Читать книгу: «Deadly Games»

Chapter 1

My phone pings with a text.

I’m not going to answer it. Not even going to look.

When you’re being led by a detective down a hall at a police station to be interviewed, it’s not the time to respond to what is probably a message from your boss, asking you to come in twenty minutes early for your shift tomorrow.

At the end of the hall, Detective Mendez motions to an open door and I step inside.

The walls are painted cinderblock. The floor is concrete.

In the middle of the room is a metal table with metal chairs on either side. There’s a file resting on the corner of the table.

“Again, I’d like to thank you for coming in and talking to me,” Detective Mendez says, following me into the room. “Please, have a seat.”

He indicates the chair on the other side of the table, away from the file.

“Of course.” The confusion in my voice is genuine as I ease myself into the chair.

He comfortably lowers himself into the chair on the other side of the table.

“I’ll try to make this as quick as I can. We’re just asking some questions, trying to get an overall picture of things.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Um, what things?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together.

“How well do you know Emily Parker?”

How well do I know Emily Parker?

I know everything about her, the same way I know everything about a lot of people. I know their name, their birthday, their kids’ names, where they live, where they work. I know when they get that big promotion. I know how they feel about that cute coworker they haven’t told their spouse about. I know when things are bad at home. Hell, I know when people are on antibiotics. I know all this stuff because they tell it to me; freely, willingly, because everyone wants to be my friend, even though they don’t know a thing about me.

They tell me all these things because I’m their bartender.

Of course, with Emily Parker, it’s a little more complicated but I sort of knew this was coming.

Katie, my coworker, was interviewed earlier this morning by Detective Mendez and as I pulled into the parking lot of the police station, she texted me the heads-up that they had asked her about Emily. She said she didn’t know why they were asking, but that she had kept me out of it; a fact I very much appreciated.

“Mr. Davis?” Detective Mendez asks from the other side of the table.

There are some things about Emily and I that I’d rather not discuss and I know she feels the same way. I need to buy a little more time so I can figure out what’s going on and talk to Emily.

Luckily, I have the training to bullshit all day, if need be.

“You can call me Clay.”

“Your ID says that your name is Franklin Davis.”

“Yeah, but everyone calls me Clay. In my business, you make a lot more in tips with a cool name. I found that out when I worked at one of those corporate chains where you have to wear a nametag and like, buttons with witty sayings, you know? Well, one day, I forgot my nametag, so I had to wear a spare one we had in the office. For one shift, my name was ‘Clay’, and you wouldn’t believe how much more in tips I made that day. So, I decided to stick with it.”

“That’s really interesting,” Detective Mendez says, dryly, while making a note on his pad.

“Thanks.”

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. He’s got this perfectly neutral, bulldog expression and while bulldogs look kind of dumb, you’re pretty sure they could rip your arm off if they felt so inclined.

“Do you often do that?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“Lie to people.”

Is he being serious? What is happening, right now?

“It’s just a work thing.” I shrug.

He makes another note and looks up from his pad.

“So, Mr. Davis … I’m sorry, Clay,” Detective Mendez says, maybe sincerely. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m sorry. What was the question?”

“How did you know Emily Parker?”

“Well, she’s a regular at my bar. She comes in from time to time. She’s one of my best regulars, actually— Wait … Wait. What do you mean ‘how did I know Emily Parker’?”

Detective Mendez gets a slight, pained expression and his eyes inadvertently glance at the file resting on the table.

“Mr. Davis, we’re just asking some questions and we know that she was at the bar two nights ago,” he says, trying to be reassuring.

“No. What did you mean by that?” I can’t help the worry that finds its way into my tone. “Has something happened to her?”

“Mr. Davis, I’m not sure it’s the right time—”

“Please. Tell me, did something happen to her?”

Detective Mendez sighs, reaches over, flips open the file, takes out a photo, and slides it in front of me. And then another. And another.

At first, I can’t process what I’m seeing. Then, it becomes clear. The horror sets in and bile climbs up my throat.

This can’t be real. It can’t be, but it is.

Oh my god.

Cold beads of sweat pop from my forehead. My heart is slamming into my chest.

Detective Mendez leans forward further.

“Mr. Davis … Clay … How did you know Emily Parker?”

Let me back this up to that night.

“Goose martini. Filthy. One olive!” Mr. Collins calls over the din of the crowd.

“You got it.”

Good. He’s in a chipper mood. Things must be going better at home.

