Moira

“The gods sometimes are slow in their work.  They’re on a different clock than us mortals.”

Bit O’Luck Lounge. 

Figures a mick would toss in the big O and apostrophe, thought Eddie. He made a quick right turn and pulled his black Mercedes into the gravel parking lot. A spray of pinging sounds told him he should’ve first slowed down. If there’s a scratch, I’ll make these fucks pay for the buff out.

“What the hell?” he said out loud. Only two cars occupied the parking lot, which had remained unpaved for the bar’s entire fifty-year existence: a large, dark blue Cadillac—Leroy’s—and a white Lincoln SUV—Speed’s. The two cars sat next to one another, close to the front entrance, a few inches from a supine telephone pole that served as a makeshift parking block.

Eddie parked next to the Caddie. His watch showed 8:07 p.m. Despite the apparent paucity of customers, he figured this place was like most bars and didn’t close until 2 a.m. A neon OPEN sign blinked steadily from between a dirty front window and dirtier blinds pulled shut behind it.

“Those mooks better not be fucking around in there.”

Big Sal dispatched Leroy here this morning to collect that week’s take. When he didn’t show back up, or answer his cell phone, Speed was sent a few hours ago to see what happened. When Speed likewise didn’t answer a call an hour later, the boss sent Eddie—and someone was in for a world of hurt if there wasn’t a damn fucking good answer.

Eddie entered the bar, which was not unlike his hangout across town, Teeter’s: dark wood paneling, red Naugahyde booth seats, several sets of tables apart from the booths, the shimmering glow from the rows of backlit bottles behind the bar, a faint smell of spilled beer, a fainter smell of cigarette smoke that was at least two years old, thanks to the state’s ban on smoking.

But there were other customers despite no other cars out front.  

A middle-aged bartender wearing black-rimmed glasses took no notice of the new arrival. Along the wall across from the bar, three groups of men sat at the tables, nursing beers and highballs. 

Something not right about this.  

Eddie considered immediately asking the bartender where those two fuckoffs were, but thought better of it, and instead sat down at the corner of the bar nearest the door.

The bartender put down a lemon being skinned for its pelt of peels. “Good evening, what can I get you?”

“What do you have on tap?”

“Bud, Pale Ale, and Hamm’s”

“Hamm’s? You actually have Hamm’s?”

“Yes. Only place in the city as far as I know.”

“Hamm’s it is.”

The first sip of beer gave Eddie a brief distraction. It was watery but he liked the simplicity of its taste. It was also cold as hell, which he liked even more. 

He studied the room, trying to not look like he was doing so. Photos, all of which looked decades old, adorned the walls. Several of these were autographed pictures of athletes, though he couldn’t make out anyone he knew. Many showed grinning men holding a large fish lengthwise. The yellowed tint and dusty frames said these were pre-Photoshop, so no fish tales here. Promotional signs and lights for various beer brands girdled the wall at a higher height, a few feet below a ceiling whose color was old cigarette smoke. Some of the brands hadn’t actually been brewed for decades. An old cigarette machine, no longer stocked or in use, sat next to a jukebox, which might itself be inoperative. Definitely something wasn’t right, but Eddie couldn’t clearly identify the source of his unease. 

Big Sal was unlikely to accept Spidey sense as a reason not to do what he came to do. A hallway led to the back, possibly to restrooms, storage, and a pool room. The sign out front said pool, but there were no tables visible in the bar area. 

Instinctively he patted his jacket pocket, making sure his gun was there. “Did two guys come by earlier looking for the owner?” he said.

The bartender looked up from washing glasses, dried his hands, and came over to Eddie. “Yes. But they didn’t come in together.”

Good, thought Eddie, this answer is starting out consistent with the facts. 

“I told the first guy the owner was out back, and so he went out back—there’s a backdoor at the end of the hallway, just past the restrooms.” The bartender pointed casually in the direction of the hallway. “A couple of hours later, another guy shows up. Didn’t say his name but asked about a ‘Leroy’—I assume that was the first guy—and if this Leroy guy stopped by earlier looking for the boss. I told him someone came by—didn’t tell me his name—and this guy went out back looking for the boss. He asked if I’d seen either of them since, and I told him I hadn’t. Then this second guy goes out the backdoor.”

“Did he come back in?”

