Of course I was suspicious. A guy gives you a grand, and tells you to go to a bar out in the sticks. Of course you’re suspicious about anything Darrell says, especially if you don’t know if he knows you screwed him around on the last job. So I went to some town that could have been in one of the Dakotas, but was actually in Ontario. Somewhere between Nowhere and Armpit.
The main drag was short. On one side of the street, separated by empty lots, were a grocery store, pharmacy, bar, and a gas station that was closed and looked like it had been closed for twenty years. Behind the stores was an abandoned railroad track and a vague attempt at a forest. The other side of the street had half a dozen houses, none of which had lights on.
I parked in front of the bar and made sure I locked all the doors.
I went into the bar and the only humans there were a bartender and one guy sitting at the bar, drinking beer. Two cats sat next to an old cash register that had probably been there since the bar originally opened and was now there only for show. They looked up at me and then went back to being cats.
At the back of the bar were a pool table and a dartboard. It seemed to me to be kind of dangerous to have them near each other, especially when alcohol is involved. I sat, ordered a scotch, and waited.
Some guy came in. I didn’t like the look of him but then again, I don’t like the look of most people. “Garrett?” he asked. He was still standing there so I looked at him. He looked back at me. “Are you Garrett?”
I shook my head.
The guy went to the bar, and sat beside the other guy. “Are you Garrett?”
“Yeah,” said the guy, and that surprised me because I’m Garrett.
The two of them talked for a while, then left the bar. I went to the door and watched them. They walked until they got to the gas station, then stopped and talked. Then the newer guy took a knife out of his jacket and stabbed the first guy. He dragged the body into the woods behind the gas station. When the guy appeared on the street again, I popped back into the bar.
The guy came in, talked quietly to the bartender, and then left. The bartender picked up the bar phone and called someone. I couldn’t hear what he said.
After a while, two cop cars and an ambulance went past the bar and stopped in front of the gas station. There were no sirens or flashing red lights; I guess it wasn’t that important.
Some other guy came into the bar. Sure was a busy place for a one- or two-horse town. He was a slightly seedy forty, with an advancing forehead. If he’d been wearing a trench coat, he would have looked a bit like Dick Tracy from the old comics. He looked at me, and said, “You’re Garrett.”
It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. I just looked at him.
“I know you are,” he said. “I’m Victor. I’m a friend of Darrell’s.”
“How do I know that?”
He described Darrell.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “You could’ve seen him somewhere. What’s the name of his kid?”
“How the hell would I know that? Besides, I don’t think he has a kid. I don’t think Vera can have kids. Or maybe Darrell can’t.”
“OK.”
“Look, Darrell sent me after you. Thought you might need help.”
“I don’t even know what’s going on.”
A uniformed cop came in and talked to the bartender. The cop turned, looked at me, and then came over. “So why did you stab that guy?”
“I didn’t stab the guy. The bartender could have told you that. He could describe both guys.”
“No, he couldn’t,” said the cop.
“I suppose you’re right,” I said.
Victor stepped forward. “Look, officer, I can vouch for this guy. He was in here the whole time.”
“Who the hell are you?” said the cop.
Victor reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a police badge, and flashed it. I suppose he looked like Dick Tracy for a reason.
The uniformed cop nodded his head, then left the bar, leaving me there with Victor Tracy. He said, “That was weird. I would have assumed that any guy looking for you knows what you look like.”
“But he didn’t,” I said. “He thought the other guy was me. Who was he?”
“No idea.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“No idea. Darrell just told me to look after you.”
“But you’re a cop. Darrell’s not exactly a friend of cops.”
“You know how it is...” he trailed off.
I knew how it was. “Uh huh,” I said.
“Besides, I’m off duty.”
“What do we do now?”
“Dunno. Wanna play some pool?”
We played some pool. He wasn’t good enough that I could hustle a few bucks off him.
The cop cars and ambulance went by the other way, not quickly. The uniformed cop who was in before came in and said to Victor, “The guy’s dead.”
“Who was he?”
“A guy from Toronto. John Winston.”