Mr. Collins, a retired fifty-something aerospace engineering consultant, has been coming to The Gryphon for years. A filthy Goose martini was his standard drink and I used to start making it the second I saw him walk through the door, but for the past few weeks, he’s been drinking cheap scotch, neat. He and his wife have been having problems. He’s never told me this, directly, but it’s obvious to me. He’s been down, quiet, and the times he’s come into The Gryphon recently, he goes outside whenever he gets a phone call. He doesn’t want anyone to hear him, which is what you do when it’s personal. On slow nights, I’ve watched him through the window while he was on the phone. The body language, the pleading posture, all point to problems at home. This is the kind of stuff you notice when you work behind the bar; the stuff that you as a patron don’t realize you’re doing, but your bartender sees all of it. And if Mr. Collins is back to his favorite drink, that means he’s happy, which means I’m happy, because he’ll be tipping big.

I head to the well and start working on his martini.

My partner in crime, Katie Watson, one of the main attractions at The Gryphon, is holding court at the end of the bar. She brings in tons of business and I’m the one to grind out the drinks. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a good-looking guy. I’ve got a thick, sculpted beard, sleeves of tattoos, keep a regular schedule at the gym, and I’ve got a sharp wit that has earned me my own little knot of admirers, but Katie is straight out of a 1950’s pinup calendar, and she’s wearing a black leather corset that is fighting a losing battle with her breasts.

I can’t keep up with that, not even going to try and that’s what makes us a perfect team.

“Coming right up!” Katie shouts to someone and goes for the beer taps behind me. “Clay!” she calls out as she approaches. “Can you make me a Bullet Rye Old Fashioned while you’re at the well?”

“Yep.”

“Thank you,” she says, and slaps my ass as she passes.

I do not recommend doing this at your place of employment, but this is not sexual harassment. I’m not going to call HR. This is bartending. When you bartend with someone, you’re going to experience a lot of physical contact with them; a lot of physical contact. Your bodies are going to press together and you’re gonna bump uglies as you try to get around each other. You have to get physically comfortable with your coworkers very quickly. Katie and I passed that obstacle a long time ago. We’ve been working together for years and we do it so well, people have nicknamed us “The Dream Team”. We’ve developed such a rhythm that we know when to help each other without asking, we silently agree on who should handle which customers, we know when the other is having a bad night, and out of that working relationship, we’ve grown into best friends.

The group of guys standing near the well are staring at me with what I can only describe as the equivalent of high-fives.

“You have the best job in the world,” one of them says.

“Damn right,” I reply.

It is pretty great.

The Gryphon is a block from the ocean in the town of Avalon, which is about halfway between San Francisco and Monterey. I literally found this place by throwing a dart at a map. Not kidding. I had gotten fed up with living and working in Los Angeles. All the bartenders who were waiting to be discovered by a casting agent had done my head in. I pinned a map of the US to my wall, took a couple steps back, and fired. I knew I wanted to stay in California, so I took a general aim in that direction. The nearest town to the point of the dart was Avalon. That was that. I didn’t worry about finding a job. I had the experience where I could walk in and get a job at any bar that was hiring, and people drink everywhere. They drink when times are good and when times are bad. Bartending is the only job that is bulletproof.

So, I packed up my stuff, moved to Avalon, and found my current employment: The Gryphon.

This town is a mix of everything, and from the first time I stepped through the door of The Gryphon, I knew I had found something special. Nowhere on the building does it say “The Gryphon”. It’s too hip for that. Instead, there’s this cool neon sign in the shape of a gryphon above the door as you enter. I’ve been working here for five years and it’s by far the best gig I’ve ever had. It has this cool, library vibe with some subtle hints of steampunk thrown in. It brings in everyone from locals, to surfers, to hipsters, to yuppies, to businessmen, to you name it.

Such is life on the central California coast.

The Gryphon isn’t a dive, so I don’t have to deal with the bums or the seedy crowd, and it isn’t corporate, so I don’t have to worry about ridiculous oversight, company mantras, or secret shoppers coming in to make sure I was pushing the specials. The money is really good for how easy the work is. Of course, I don’t want to bartend forever, but for now, I’m perfectly happy where I’m at.

I pop the shaker tin onto the cup containing Mr. Collins’ martini, raise it above my head, and start to shake it. The rattling ice makes a sound like maracas.

Before I get started on the Old Fashioned, I glance to the slender guy with the shock of wiry red hair, long, spindly nose, and tortoise-shell glasses sitting at the bar, writing in his little notebook.

“You doing okay, Mr. Loomis?” I ask.

