'"

  “You do.”

  “Do what?”

  “Good work.”

  “How the hell would you know?”

  “What are you going to do?” Her voice was soft, with a breathlessness behind the words, expecting him to have the answer.

  “What am I going to do?” He looked at the blonde. “I’m planning to get drunk.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Not at the office, that’s for sure.”

  “Why do you sound so angry?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “You’ll find something else.”

  “Do you read the newspaper, Lin? Everyone is laying off, cutting costs. Maybe you’ll have to get a job.” He wondered where all this hostility was coming from. Even in his fuzzy-brained, blurry-eyed state, he knew he was trying to pick a fight.

  “My job is raising the kids. You’ll find something. Are you networking?”

  He pulled the phone away from his ear as her voice grew louder. She deserved an answer, but he just didn’t feel like it. Why was it all on him? Why did she have to be so dependent? Couldn’t she be like this gal sitting next to him? Bravado oozed from every pore, despite the coat of liquid foundation.

  “Slow down,” he mumbled.

  “Are you drinking? That’s no solution.”

  “What if I am?”

  “It’s irresponsible.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Come home, David.”

  “In awhile.” He pressed the END CALL button and hooked the device to his belt. It vibrated against his hip. It wasn’t as if he had to start looking for a job right this minute.

  The bartender hovered across from him. “Anything to drink, Eileen?”

  Eileen ordered a Bloody Mary.

  Once she had the fingers of her right hand around the bottom of the glass, the fingers of her left hand found their way back onto his thigh. The thump of his heart, clogged and eager, pounded inside his head. He could sit here like this forever, feeling her sympathy wrap itself around him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the flashing red light on his phone. A missed call. Or e-mail. Nothing pressed on his conscience with any insistence, just the demand of his body, blood rushing to the surface of his skin, and a growing need to urinate.

  “Excuse me.” He levered himself off the stool. Once both feet were firmly planted on the floor, he straightened to a full standing position, and let go of the stool. Good. He was solid on his feet. It seemed like it took an eternity for him to make his way down the length of the bar, past the electronic game machine, through the door to the men’s room, relieve himself, and stumble back across the empty room to his seat at the bar.

  Eileen tipped her head back to empty the glass. The stalk of celery pressed against her cheekbone.

  He climbed onto the stool. “Another Bloody Mary for Eileen.”

  The bartender frowned. “Are you sure?”

  Eileen nodded and laid her hand on his thigh. He swallowed the last of his whiskey and set the glass on the bar. He shoved the empty glass across the counter and it toppled close to the inner edge of the bar. The bartender caught it before it slid onto the floor. She refilled it before she poured the vodka for the Bloody Mary.

  “Your wife sounded like she wanted you to come home,” said Eileen.

  “How’d you know I was talking to my wife?”

  Eileen rolled her eyes; the whites were stark against the blue circling her lashes.

  “You should be a good boy and go on home. Before you drink too much.”

  “Maybe I’m tired of being good.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” said the bartender. She set the Bloody Mary in front of Eileen. The celery stalk was small and thin. Eileen pulled it out, licked the red stain and bit off the end.

  David had the sudden sensation they were ganging up on him. The bartender’s maternal grimace and thick shoulders scared him. She hovered as if she were protecting Eileen from some vague threat, as if he were dangerous. How dare she act as if he couldn’t control his liquor. Even her seeming agreement sounded as if she was warning Eileen to watch out, something bad might come from a man who was tired of being good. He wanted to see what Eileen was going to do with her hand, and he wanted to see how many Bloody Marys she’d let him buy. Most of all he wanted to see how many shots of whiskey he could handle before he crashed sideways off the stool that had started to feel a bit too small beneath his hips.

  He plunged his hand into the bowl, scooped out a fistful of peanuts, and stuffed them into his mouth. Bits of peanut crumbs tumbled out, stuck to his lips, and smeared salt and oil across his chin. Eileen leaned against him. With a finger wet from the side of her sweating glass, she wiped at his chin, and then put her finger in her mouth and sucked off the salt.

  “Be careful, Eileen.”

  David glared at the bartender. What did she mean, be careful? There was nothing scary about him. He was a businessman. He should be the one showing caution. If he didn’t watch it, he would lose his coordination and they could take everything he had left—wallet and car. He resented the implication that he might be someone to fear, someone that would hurt her, or stiff her, if she was what he thought she was.

  “She doesn�
�t need to worry about me.” His voice came out a semi growl and he knew the sound contradicted the words. He tried to soften it with a smile, but forcing his lips into a curve, pushing against the leaden feeling around his mouth, made him more angry. He didn’t need to prove anything.

  “I’m always careful, Renata.” She turned to David. “You’ve had a lot to drink, hon. Why don’t we go to my place. I live close by. I could make you a cup of coffee.”

  Even in his drunken state, he knew she wasn’t inviting him over for a chat or a cup of coffee. He held his breath for a few seconds. Renata’s eyes bore down on him. The alcohol softened his brain. His job, Lin . . . his kids, Allie and Josh, felt very far away, in another dimension, a life in which he knew where he belonged—at the office in the middle of the morning. It was Tuesday, he usually left work early on Tuesdays to coach Allie’s soccer team.

  He slid off the stool. The room tilted to the side for just a moment, then righted itself. He might be drunk, but he wasn’t plastered. Where was he going once he walked out into the sunshine? Home, driving drunk on the freeway? Or to Eileen’s apartment, if it was that. Her motel room, possibly.

  “You stay right here. I’ll make him a cup of coffee.” Renata turned to the back of the bar, yanked the pot off a coffeemaker stand, and turned back to the front where she filled the discolored carafe from a faucet on the sink tucked under the bar.

  “He’s coming with me,” said Eileen.

  He wasn’t sure whether he was leaving with Eileen, or headed home, not sure if he even wanted to leave with Eileen. He was hoping fate might make the choice for him.

  “That’s not the kind of man you want to take home.” Renata’s voice was a stage whisper. “Trust me.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know mean drunks and I know rich white guys. Let him go.”

  “He’s got a nice car. He looks like a decent guy.”

  He was definitely ready to have a bit of fun, ready to be bad, now that it looked like he might lose the opportunity to make his own choice. He couldn’t go to soccer practice drunk, so why go at all? And he sure wasn’t going home. He needed to sleep this off somewhere, it might as well be on an aging mattress in a room with Eileen.