“Yeah, no idea. Thanks,” said Victor, who chalked his cue.
The cop left.
I watched Victor miss another shot. I said, “That can’t be a coincidence. Winston.”
“It’s not. That was Darrell’s brother.”
“Why the hell would Darrell’s brother say he was me?”
“They don’t get along. I guess he wanted to find out what was going on.”
“He got killed! And that guy thought he killed me. Why would someone want to kill me?”
“Look at the bright side. The guy thinks you’re dead.”
I went outside and walked down to the gas station. There were no cops still there, no crime scene, none of those yellow “Do Not Cross” plastic strips tied around trees. Right, I thought, the victim was from Toronto. No big deal.
I went back to the bar and played some more pool with Victor.
Two women came into the bar. Jeesh, it was like Union Station in there. They went over to the bar, exchanged some words with the bartender, then came over to us carrying a couple of shots of tequila, lime and all. One of them asked us if we wanted to play pool against them. We had nothing to do so we did.
We introduced ourselves. Neither Victor nor I gave our actual names. I was Bill and Victor was Danny. The short blond was Allie; the taller brown-haired woman was Eddie. I didn’t ask what that was short for. They probably weren’t their real names anyway.
After the first game, Allie said to me, “You wanna go out back?”
I’ve never declined an offer like that from a hot blond. Most of the time it never worked out. Once I got rolled.
Allie and I went out back. It was a dump, not much light, weeds everywhere, damaged concrete, construction site refuse, and other assorted junk. Garbage bags were being ripped apart by raccoons. They looked at us and continued their work. There was a beaten-up truck about fifteen years old, but it was an F-150, so it probably still ran.
Allie said to me, “You’re Garrett, right?”
I took a couple of steps away from her. “You’re not gonna stab me, are you?”
She laughed. “I just have to get some shit. Darrell said you’re good protection.”
“What kind of shit do you have to get?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t Eddie help you?”
“She’s tough, but not tough enough. Besides, she’s a bank teller. Not a lot of use to me in a situation like this.”
“What about, uh, Danny?”
“I don’t know him.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Darrell recommended you.”
“Darrell recommended him.”
“I don’t know that.”
“Neither do I,” I said, knowing I would never even understand this circular argument, let alone win it.
The beaten-up F-150 was Allie’s. We got into it, drove a couple of streets away, and pulled into a house’s driveway. She got out of the truck and I trailed behind. She didn’t ring the bell or knock, just turned the doorknob, and nothing happened. With a well-placed kick of her boot, she kicked the door in.
We went inside and no one was there. Half-finished bottles of beer, full ashtrays, empty pizza boxes, the TV still on.
“They hurried out of here,” said Allie. “I think I know where they went. You ready?”
“For what?! I have no idea what’s going on!”
“That’s the way I want it.”
We drove out into the backwoods, along a road that even a pack of hyenas would avoid. She turned the truck lights off, shut off the engine, and we cruised down a hill, then pulled off to the side of the road. The moonlight showed three wrecked cars. They’d been there since last winter, she said, a result of some robbery that had gone really wrong. I didn’t know why she was telling me this.
She took two flashlights out of the glove compartment, gave me one of them and told me not to turn it on until she told me to. She reached behind her, grabbed a baseball bat, and handed it to me.
“That’s it? A bat?” I asked.
“They don’t have guns. We’re Canadian, remember?”
She put an oversized bomber jacket on, and we walked down the road for a minute or so, then turned onto a driveway that was more an overgrown path. I tripped. “Walk carefully,” she said, pointlessly.
There was a shack and no one was in it.
“I know where they are,” she said. “There are caves out back. Bootleggers used to use them. Now the local scumbags use them to stash stuff.”
We staggered out into the woods. Well, I did. Allie seemed to know where she was walking.
“See that stand of birch?” she whispered. “The cave entrance is right behind that. When we get there, I’ll give you a signal. Turn on your flashlight and just wave it around into the cave. I’ll do the same, and it’ll look like there are a lot of us. Then I want you to tell them we’re the cops, and if they throw the shit out, nothing will happen to them. They’ll believe you. They won’t recognize your voice, and well, the cops around here...” She tailed off, and I understood what she meant and believed her.