He nods without looking up.

Sydney Loomis is a weird dude.

He’s been coming to The Gryphon since before I showed up. He walks in, sits in the same chair, orders three gins on the rocks with lemon over the span of a few hours, simply watches everyone and everything, but never says a word, only writes in his notebook, and then leaves. He’s incredibly out of place, but he’s an institution at The Gryphon. The one night a week that we’re closed, he drinks at a bar down the street. He’s not a big tipper, but he always tips, and any bartender will tell you those are the people who pay the rent. You always make sure they are happy, and since Mr. Loomis is happy, it’s time to start the show.

With my free hand, I begin to build the Old Fashioned. I glance down the bar to my left to make sure a certain someone is watching.

She is.

Emily Parker.

She’s in her forties and impossibly sexy. She’s got blond, wavy hair, and a body born of yoga and morning jogs on the beach. She’s watching me with an appreciative eye as she takes a sip from her almost spent vodka tonic.

I bring the martini down, hit the shaker against the side of the bar, which causes the tin to jump off, and strain the martini into the chilled glass. Then, I grab a cherry and toss it high in the air above the Old Fashioned. I quickly dump the shaker into the sink next to me, snatch an olive, and drop it into the martini, just as the cherry falls into the Old Fashioned with a light plop.

The crowd around me applauds and I take a bow.

Katie finishes pouring the beer and joins in the applause by adding a loud “whoop”. With her free hand, she slaps my ass, again, and reaches around my waist to grab the Old Fashioned.

“Thank you, Clay!” she says.

“Can you take this martini over to Mr. Collins?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, carefully adding the martini to the drinks she’s carrying. “By the way, can we switch ‘out-times’ tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. I want to go home early.”

“You want to leave early, but you’re not going home,” I say with mock disapproval.

“Not really your business, but you owe me for all the times I’ve traded with you so you could ‘leave early but not go home’.”

Damn.

I do owe her for multiple occasions in the past where she’s traded with me so that I could leave early.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Fine.”

“Thanks,” she says, kissing my cheek and carrying the drinks away.

Time to deliver some bad news.

Avoiding all the outstretched hands and requests for drinks, I slink down the bar to Emily.

The one person I make certain to avoid is the customer that I’ve labelled ‘The Blonde’. She’s been coming in from time to time over the past couple of months, always on her own. Unlike almost everyone else in here, I don’t know who she is or what she does. She’s never hung out at the bar or tried to strike up a conversation with me. She keeps to herself, which I would totally respect, except for the fact that she’s insistent to the point of being rude if she’s not served right away, even if the bar is busy. Also, she doesn’t tip, and carries herself with a “holier-than-thou” air. One time, she felt that I took too long getting her a Cape Cod and complained to our manager, Alex, about my service. She treats Katie the same way. So, we’ve had a not-so-pleasant relationship. I still haven’t caught her name. Kind of don’t care, but unfortunately, I’ve accidentally locked eyes with her as she uses her elbows to knife her way to the bar.

“Can I get a Stella?” she asks.

“You got it!” I reply and keep moving.

I have no intention of pouring her beer.

Katie can take care of her, but that’s only if Katie wants to, which I doubt. If she tries to get Katie’s attention, there’s enough people for Katie to pretend like she didn’t hear her. We bartenders do it all the time to customers we don’t care for.

“Doing okay over here?” I ask, pulling up across the bar from Emily.

“Just fine, Mr. Showoff.”

“Gotta give them what they want.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” she says, giving me a seductive glance and taking the last sip of her drink.

“Another one?”

She ponders the wet ice in her glass. “Nah. I’ll settle up.”

She reaches into her sleek, expensive handbag, extracts a couple of twenties, and hands them to me.

I reach for the cash. “Listen, I’m gonna be a little late, tonight. I have to close.”

She pulls the cash back. “I thought you were going to be cut first.”

“I was, but I kind of owe Katie for our last time … and the time before that.”

Emily gets a dreamy, far-away look. “I remember those times.”

“Sorry. You know that I would do anything—”

“It’s okay,” she sighs. “I may just get started without you.”

“I promise I won’t keep you waiting.”

“You’d better not.” She hands me the cash.

“I’ll be right back,” I say with a sly smile.

After closing out her tab at the register, I put the change and receipt into a faux-leather check presenter embossed with The Gryphon logo. Even though there’s nothing for her to sign, I slip a pen into the presenter and lay it on the bar in front of her.

“Have a good night.”

“I’d better,” she replies.

