Black Friday: An Elders Keep Collection Special Edition Page 2

  The man laughed. "I bet," he said. "Hey, man, who does your credit card processing?"

  Terry shook his head. "The bank, I guess."

  "I sell processing services. I can just about guarantee a savings of two points. Do you think that's something you might be interested in?"

  Terry laughed. "Well, I'm not the boss, but I can certainly mention it to him. Do you have a card I can leave on his desk?"

  The man took one out of his wallet. He laid it on the desk as Terry slapped down his keycard. Terry picked up the card and read it quickly. "Well, Mr. Flowers, I'll be sure he gets this."

  The man grinned. "Call me Tommy."

  Terry nodded. Something about the man's demeanor made Terry feel sorry for him; he could almost smell the weariness and untapped potential coming from his stubbly face. Tommy was a man cosmically out of place.

  "You're in room two thirty-seven. Second floor on the right. Or left. Depending on which you approach it."

  "It's all about the angle, isn't it, Terry?"

  Terry giggled. "Sometimes," he said.

  "Hey, do me a favor," Tommy said. "Block my calls. Take messages. Whatever you need to do. I just really need some peace and quiet. You know?"

  Terry nodded his head. It was all he could to refrain from patting the guest's hand. "You let me handle Regina."

  "Appreciate it, man," Tommy said, and he dragged himself and his rolling suitcase up the stairs.

  Less than an hour later, Tommy was back in the lobby. He was freshly showered and shaved, dressed in a tight black T-shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots. Terry thought the guy cleaned up nice. Terry believed he could give the gentleman some peace and quiet; after all, Terry was a Southern gentleman, and he never talked with his mouth full.

  Tommy gave Terry a quick wave of acknowledgement before going into the bar. Terry waved back in a professional manner, while his mind wandered to decidedly unprofessional thoughts.

  The bar was called the Nine Back, and it was decorated in pure neo-shithole. Muted television screens broadcast different sporting events, a Big Game for everyone. Neon beer signs cast a Halloween black light pall over everything. Tommy noticed his fingernails glowing an unearthly purplish-white. Big speakers above the bar were blasting the local radio station, which had no discernible format. Jerry Jeff Walker's "Up Against the Wall, You Redneck Mothers" was rocking the place, which held about twenty people, from what Tommy could tell. Not exactly banging for a Friday night. He sat down at the end of the bar. The other patrons were at tables, settled in for the long haul.

  "Hey!" said the barkeep. "I'm Shelly. I'll be your server tonight because no one else is here."

  "I'm sorry," Tommy said. "That must suck on a Friday night. Did someone call in sick?"

  "One of the girls quit," Shelly said. "The other one has endometriosis, so her periods are horrible. I swear, I love that girl, but she smells like the inside of a piggy bank."

  Tommy stared for a moment, not sure how to respond.

  "What can I get you?" Shelly asked.

  "Not a Bloody Mary," Tommy said.

  Shelly laughed, slapping the bar with her open palm. "How about a beer to start with?"

  Tommy nodded. "The darkest, thickest beer you have. The blacker the better."

  Nodding, Shelly grabbed a mug and headed to the taps. She came back with a two-layered drink. "This may be a small little country town, but I'm a damn good bartender, and I make the best black and tan this side of Knoxville."

  Tommy took a sip, then set the mug down on the bar with a slight air of amazement. "That's really good," he said. "I'll take about twelve of these."

  "In a row?"

  "All at once would be a bit overwhelming."

  Shelly grinned. "Toss me your credit card, stranger. I'll start a tab."

  Tommy pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and removed his ID and his credit card. "How did you know?" he asked.

  "Know what?" Shelly asked.

  Tommy took another sip of his beer. "That I was a stranger."

  "Well, duh," Shelly said. "This is a hotel, for one thing. Strangers are supposed to be here. But for another thing, I've been working here for years. I know all the Keepers who drink."

  "Keepers?"

  "People who live in Elders Keep," Shelly said. "Keepers."

  "Ah," Tommy nodded.

  "The Keepers who drink are like soldiers on a mission, and their objective is oblivion. They walk in here, already haggard, and they leave either deluded about how much better they feel or worse than they did before. I'm a psychopomp more than a bartender."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I help people die. I get them where they're going. It's a living for me, an invaluable service for them."

  "You're pretty intense, Shelly."