We got to the cave, she gave me the signal, I waved my flashlight around, so did she. And she took her phone out, and aimed a flashing red light into the cave as well. Kinda looked like a lame movie premiere. I dropped my voice into a lower register, told them what Allie had told me to tell them. Whoever was in the cave yelled a few obscenities. Allie put her phone away, took a gun out of her jacket, and fired a few shots in the direction of the cave, deliberately not into it.
A cardboard box came flying out of the cave. Allie picked it up, looked inside, then looked at me and nodded. We ran like hell, she being more hell than me as she was way ahead of me.
By the time I’d found the driveway and made it back to the road, Allie was waiting for me with the truck running. I got in and she floored it.
We drove back to town, Allie parked the truck in the same space behind the bar, and we went inside. I didn’t understand why she’d do that.
Eddie and Victor were still playing pool.
“Mission accomplished,” said Allie.
I had no idea what was going to happen next so we played some more pool. I kept looking at the bartender but he ignored me.
Five guys came into the bar. I could guess who they were. One of them was the guy who’d stabbed Darrell’s brother. They looked around, focused on Allie, and moved toward her. She picked up the cue ball and whipped it right into Stabber’s face. This seemed to be the right thing to do. I picked up a couple of balls and threw but missed. Eddie took the darts out of the dartboard and launched them. The cats disappeared under the bar. So did Victor. Allie picked up a pool cue and whomped one of them right in the kisser. That was enough for the boys and they split.
The bartender laughed as he picked up the stray balls and darts.
We drank more. I didn’t know what else to do.
At the end of the night, the bar closed, the bartender kicked us out, and we went out back. Allie’s truck windows had been smashed, and there were a few pointless divots on the hood. She searched the truck but didn’t find the box. She said, “Crap.” Allie and Eddie got into the truck and were gone really quickly.
Victor said to me, “You know they were cops, right?”
“No,” I said, defeated.
“Yeah. Cops around here. You know...”
“Yeah, I guess I do. Why did I have to go with Allie if Eddie is a cop?”
“I guess she had to keep an eye on me.” Victor kicked a half-eaten apple toward the raccoons. “You could have made a little bonus if it had worked out. Darrell said something about ten grand. But I guess you end up with only a grand because Darrell knows you screwed him around on your last job. But maybe you’ll get a bonus because his brother is dead.”
I leaned up against the wall of the bar. “Your name’s not Victor, is it?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Are you actually a cop?”
“I can’t tell you that. Do you need a ride back to Toronto?”
“Nah, I have a car.” And there was no way I was going back to Toronto. Darrell knew my last address. Maybe I’d go on to Montreal.
Victor left. I went around to the front of the bar and got into my car. The bartender came out of the bar and knocked on my window. I rolled it down and he passed me a bulging envelope.
I looked in it and must have looked surprised because the bartender laughed. “Darrell was apparently going to give you ten so we’re giving you more. You were going to make out whichever way things went down. Pretty shrewd, man. But you made the right choice.”
Shrewd? Hell, yes. I thought I was still working for Darrell.
And then something occurred to me. “Why would Allie come back to the bar after she’d gotten the box of whatever it was? Why didn’t she just take off with it?”
“When she first came in, I told her Darrell said for her to wait here until further notice...”
“Nicely done. And why did those guys bother to come inside the bar after they’d stolen the box?”
“They think they’re tougher than cops. They’re not that bright.”
I laughed. I put my hand out the window and he shook it. “I’m Brooks,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
No one tells you much these days. Maybe it’s better not to know. I’ll have to learn what “I can’t tell you that” is in French.
Bill’s short stories have been published in over a dozen countries, and are often inspired by the two pubs within staggering distance of his house. His comic noir novel, “Farewell And Goodbye, My Maltese Sleep”, the second funniest novel ever written, was published in October 2023 by Close To The Bone Publishing, and is available on Amazon.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)