We hold each other’s gaze before the surrounding requests for drinks become too much.

I turn to the thirsty crowd and start knocking them down, taking three orders at a time, mentally triaging them to be the most effective with my time. I bury myself “in the weeds” and do what I do best, which is crank out drinks.

Occasionally, I’ll steal a glance back towards Emily to catch her watching me, but finally, after a blitz of pouring beers and shaking cocktails, I turn to look and she’s gone.

The countdown to last call begins …

The evening settles into a steady hum.

Katie takes advantage of the lull and begins clearing the bar top of empty pints and highballs. She reaches for the check presenter left by Emily on the bar.

“No, no, no! I got that one. That’s for me!” I call out, quickly moving towards her.

She picks up the check presenter and turns to me.

“You two are ridiculous. You know that, right?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” I reply as though I’m offended.

“Cut the crap, Clay. Yes, you do.”

Of course, I do. Others may have their suspicions, but Katie is the only one who knows for sure about Emily and I.

“Okay. Fine. You think we’re ridiculous?” I ask.

She nods, emphatically.

“Two words, Katie: Nick McDermitt.”

Her cheeks flush with anger.

Nick McDermitt is an ex-ballplayer for the Giants. He and his wife used to occasionally stop by The Gryphon until the night Mrs. McDermitt found Katie and her husband in the parking lot being a little too flirty. In fact, they were being waaaaaay too flirty. After that, we never saw the McDermitts again.

Our manager, Alex, who’s in the office right now, had a talk with Katie. He wasn’t going to fire her. She brings in too much business for that, but it was a bad look for the bar. Since then, there has been an informal “Please Don’t Bang the Spouses of Our Customers” policy.

Katie presses the check presenter into my chest.

“Just be careful, okay?”

“If by ‘careful’, you mean ‘no nookie in the parking lot’, I think I can do that.”

She groans and walks away, remembering to toss up a middle finger at me over her shoulder.

I laugh and open the check presenter.

Emily has left all the change, which comes out to about a fifty-dollar tip on a thirty-five-dollar tab. I toss the cash into the tip jar to split with Katie. The receipt is what I’m after, and I’m not disappointed.

Written on the receipt with the pen I provided is a message: “Seaside Motel. Room 37. Don’t keep me waiting. You promised.”

Tucking the slip of paper into my wallet, I glance up to see Katie shaking her head at me in disgust.

I make the sign of the cross and press my hands together, as if begging for forgiveness.

She gives me one last shake of her head and goes back to cleaning bottles.

It’s five past midnight. I’m wiping down the bar while Katie enters her credit card tips into the register. We’ve stopped serving and the few remaining customers are finishing up their drinks. The music has been turned off and the lights are turned up, which is the universal sign for everyone to get out.

Alex emerges from the office.

“Okay, who is leaving first?”

Katie raises her hand. “That would be me.”

Alex pops open Katie’s register and runs her sales report.

They disappear into the office to do her checkout. A few minutes later, she reappears, holding her check presenter and counting her credit card tips. She tips out Tommy, our barback, who is mopping the floor, and comes to sit at the bar.

“You want to hand me the tip bucket?” she asks, settling onto a barstool.

Instead of handing it to her, I extract the cash from the bucket and lay the bills on the bar in front of her.

“Keep it. It’s yours.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I still owe you.” I tip the bucket over in my hand. A mass of coins slides into my palm and I deposit it into my pocket. “I’ll keep the change.”

I really do owe her and I’ll still get my credit card tips for tonight. Besides, I love taking the change. I keep it in a jar on my dresser. Every month or so, I’ll cash it in. It’s usually a couple hundred bucks and I treat it like that ten-dollar bill you find in your jacket pocket at the beginning of autumn. I’ll go out for a steak dinner or take a day trip to Napa.

“Thanks,” she says, placing the bills in her personal check presenter, which is already stuffed with slips of paper.

“How many numbers you stack?” I ask.

We each have our own check presenter where we keep our change, credit card receipts, cash, order pad. A bartender never wants to leave their check presenter behind. It’s also where we keep the phone numbers customers give us. Katie and I have our own little rivalry. We call it “Stacking Numbers”. At the end of the night, we’ll see who got more phone numbers. It’s always Katie, to the point that I have a “ten-phone-number” handicap.

“You don’t want to know,” she replies, confidently.

“I would like to know who you’re having dirty sex time with tonight.”

She tuts her tongue at me and takes my hand. “Oh, Clay. Are you jealous?”

“Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m having my fun.”

