Deadly Games. Steve Frech

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