Steve Frech - Deadly Games

“I have nothing to say.”

I’m trying desperately to open the door, but my hands are shaking so bad, that when I attempt one last time to get the key in the lock, it slides off to the side and I stab the glass, thankfully not hard enough to break it. That’s it. She’s got me.

I finally look up.

She’s staring at me like a ravenous cat eyeing a one-legged mouse.

“How well did you know her?” she asks.

“I said I’m not talking to—”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

There’s no use trying to hide the fact that she’s rattled me. I give up with the keys and give her my full attention.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Like I said, I saw you two together. You seemed pretty … friendly.”

“I’m a bartender. ‘Friendly’ is kind of my job.”

“I’ve also heard some things.”

“Have you?”

She nods.

That question pops into my head; the question that changed the dynamic with Detective Mendez: What can I get you? What is it that I can get you that will get me what I want, and what I want to know is where she heard anything?

I take her card and stuff it into my hip pocket.

“Tell me where you heard that.”

“If I tell you, will you answer some questions for me?”

I make a small show like I’m thinking it over. “Sure.”

She smiles triumphantly, confident that she has a story.

“I’ve been asking around. People said you two were friendly. Some people were suspicious that she was having an affair. Even the police know about it.”

I scoff. “The fact that she was found naked in a dive motel wasn’t enough to tip them off that she was having an affair? You are some reporter.”

“How did you know she was found naked?” Genevieve asks.

This is exactly why I didn’t want to start talking to her.

She waits.

“Are you gonna answer my question or—?”

“Nope,” I reply, finally sliding the key into the lock.

“‘Nope’? What do you mean, ‘nope’?”

“I’m not going to answer your questions.”

Her initial shock quickly gives way to anger. “We had a deal.”

“Yeah. I know.”

I’ve gotten what I needed and it’s clear that I know more than she does.

“Are—are you serious?”

“Yep,” I say, opening the door.

She’s royally pissed and not without justification, but I don’t feel sorry for her.

She gives me a furious stare. “You open in an hour?”

“That’s what the sign says.”

“Well, maybe I’ll come back, have a drink, and talk to some of your customers to see what they might know.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you harass them like that. If you come back, I’ll call the cops.”

“Fine,” she fires back, not missing a beat. “Maybe I’ll just have a drink. It’s a free country.”

“Yeah but, see, it’s not a free bar.” I step inside the door.

“You need to talk to me! I can get your story out th—”

“There’s a TGI Friday’s up the road. It strikes me as a little more of your kind of place.”

I close the door and lock it.

There’s a brief staring contest through the glass before she turns and leaves.

Once she’s out of sight, I sprint to the bathroom and vomit.

This is the longest damn shift of my life.

Katie and I have barely said two words to each other. I want to ask her for more details about her talk with Detective Mendez yesterday, but there’s no time for talk and she doesn’t seem very receptive. We’re still putting on our little show for the customers, but the ass-slaps are half-assed, the innuendo is weak, and I’m on a short fuse, which is obvious to all.

Things that I normally let slide are setting me off.

A group of office bros order a round of drinks but only one at a time, which is a massive headache. I make one drink, bring it to them, then they order another drink. If you’re in a group, order your drinks all at once. Good bartenders can work on three or four drinks at a time. They’re going one by one.

“Come on, guys,” I sigh after their fifth drink order. “Let’s act like we’ve been to a bar, before.” That stops them in their tracks. Katie shoots me a look.

Later on, a man studying the bottles in the display asks, “What’s the cheapest thing you’ve got here?”

“You,” I reply.

He blinks like I just slapped him in the face, which I sort of metaphorically did. He walks back to his table, has a quick word with his friends, and they collect their things and leave.

To top it all off, I’m catching snippets of customers talking about Emily’s murder. It’s not much. Not everyone knew her, but there’s enough that I try to discreetly eavesdrop on the conversation, only to find that, like Genevieve, I know more about what happened than they do.

An hour later, a young-looking girl orders a Long Island. I ask for her ID and she hands me this utter monstrosity of a fake. There’s no hologram. The picture is dark and obviously photoshopped. And here’s the secret to spotting a fake ID: a blind person can do it. It’s not how an ID looks, but how it feels. Is it flimsy or hard? When you handle hundreds of IDs a night, you know what a real one feels like in your hand. This thing is as hard as a rock. Avalon is a wealthy town, so we get our fair share of rich kids who have spent a lot of money on fake IDs and I’ve seen some damn good ones, but this is laughable. Normally, I’d hand the ID back, and wish her good luck someplace else, but tonight ain’t that night.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“What is this?” I ask, holding the ID.

Her eyes go wide. “It’s, uh … It’s my ID.”

“Okay, I don’t know how much money you paid for this, little girl, but you should ask for a refund.”

She wilts but for some stupid reason keeps pushing it. “It’s … It’s real.”

I sigh. “The image is shopped and too dark. It’s hard as a rock and there’s no hologram.”

“I—I left it in the wash.”

“Now I’m worried that you don’t understand how a washing machine works.”

“Okay … okay. I’m sorry,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’ll take it back.”

I nonchalantly toss the ID into the trash behind the bar and nod at the door.

“Get out.”

Stunned, she turns and quickly leaves.

Wonderful. I’ve turned into the asshole bartender I’ve always hated.

“Clay?”

Alex is staring at me from the end of the bar. He’s been watching me and obviously doesn’t like what he sees.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

I walk over. “What’s up?”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. You want to take a break? I know it’s been a crazy forty-eight hours.”

“No. It’s okay. I don’t need a break.” It’s getting late in the evening and the last thing I want to do is stop working because I’ll start thinking.

“All right,” Alex says, “but if you could do everyone a favor and stop being a jerk, that would be great.”

“She was trying to use a fake ID.”

“I get that, but she’s not the only person you’ve been a jerk to this evening, is she?”

My shoulders drop. There’s nothing to say in my defense.

“Sorry. I’m just on edge.”

“Listen, I know that Mrs. Parker was one of your regulars and these past few days have been kind of crazy and if you need a break to calm down, that’s fine. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

As I turn back to the bar, I catch a glimpse of a lonely figure sitting at a high-top table against the wall across the room.

Genevieve Winters.

She’s sipping a cocktail by herself, eyes locked on me. In front of her on the table is a notepad.