Ultraviolet. Nancy Bush

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СКАЧАТЬ of my mother’s, had departed this world, leaving her beloved pet in my mother’s care. The fact was, Aunt Eugenie was not my aunt. She was, however, Megan Adair’s. In our one meeting, when Megan dropped off the dog, I’d learned that Megan worked at the Crock and that she was in between places to live. I’d hoped she would come back for the pug soon, but now I felt completely different. If anybody were to try to take Binkster from me, they were in for a fight. It was like a bad love affair, really; the dog belonged to me and only me, and by God, I’d go to any means to keep her.

      So it was with a slight chip on my shoulder that I entered the bar. If I saw Megan I was going to make it clear straight up that the dog would not be leaving my care. Which was just another reason why I couldn’t be ousted from my cottage. My heart karumphed hard, hurting. I had to have a place that would take me and my dog. Had to.

      “Five dollars,” the bouncer manning the door said on a bored yawn. He was broad, shiny bald and wore all black.

      “Five dollars? Really.”

      “Five dollars.” He gazed at me hard, his left hand knotted into a fist that he lightly pounded atop a narrow podium.

      “The cover’s for…music?”

      He just stared at me. Normally this kind of thing totally intimidates me, but I hate parting with money, especially when I can’t see any discernible value to a potential purchase.

      “I’m meeting Sean Hatchmere here? He’s a musician?”

      He mouthed, “Five dollars.” The way he did it sent a shiver down my spine. I forked over a Lincoln and he stood aside. I could feel my heart beating inside my rib cage like it was trying to escape. Sheesh. Sometimes it feels like the whole world’s in a really bad mood.

      I was too early for the bands, even though they were already charging a cover, so I headed around a corner—I swear the wall was simply a sheaf of black cardboard—and turned into a room with a circular bar in the center. It was all corrugated metal and chain link and spotlights that sent silver cones of illumination down upon a motley assortment of patrons.

      I saw Megan immediately, her short, spiky blond hair taking on a bluish tint. She wore a tight T-shirt in some gray tone, if the lighting could be trusted, and a pair of darker cargo pants. She was rattling up drinks in a silver shaker, straining a dark red liquid into two martini glasses that looked to be made of molten silver. Everything had that urban, hard, cold feel to it, which I guess was the point. I could think of a million different names more suitable than The Crocodile, but no one asked for my opinion.

      A barmaid in black pants and a gray top studded with rivets swooped down on me as I pulled out a metal stool and settled myself at the bar. I ordered a Mercury, and hoped I wouldn’t be poisoned.

      I watched as Megan assembled my drink. Something cool and grape-colored disappeared into the shaker with some sugar solution and premium vodka. I sweated the cost. Sometimes they’ll charge you damn near ten dollars for a martini. I’d been so intent on slipping inside without Megan seeing me that I hadn’t registered the price. Or maybe I just didn’t want another fight like with the bouncer. I am kind of a chicken.

      I worried that I’d obsess over the cost. Then I worried that I would worry about obsessing over the cost.

      Life’s hellish when you’re cheap.

      The silver martini glass was pushed toward the barmaid, who in turn carefully put it on her tray, and carefully brought it to me. “Three dollars,” she said, much to my grateful surprise. To my look, she said quickly, “You paid the cover, right?”

      “Oh yeah.”

      “Then you’re okay till midnight. Price goes up then.”

      “Really.”

      “We get a lot of good musicians here. A lot of ’em. Nothing gets going till late, though.”

      I sipped away. The drink tasted more pomegranate than grape and it was good. I slurped it down so fast I pretended to keep drinking long after the last drop was absorbed. Thank God for opaque glasses. But then I remembered I could probably put this on an expense account, so I ordered another, and this time Megan herself brought it to me as my barmaid was busy elsewhere.

      We locked eyes. I could tell she registered that she knew me from somewhere, but she was having a hard time placing it. I said, “Hello, Megan. I’m Jane Kelly. You brought me the pug this summer. Your aunt Eugenie’s?”

      “Oh, Binky!” Her eyes widened. “Is everything all right with the dog? Can’t you keep her any longer?”

      “Oh no, she’s fine. I’m…well, I’ve grown attached to her. Honestly, I’d have a hard time giving her back now.”

      “Oh, good. I’m just struggling with my apartment, y’know? Good roommates are like hen’s teeth.” She smiled. “One of Aunt Eugenie’s favorite sayings.”

      “Good old Aunt Eugenie.”

      “I’ve got a guy living with me now who tried to tell me he doesn’t spank the monkey. This after he ate a bag of Cheetos. Your Honor, I saw evidence to the contrary.”

      In my mind’s eye, I witnessed what she’d seen in all its orange glory.

      “I don’t care what he does. Masturbation’s supposed to be healthy. It’s the lying I can’t stand. You know what I mean?”

      I nodded. I hate being lied to. Lying to others, however, is what I live for. An unfair dichotomy that rarely bothers me.

      “Gotta get him out and someone else in.” She eyed me some more. “You looking to move? It’s a nice place. Not far off Hawthorne.”

      Her words had the power to almost pierce me. It was like the whole world knew I was being kicked out. “I’m pretty happy where I am.”

      “I don’t doubt it,” she said a bit ruefully. “That’s a nice cottage. I was just hoping.”

      Aren’t we all?

      “So, what brings you down to the Crock?”

      “I’m meeting Sean Hatchmere here.”

      “Who?”

      I half twisted in my chair. “I think he’s with a band…maybe?”

      “Oh. Yeah, the musicians. They’re all stoned or worse. That’s a stereotype and a fact. I’ve smoked some weed, but that other stuff’ll kill ya.”

      Megan, I remembered, smoked Players as well. Sometimes I like the scent of a freshly lit cigarette, but the environs of the Crock were saturated with that stale, musty scent of old cigarettes, dust and, drifting from the kitchen, overused grease. I imagined boiling oil somewhere beyond that turned out jalapeño poppers, clam strips, chicken fingers and assorted deep-fried appetizers at an alarming rate.

      “Didn’t you say you used to tend bar?” she asked.

      “In Southern California. A place called Sting Ray’s.”

      “If you ever want to moonlight, we’re always looking for someone to fill in.”

      “I’ll СКАЧАТЬ