“Look. Since you’re not in any hurry, why don’t you sit down there?” He pointed to the stool in front of him. “Let me check on my customers. When I get back, we’ll talk about that box.”
Storm watched Hal stop at each of the four occupied tables. Twice he returned to the bar with a tray full of empties, filled orders from memory, and delivered fresh rounds. There was a little digital clock behind the bar that caught his eye. It read thirteen minutes after eleven. He looked at his analog watch, which also read thirteen minutes after eleven – an exact twelve hour difference between where he sat and where he should be sitting having lunch with Glen.
Watching Hal take trays back and forth, he wondered if the bar had been busier earlier and, if it had, how Hal had managed to handle things without help. When he realized where his thoughts had taken him, he almost laughed out loud at himself. He was in an alien dimension with no money, where he knew no one, which probably went without saying, and he was pretty sure that his ID would come off just as fake as the money he had on him. The sane response to that predicament would be hysteria.
When Hal returned to his station behind the bar, he gave his hands a quick pass under the bar sink faucet, dried them on the towel he wore over his shoulder, and, just for good measure, wiped them on the white waist apron he wore. Luckily, Hal didn’t serve food. Just drinks.
“You probably noticed I’m here by myself. Had a girl working for me up until this afternoon.”
“That’s too bad.”
“At least she called, which was a refreshing change.” Storm nodded. “Thing is, I’m semi-retired. Or trying to be. I work during times when we need two people. When I find somebody who can handle it alone, I enjoy my golden years doing other things.” Somebody from one of the tables shouted something and Hal looked away. “’Scuse me a minute.”
He walked over, talked, nodded, came back long enough to grab a Texas long neck, delivered it and dumped empties into an already full sink. Turning back to Storm he said, “And that’s what it’s all about. So. You ever done any bartending?”
Storm sat up a little straighter as the conversation suddenly came into crystal clear focus. He was being interviewed for a job that, well, it meant he might not have to live in a box and steal for the bare necessities. Hal was treated to the full weight of Storm’s intensity.
“I’ve never done bartending, but I have worked as a bouncer and I helped my friend study the mixed drinks manual when he was learning to bartend.”
Hal lifted his chin. “I’d bet the farm that you’re a quick study.”
“You have a farm?”
Hal chuckled. “No, but I’ve got a studio apartment in the back. I put it in a few years ago when the wife and I were in a bad patch. It’s got a fridge and a nuke. Not much, but guys don’t need much. Right? It’s a sight better than a box.”
He leaned on the bar. “A year later she left town with a thirty-year-old. I reclaimed the house and moved back in. Now I got a girlfriend who rooms with me.” He winked.
“Anyway, it’s just sitting back there not bein’ used. You know?”
Of all the times to feel like a damn lucky son-of-a-bitch, being stranded wouldn’t be the most likely candidate. But there he stood agreeing with Hal that, indeed, a modest room and a job in a place where he had no resources and no way to prove he should exist, was feeling like a mighty big blessing.
“You could finish studying up on drinks. We don’t get a lot of call for Pink Poodle Saharas and shit. Most of my customers want just what you’d expect. Straight and easy. We get an occasional request for a somethin’-tini or a cosmo. That’s about it.
“I’m thinking that, if you help me work the late shift and watch the place after hours, you can have the job with the room thrown in. Package deal.”
Storm looked into Hal’s face for a couple more seconds. He started to say thank you, but his voice caught just a little and he had to try again. “Thank you.”
Hal grinned. “Nah. You’re the one doing me a favor, kid.” Hal opened the cash register and produced two keys on a generic chain, which he laid on the bar.
Storm looked down at the old-fashioned polished wood then reached out to finger the keys.
“This might sound ungrateful. I don’t mean it that way and I hope you don’t take it that way.” He raised his eyes to meet Hal’s. “Why?”
“Guy wanders in off the street looking lost, asks me if funny money is real, and then says he’s homeless. Who wouldn’t give that guy a key to his business?” Storm just stared, unsure what to think or say about that. Finally, Hal laughed. “Just pumping you. Truth is, night in, night out, bartenders serve drinks to people so wounded they’ve forgot how to keep their shields up. Enough years go by, a sixth sense of a thing starts to come on. Know what I mean?”
“You a mind reader?”
“Like the Dear Dora Psychic Line?” He shook his head, clearly amused. “It’s not mindreading. More like sensing the core of a person. Their real stuff. You know?”
Storm’s brows had come together. In an off-the-beaten-path sort of way, he did think he understood what Hal was saying. Maybe. The guy probably was part clairvoyant, part philosopher. “And your sense told you to trust me?”
“’Bout sums it up.”
“Okay.” Storm picked the keys up and put them in his pocket. “I’m much obliged. Just one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I, ah, might have to leave in a hurry and I might not be able to get the keys back to you. I wouldn’t want to leave you in a bad, um…”