  "I'm a realist. And I have tables to check on. Bunch of Keepers. No worries, though. I'll be back to get you another black and tan. Help you get where you're going."

  With that, Shelly snatched up a round cork-lined tray and began making her rounds.

  And that's my warm welcome to Elders Keep, Tommy thought. A town of drunken desperation with a bartender who sees herself as some kind of gentle executioner. Oh, well. If I can get a decent buzz on, enough to get enough shallow sleep to drive home in the morning, I can bear it.

  The radio began playing "The Sickbed of Cuchulainn" by The Pogues. A little too on-the-nose for Tommy's taste, given his surroundings, but why should that be a surprise? The night was already more than a little strange.

  He turned to watch Shelly wait on her tables. She stood with her back to him, tray in one hand, her other hand on her hips. It was hard to know for sure, since he couldn't hear her speaking, but her body language portrayed an easy rapport with her customers. Private jokes and quiet laughter. Secrets you only share with someone safe, like the person who cuts your hair or a bartender.

  Or an undertaker.

  He hadn't noticed the presence next to him, having been so engrossed in watching Shelly, but when Tommy turned backed to his beer, he saw her, out of the corner of his eye, like a shadow person.

  He turned, and there she was, completely real, smiling without showing any teeth. She looked like her name was Alice. She was pushing sixty, and had a tight silver perm poking out of her head like a dying Chia plant. Her glasses were impossibly thick, and twice-sized eyes stared at him expectantly. She had a purse like a medical bag, black leather and half-circle handles. In stark contrast was a button, a round bright white background and blood red letters.

  ASK ME ABOUT MY GRANDCHILDREN!

  Tommy turned away from her and stared straight at the wall behind the bar. He grabbed the beer and begin chugging it, thoughtlessly, as his other hand became a tight fist. The last thing Tommy wanted was conversation. He had tried to avoid it, but the barkeep was chatty and, admittedly, a little cute.

  But this woman, bug-eyed Alice, who kept staring at the side of his head, infuriated him. It was irrational, and Tommy knew it, but that damned button on her purse really scraped a nerve. It was saying, "Talk to me." But it wasn't really saying that. It was a passive/aggressive cry for attention disguised as an invitation. Using the grandchildren as a device was despicable. Tommy hated Alice.

  He stole a glance at the woman next to him. She had not moved. Alice was trying to stare through Tommy's face with those magnified eyes of hers. He looked away again. Had she moved her purse, closer to him, in a silent scream? He couldn't be sure. But he was pretty sure.

  "Another black and tan?" Shelly asked, suddenly again behind the bar. Tommy nodded, and Shelly snatched his mug away.

  "And how about you, sweetie?" Shelly asked Alice. "What can I do you for tonight?"

  "I'll have a cranberry juice and vodka, please," Alice said. Her voice was squeaky, like a cartoon cat. Tommy clenched his fist tighter. He hated her even more. What would the grandchildren think about Mee-Maw at the bar, getting ripped on Cosmopolitans?

  Shelly had the drinks ready quickly, and placed the
m in front of her wildly mismatched customers. He drained half of his black and tan in one gulp. Alice, on the other hand, was sipping, her pinky finger sticking out as she drank, so posh.

  The fast blast of alcohol eased Tommy's rage and allowed him to think more clearly. Alice was an old woman, probably living alone. Maybe her grandchildren lived far away. That was plausible, right? She got pictures every once in a while. A card for Christmas and maybe on on her birthday. Every grandmother loves their grandkids, don't they?

  Tommy drained his glass, clunked it down on the wooden bar, and decided. He turned to Alice and spoke.

  "So," Tommy said. "Tell me about your grandchildren."

  "How did you know?" Alice asked.

  Tommy tapped the button on the lady's purse. She blushed briefly and smiled. "Oh, yeah," Alice said. "Sorry. It's been there so long, I forgot about it. You know. You see something every day, and it sort of disappears."

  Tommy briefly thought of Regina, in the days before he began life on the road, pushing processing with the mantra of lower fees. He supposed he was gone even then.

  "Yeah, I get that. So, seriously. Tell me about your grandchildren."

  Alice cleared her throat. In the moment it took Alice to inhale, Tommy was filled with remorse. This was a terrible idea. Alice was the Mother of Nations. She was about to tell him about each and every proxy dismount, in alphabetical order, stating their developmental milestones like new commandments, cooing their names as if she could summon them into the room simply by wishing it so. She has been practicing this. This is her Gettysburg Address.