“Yeah,” she says, sadly. “But it’s not with me, is it?”

I snatch my hand away. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” She laughs and gives me a knowing wink.

“Then get out of here before I do.”

She hops off the stool and heads for the door. “Good night, Tommy!”

“Good night, Katie!” he replies, bent over the mop.

“Good night, Clay!”

“Good night, Worst Person in the World!”

She stops in the door, turns, and blows me a kiss. I grudgingly return the gesture. She “catches” it, slaps it on her backside, and heads out into the street.

“You two are a walking lawsuit.”

I spin around to see Alex standing at the end of the bar.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go,” he says, popping my drawer and running the sales report.

I grab the drawer and follow him into the office.

Alex sits at his computer, working on the inventory while I count my drawer.

I quickly make sure that the amount in the drawer is the same as when I started, minus my sales and credit card tips.

“I’m dropping four-hundred-twelve dollars and sixty-two cents and my credit card tips are two-seventy-four-eighty,” I announce and hold the drawer out to Alex.

“Give me a sec,” he says, slowly pecking away on the keyboard.

I keep the drawer right where it is, hovering near his face, and don’t say a word.

Unable to ignore it any longer, he looks at me. “You got somewhere to be?”

“Maybe. And she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

He snatches the drawer. “I don’t want to know.”

He double checks my figures and counts the money.

“Perfect, as always,” he says, signing my drop slip. “Get out of here and do whatever it is you need to do.”

I pop out of my chair and head for the door. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist getting one last dig before I go.

“I’ll tell her you said ‘hi’.”

He jams his fingers into his ears. “La-la-la-la-can’t-hear-you-la-la-la-don’t-want-to-know-la-la-la.”

“Have a good night!” I shout as I exit the office.

A couple minutes later, I’m driving past the gazebo in the town square, which is festooned with lights, as I head towards to the ocean. I’m already anticipating the sex that is mere minutes away.

Emily and I have been seeing each other for months and it hasn’t lost any of its shine. It’s fun, thrilling, and a challenge in its own way. It’s almost entirely physical. That’s not to say that I don’t care about her. I do, but we’ve laid our cards on the table and “love” was not one of them. We are fine with it.

I didn’t even know that she was married the first time it happened. She conveniently forgot to mention it. She came into the bar by herself, we flirted all night, and ended up in bed together. It was fun and I thought it was a casual, one-night stand.

Then, a few nights later, she came into The Gryphon with her husband. They were a total physical mismatch. She was stunning, sensual. He was a short, thin, balding man. He was also arrogant, demanding, and eager to show her off. To put it another way, he was that stereotypical short, incredibly insecure guy with a massive chip on his shoulder, but as a hedge fund manager, he possessed the one asset that levelled the playing field: money. For Emily’s part, she was bored.

I was speechless.

She and I kept exchanging glances while he would speak too loudly about his business deals in an attempt to impress those around him, many of whom were also millionaires and didn’t care for his grandstanding.

At one point, he theatrically announced that he was stepping outside to take a phone call about a “billion-dollar project”. After our shared glances, I took the opportunity to approach her.

“So, who exactly is that?” I asked.

“My husband,” she casually remarked.

“You didn’t tell me you were married.”

“You didn’t ask.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. You’re not in danger of breaking up a happy family or anything. There’s no kids. We’re only married in a legal sense.”

“Isn’t that kind of the only sense that matters?”

“Do you regret the other night?”

My hesitation was all the answer she needed.

“Good,” she said with a look that intimated we were just getting started.

I liked her little game. I liked her confidence. I liked her.

Just then, her husband re-entered the bar with a swagger and a sense of self-congratulation that was almost comical. He ordered a round of shots for the bar in celebration of the deal he had just closed. I was pretty sure he was lying but he paid the exorbitant tab and insisted that Katie and I join in by taking a shot. We were more than happy to oblige. Emily and I locked eyes as we took our shot.

In that moment, I knew that what I had thought was a one-night stand was far from over.

When they closed out their tab, I thanked them, saying I hoped they would be back soon, all the while keeping my eyes on her.

A week later, she did come back, sans husband.

“No date, tonight?” I asked as she settled into the bar, surprised at how happy I was to see her.

“Nope.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Isn’t it? I’m so distraught. I’m going to be so lonely.”

“Tragic.” I nodded. “Well, I suppose I can keep you company if you don’t mind me working for a bit.”

She gave me a hungry look from head to toe. “Not at all.”

She and I continued our parries and jabs of innuendo all night.