Pavel Kravchenko - Project Antichrist

“You are not listening to me, Officer Roberts,” Brighton interrupted. Brome’s gaze fell on the cop’s tag. It read Robbins. Turning away, Brome smirked and glanced up at the letters on the glowing awning. Nicely misspelled, he thought.

“The report we received stated clearly that you had him. Do you have him, officer Roberts?”

“The caller said he was inside and we surrounded the place—”

“Do you have him?”

“No, sir. We’ve searched the bar. He’s not inside.”

“Do you have your badge? But do be sure before you answer that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s hope so. That will be all.” The cop hurried off to shout at the reporters, who thrust their microphones at anyone inside yellow police tape. He then shouted at other cops to keep the line steady, then at the crowd to go home.

“They really should just stick to parking tickets,” Brighton said with disgust.

“What are they doing here?” asked Brome, referring to the press.

“The trusty anonymous caller, apparently, made more than one call this evening,” his partner said. “Let’s go inside.”

The amphitheater was full of yellow fog. As far as Brome could see, none of the patrons, who had been prohibited from leaving the premises, presently smoked. Nor they looked like they had been prohibited from anything. Quiet but steady murmur of their voices remained uninterrupted except for those moments when a flashlight-wielding police officer passed a table by. It was pretty clear they wouldn’t have left even had they been give a permission to do so. They simply waited for the annoying light to be turned off. And for the annoying cops to leave them alone.

The agents made their way down the aisle to the bar and its two-story-tall bartender, who might have refused to sit down, but more likely was not able to without breaking a chair.

Why can’t we ever get a suspect like that guy? Brome thought.

Brighton opened his notebook with a bit of a flourish. “Mr. Gulli? Mr. Vernon Gulli?”

“Right.”

“You’re the bartender here?”

No answer.

“You know why we’re here, Mr. Gulli. We’re looking for one of your customers… Luke Whales?”

“I only check dates of birth when I card people.”

“Please, Mr. Gulli. You must have recognized him. He’s famous. ‘Top Ads.’ Know that show? The same guy.”

“I don’t watch TV much.”

“Do you know your customers well? Regulars and such?”

“There are only few of those. Most of the people just pass through.”

“So it is possible that Mr. Whales has passed through here tonight?”

“Sure.”

“So, the host of the number one TV show in America comes up to you, asks for a beer and you don’t remember the encounter an hour later?”

“Is that show on at night? Cos I’m mostly here at night.”

“I see. Mr. Gulli, are you familiar with the term ‘obstruction of justice?’”

“Sounds pretty self-explanatory, unless you mean in a philosophical sense.”

“How about a philosophical sense of a solitary confinement cell at the county jail? Ever tried to fit into one of those?”

No answer.

Brighton wasn’t done, but a policeman appeared presently from behind the stage curtain.

“Agents, we found the escape.”

“You go,” Brome said. “I’ll finish up here.”

Giving the bartender one last glare, Brighton followed the cop backstage. Brome looked up at the giant.

“Would you notice if someone did not buy a drink?” The bartender shifted just barely. Something creaked. Brome thought of a semi truck switching into a different gear.

“I don’t force anyone.”

“I mean if a guy came up to you and asked a question or two instead of ordering a cocktail, like he was looking for someone or something, you would remember. Anything like that happened tonight?”

“It’s happening right now.”

“What about before?” Brome was patient. It wasn’t the case of “good cop, bad cop,” either. It occurred to Brome that he wanted to be patient simply because Brighton wouldn’t be. He was also wondering what Whales would be doing at a place like that. He looked around and saw no cameras. Meeting someone, or maybe making an off-the-grid phonecall. The bartender, meanwhile, was answering the question.

“Sure, before you there was a uniformed cop. Before him was another uniformed cop. Before that one was another. And before that one was a cop in civvies.”

“Great,” Brome said tiredly, then suddenly stared at the bartender’s face. “A cop in civvies? What cop in civvies?”

“I don’t know. What are the choices? A fat cop, had a mustache.”

“When did he question you?”

“Right before the uniforms started pouring in from everywhere.”

“What did he ask?”

“Same thing you ask, about some guy.”

“Luke Whales?”

“He didn’t mention his name. Said something stupid, like ‘fit, medium height, handsome.’ I reminded him that this was a gay bar.”

“If he didn’t say his name and only gave a lame description, then how do you know he was talking about the same guy?”

“Cos he was a cop, and guys in uniforms are cops, and you are a cop, even if you’re a federal cop, and you are all here together at the same time. So I took a wild guess.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“He was a cop.” The bartender also seemed as patient as a boulder his size would be. Brome sighed.

“Did he show you his badge?”

“Only feds do that.”

“So how do you know he was a cop?”

“I don’t know. He looked like a cop. Why? Was he supposed to be undercover?”

This is going nowhere, Brome summed up.

“See anyone going backstage?” he asked for the sake of formality.

“We have restrooms back there.”

“Fine. One last thing. Have you seen this officer around here since?”

The bartender looked around. “I don’t see him now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gulli.”

Brome headed for the curtain. The last booth on the right caught his eye. There were two glasses on the table, but no sign of patrons. He looked around. A total of two other booths were vacant, and as many tables. All were clean.

“Mr. Gulli!”

“Agent?”

“I don’t suppose you’d know who occupied this booth tonight?”

“Sure wouldn’t.”

“Do you have waiters here?”

“No, just a bus boy. Bogdan!”

Following the bartender’s eyes, Brome witnessed someone in a booth across the bar convulse out of a nap. He turned out to be a youth of no more than twenty, who, once his legs had unfolded with some struggle from under the table, came to stand almost as high as the bartender’s chin. Blond, in a white apron on top of a dark t-shirt. The bartender gestured at Brome, and the kid, as though forced to move by suction Gulli’s hand had created in the smoky air, floated closer. His red eyes regarded the agent with confusion.

“He doesn’t speak much English,” the bartender warned.

The bus boy shook his head. “A leetle beet.”

Brome turned and pointed at the empty table. Nodding gravely, the boy headed toward it.

“Hey, wait. No.” Brome had to reach out and catch the kid’s shoulder in order to prevent him from scooping the glasses. The sleepy eyes were now even more confused, moving between the agent’s face and the bartender’s.

“Mr. Gulli, how long does it usually take… Bogdan?.. to clean a vacant table after the patrons left.” The boy nodded again, thoughtfully.

“He’s pretty quick, especially on a busy night. Oh, I see what you’re saying, agent. Too bad I didn’t pay attention who sat in that booth.”

“How about you?” Brome turned to Bogdan. “You remember who occupied the table?”