the “s” creaked ominously above my head, making me hesitate. Maybe it was a sign to scrap this crazy plan? As I stood in the entrance, the smell of stale beer and sweat wafted out. But there was something more, something base and vile—Billy’s reeked of desperation.
A part of me wanted to get back in my car and drive away, but I was here for a reason. So I went in. There was a guy—way too young to be Old Carl—wiping the top of the dark oak bar with a dingy-looking cloth that had seen better days. He was humming along to an old seventies song—something about lying eyes—as he lazily worked the rag down the length of the bar.
He looked up as I approached and, upon noticing he had a potential customer, reached below the bar and turned down the music. “Oh, hey. What can I getcha, Miss?” he asked, a stringy swath of dark hair falling across his gaunt face.
“Just water would be fine,” I replied, as I pulled out one of several wooden bar stools and sat down.
The too-skinny bartender flipped the hair from his face and eyed me dubiously, so I hastily changed my order to a beer. He nodded approvingly and then made his way down to a silver cooler at the other end of the bar. “Glass?” he called back as he reached into the cooler.
“Just the bottle is fine,” I replied, glancing around to get a lay of the land, so to speak.
There was a back room off to the left, housing several pool tables and a few of those dart machine games. A sign with an arrow was taped to the wall, and someone had written in black marker “Restrooms.” I couldn’t see much more back there, as the lights were off. So I focused back on the bar area. Besides the tall stools at the bar, there were a few tables and chairs scattered about. The wall behind the bar was one large mirror, making the place appear larger than it was. Several neon beer signs, some illuminated, some not, adorned the dark wooden valance above where I sat. As my eyes scanned the shelves before me, jam-packed with liquor bottles, I noticed the kid was on his way back to my end of the bar.
He stopped in front of me, twisted the cap off the bottle, and slammed the beer down in front of me. His dark eyes raked over me, and though I’d dressed down, I cursed myself for wearing designer boots.
“You sure you’re in the right place, Miss?” he asked, snickering. “’Cause you’re not really lookin’ like you belong in here.”
I took a deep breath, figuring I wasn’t fooling the kid, so I might as well get down to business.
“Um…Yeah, right. I’m not really here to drink.” He shot me a look that screamed, No shit. “I, uh, have a friend who I think used to come here. A guy. I’m kind of looking to find out if he really did hang out here. And if so, who he used to hang with. I think I may have known her, too, if it’s the girl I’m thinking of.” The kid eyed me cautiously, his dark eyes wary, but I stammered on. “I mean, she used to be kind of a friend too.” OK, so that part’s a huge lie; Chelsea had never been my friend.
The time stretched on, and the kid said nothing, so in an effort to put him at ease, I added, “I’m Maddy, by the way.” I smiled my friendliest smile and held out my hand.
At first he continued the silent treatment, but then he quietly said, “I’m Jimmy.” He reached hesitantly for my outstretched hand.
“There used to be another bartender here back then. He may know better who I’m talking about?” I offered, the pungent smell of disinfectant from his hands growing stronger as we shook.
I jerked my hand back, but he seemed not to notice. “Oh, you mean Old Carl,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Yeah, he doesn’t work here no more. Quit a couple years ago.”
“Oh,” I said, “do you know where I could find him?”
“Nah, he doesn’t live ’round here no more. Said he was goin’ to California or some shit. No one’s seen him since.” Jimmy picked up the dirty dishrag and resumed his earlier task of wiping down the bar. “Maybe I could help? I’ve only been bartendin’ here for a year, but I’ve been comin’ here for a lot longer