The bartender shook his head. “No. And I ain’t seen the boss come back in either, but that’s not unusual, since he parks his car there. He comes and goes.”    

“What’s out back?”

“An alley that goes out to a street in both directions. Dumpster. Couple of parking spots. My car’s parked back there, too.” 

“And none of the three came back in?”

“No. I’ve been here since opening and they all went out back, none came back in. Unless they came inside during a bathroom break.” The bartender turned to the occupied tables. “Hey, any of you guys see those guys who went out back come back in while I was in the john?”

Several shaken heads and grunts of “no” indicated they didn’t see the owner, Leroy, or Speed come back inside.

The bartender narrowed his eyes at Eddie. “What are you a private eye?” A few of the men at the nearest table laughed at the quip.

Eddie’s mind raged at the smartass remark, but he hid it well. Normally, he’d snap back with a smartass remark of his own, perhaps dished out with grabbed lapels, maybe even a slap across the comedian’s face, but… man, something wasn’t right here.

Suddenly he realized what it was.

Eddie was big man. Strong like a linebacker, without a hint of fat. Big Sal’s office was attached to a gym and Eddie made regular use of it. Leroy and Speed weren’t pushovers. Bit flabby, the both of them, but they knew how to mix things up when necessary. These bar rats had to know why Leroy, then Speed, and now himself were sent here. Big Sal was well known in the neighborhood. People didn’t fuck with Big Sal or his people, and yet there wasn’t a hint of fear or concern on the face of the bartender or any of the patrons here.    

Eddie took a breath and smiled. “No, not a private eye. But they’re…you know…acquaintances of mine, and we were supposed to meet here, about this time now.”

A glint in the bartender’s eye startled Eddie. “Seems weird the first guy would come here hours before a meeting with you and the other one, my stimulating conversation notwithstanding. But that’s just me.” 

More of the fucking comedian stuff. Eddie breathed again…and stopped himself from touching his pocket. All the men in the bar were looking at him. Hard.

One of the men, a middle-aged black man with a smooth-shaven head lifted his hands in feigned bewilderment. “Seems like you got stood up for the prom.” The snickers from the others at this comment set off alarm bells inside Eddie’s head. 

Jesus. Now these guys with the sass.

Eddie considered pulling out his gun, shoving it in the bartender’s face, and seeing if his memory improved…damn fast and no more fucking quips!

Ten seconds passed before the bartender shrugged his shoulders and returned to his glass washing.         

“You’re welcome to go out back and check for yourself. Maybe they’re shooting dice out back.”

Eddie had fully intended, up until a few moments ago, to see what the hell was up with this Bermuda Triangle-like back alley, but now this was the last place in the universe he wanted to go check out. “Uh, that’s okay,” Eddie answered. It was time to get the hell out of here and come back with reinforcements.

A voice, strong and confident came from the tables. It was the shaven-headed black man. “No, we insist.”

We?

The metallic clicks brought it all into focus.

Four of the men at the table had pistols out, pointed right at Eddie.

The bartender removed his glasses. “You see, my friend, all across this great city of ours, businesses are disposing of trash that’s shaken us down for too damn long, in some cases for two or three generations of owners. Today every collector of money that they damn well don’t deserve is disappearing from God’s green Earth. Such a cleansing is long overdue.”

“Keep your damn hands flat on the bar,” said a young white man at one of the tables. He got up and removed the gun from Eddie’s pocket. 

Eddie’s forehead glistened with sweat. “You won’t get away with this. Others will come here after me.”

“We know,” said the bartender. “And we’ll be ready.”

“They’ll fuck you up,” Eddie said calmly, not so much as a threat but as a reminder that there were certain inalienable facts in this world.

The shaven-headed black men said, “Some of us will be harmed, some even killed. But in the long run, far fewer of us will suffer such fates because we’re no longer taking shit from you and your ilk.”

“Why don’t you call the police?” asked Eddie.

The shaven-headed black man answered for all of them: “Those emasculated pussies? Hell, most of ‘em are in your pocket. No. We’ll deal with this far quicker than bullshit due process.”

The bartender smiled in a manner that Eddie imagined a concentration camp commander might do.     

The black man smiled in a similar manner. “Like the man said. I think there’s something you need to see out in the back. Those two friends of yours are waiting.”