of chitchatting. Yet another disappointment logged. I frowned and read down the line of bottles but got sidetracked by Pat Sajak’s face on the center TV.
“Isn’t there a game on?” I said.
She gave her gum a slow chew before finding the remote and flipping it to baseball, though I couldn’t see the team names or the score unless they were spoon-fed. “Better?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, then waggled my head to amend my answer. “What about the music? This place allergic to Merle Haggard?”
Another chew of the gum—I was pushing it, I could tell—but she fished out her pocket phone and somehow changed the tunes with it. To my great pleasure, she picked Willie Nelson, though the bar still had something missing, and whatever it was put a damper on the blood hammering through my veins. I looked over my shoulder to figure out what else needed fixing, only to be greeted by the blondie, who had notably forgotten to put on her bra this morning.
With her titties pointing at me, she flashed a phony sultry smile that framed one dead tooth. “You want to buy me a drink?”
“No, thank you. I just—”
She pulled a barstool near my rear end and gave me a tiny shove to sit down, which did the trick. “I’ll have whatever you’re having. You like sangria?”
“God, no,” I said defensively. “I’m a whiskey man.”
“Oh yeah?” The barkeep nodded in approval and pointed behind her. “What kind?”
So we were going to talk, I guess. About alcohol. It wouldn’t be my first pick, but I’d work with whatever she gave me. Shrugging, I examined the wall again. Some labels looked familiar; some looked upside down even though they were right-side up. It was distracting. Dizzying. “I don’t know. Single malt.”
“With ice?”
I rubbed my hands together. Warmed them. Recalled that I hated cold whiskey. “Neat, usually.”
“Top-shelf?”
I shook my head. “Rotgut,” I said, by which I meant anything Canadian. I never treated myself when drinking; didn’t deserve it. In fact, right now I didn’t even deserve a sangria, seeing how I’d shirked the one and only responsibility I’d had in coming here. I glanced over my shoulder again, this time for Josie.
“Say, you haven’t seen—” I stopped short as I turned back, because before me sat a lowball glass with a few fingers of the greatest fermented drink ever made. The sickly orange glow from the lighting above didn’t do it any favors, and I could smell the ethanol—whatever she’d poured was cheap—but my stomach still bottomed out like when I had my first kiss in the back alley behind the dime store. Same dry-throat want. Same shake in my voice. “I didn’t order that.”
She poured another and slid it to the blonde, who ran off with it in a hurry. “Not what I heard.”
“Get your ears checked then,” I said, hand on the glass to push it away. But for some reason, I couldn’t make myself do it. Something about the way it fit into my palm.
“That’ll be twenty-two dollars.”
I snorted.
“I have rules here to keep the bums out. If you come in, you order. If you skip the bill, I call the cops.” She wiped the counter, adding casually, “You want to open a tab?”
I cleared my throat, hopeful she was joking. But she looked as serious as the business end of a .45, which didn’t bode well. Mainly because it had suddenly come to my attention that I’d walked in the door without one red cent.
“Look, I . . .” I cleared my throat again. The salivating had come back tenfold, now that I had a drink in my hand. I swallowed my spit three or four times before saying, “I’m just looking for a girl.”
The emaciated man, who was building a tower with peanuts, piped up. “Aren’t we all?”
The bartender smirked, while one of the flannel men waved in her direction for another round. She reached underneath the counter and produced a few shot glasses, setting them down heavily. “When you find her, maybe she can treat.”