of a dying apartment building with broken toys littering a yard full of dirt. I got out and walked up the street hoping no one would notice me. But this was the kind of neighborhood where people noticed everything, especially a white kid with new shoes and a leather bag who looked a little too much like a lawyer to actually be one.
I thought of the two guys in the parking garage as I approached the bar. Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe Dan Kelly hadn’t called at all. Maybe those two guys were waiting inside, or maybe they’d followed me. I hesitated for a moment, standing on the sidewalk like an imbecile, before convincing myself that the reason they’d roughed me up in the first place is because they didn’t want me to find people like Dan Kelly. And if they were going to beat me up again, why meet me in a bar?
I opened the door and went in. It was cool and dark and smelled like a cellar. I could hear voices and the loud thwack of pool balls scattering. I lingered near the door until my eyes adjusted. The bartender and the two people he was talking to were staring at me, wondering which wrong turn I had taken.
“Help you?” the bartender asked in a voice that assumed I was in the wrong place. I had an urge to explain away my appearance. I was from Riverside. My old man was a construction worker. I wasn’t as out of place as I looked. I took a seat a few stools down.
“I’ll take a Bud. Draught if you’ve got it.” The bartender scowled and went to get the beer. I nodded at the two guys the bartender had been talking to. “Hey.”
The bartender brought the beer and I sipped it quietly, waiting, wondering why there was no music playing or television on. Between the soft crack of colliding pool balls, a consuming silence permeated the room. I glanced around, but tried to look like I wasn’t looking for anything, or anyone. There were movements in the shadows, hands raising glasses, people leaning back in chairs. There was no obvious source of light anywhere and it felt like 3:00 A.M., as though everything in the room, even the air, was about to fade away entirely. I had no idea what Dan Kelly looked like, but I figured it was a safe bet that Kelly would be able to spot me without much trouble. After a few more minutes, a voice behind me said,
“You Olson?”
I turned to see a skinny blonde guy with a pony tail. He had a week of beard growth, wore oil-stained jeans and a wrinkled, black, short sleeve Marine Corps shirt with a skull on the front that had a snake weaving through its eye sockets. He smiled and stuck out his hand. I shook it and thought I smelled gasoline.
“Man, don’t you stick out like shit in a snowstorm in this place.” Kelly glanced over my shoulder at the bartender. “Hey Bobby, how ‘bout a Mickey’s?” I heard movement behind me and a bottle being set on the counter. Kelly took the beer and spoke as he turned and walked toward a booth at the back of the bar. “C’mon over, we might have something to talk about.”
I followed. Dan Kelly had large cobwebs tattooed on his elbows and the back of his shirt read, “Mess with the Best, Die like the Rest!” He seemed ten years older than me, but I knew we were nearly the same age. He swaggered, taking heavy, confident steps. We slid into a booth in the back.
“So, what are you, like some kind of young Republican or something?” He flashed me a big grin, revealing a missing incisor. Kelly slouched into the corner and took a long pull from the squatty green bottle of malt liquor.
I said, “I’m a lawyer.”
“Ah, shit man, I knew it.” Kelly took another drink. “When I saw you walk in I knew it.”
I took a swallow of my beer and watched his movements. He was fidgety. He spoke with ease and confidence, but shifted in his seat, drummed his fingers on the table, and looked around where there was nothing to look at.
I figured I might as well get to the point, so I said, “So tell me about Matt Bishop.”
“Ain’t much to tell, really. Like I told you on the phone, we used to hang out in high school. Skate punks,