  "My grandchildren are the most important thing in my life," Alice said.

  "Of course they are," Tommy murmured, readjusting himself on his barstool, settling in for the long story to come.

  "They're twins! Identical. One of each. Stephen and Stephanie."

  Tommy raised an eyebrow. "Parents did the alliterative thing, huh?"

  Alice took another sip of her Cosmo. "It's a bit of a cliché, but I still think it's cute."

  The woman drew in a deep breath and, for the first time since arriving at the Nine Back, looked down at the floor.

  "My daughter, Sherri, was a whore," Alice said, and the sudden shift of tone was so startling, it was amusing. Tommy laughed before he could stop himself.

  "You laugh," Alice said, "but it’s true. From the time she was thirteen, she was hanging around with awful people, just awful. Men twenty years older than her. Disgusting people who did abhorrent things. Sherri was a heavy drinker. I remember her coming home from school one day, absolutely plastered. She asked for a bowl of cereal, then she passed out in the kitchen."

  "That sounds like it was a difficult time," Tommy said. Where the hell was Shelly? His mug was empty, and he needed more booze to deal with this Pandora's Box he had opened.

  Alice shook her head. "She was not the daughter I had planned, nothing like what I dreamt of at all. Such a disappointment. A real cunt."

  Okay, Mee-Maw cussed like a sailor when she was in her cups. "Where was her father?" Tommy asked.

  "Stationed overseas. Left me here with that raging beast of a child. I began thinking that she judged each day with a checklist. ‘The Three F’s,’ I called it. She needed to get fed, fried and fucked every day, or else she was miserable."

  "To be honest, I can relate," Tommy said.

  "Yes, but you’re an adult, a man of the world who understands responsibility and consequences," Alice said. "Sherri was only sixteen when she caught pregnant. I was devastated, of course. Embarrassed, mostly. Sherri kept drinking and smoking and whoring about. She didn’t care that she was pregnant. She was a terrible person, you understand? Terrible. No morals. No qualms. I don't understand how she got that way. I never did."

  "Okay," Tommy said, "that’s all questionable behavior, but tell me about your grandchildren. Are they okay?"

  "Oh, they’re wonderful," she said, the smile returning. "So perfect. They ended up with me, of course. There was no way Sherri could take care of two children, and I wasn’t prepared to raise any more babies. I did my part. But when I sat and thought about it, it really wasn’t a difficult decision to make."

  "Did you end up legally adopting them?" Tommy asked. He was more interested in this domestic tale of woe than he cared to admit. It was trashy as hell, like some daytime show, but the story was unfolding right in front of him.

  "Sort of," Alice said. She paused for a second, breathing deeply. "I've already taken up enough of your time. I think I'll toddle on home."

  "No, no," Tommy said. "I really want to know. You can't tell a guy half a story and then go toddling, or whatever it is you do."

  Alice eyed him warily, like a polygraph operator. After a few seconds, she nodded.

  "Okay," Alice said. "I had a friend who was a nurse. I'm not going to tell you her name. It doesn't matter anyway. I told her what had happened, the whole tearful tawdry story, and we came up with a plan. It wasn’t a long wait. Just a couple of nights later, Sherri came home drunk, like she often did, went into her room and passed out.

  "My friend brought a shopping bag filled with medical instruments and tools. Those things aren't hard to get when you work at a hospital. And it's not like we needed anesthetics or narcotics. Just equipment. Sherri didn’t wake up during the whole thing. She didn't even make a noise. She was a walking pharmacy, so many drugs already in her system. She didn’t feel the scalpel or the retractors, nothing. But I had to get those babies out of that toxic environment, you know? I wanted to get them somewhere they would be safe."

  Tommy gazed at Alice in amused wonder. This had to be a gigantic line of bullshit. After all, what she was implying was, well, what was she implying?

  "But you said your grandchildren were fine," Tommy said. "You said they were wonderful and perfect."

  Alice’s eyes grew wide. "Oh, but they are!"

  Her smile became downright beatific as she undid the latch of her purse. She reached in and brought out two small jars. Holding back a retch, Tommy could see the yellow-grey liquid sloshing about inside each container as they moved. Alice cradled them gently in her hands, the Virgin Alice with her Holy Grandchildren.

  "Sweet, sweet babies," Alice cooed. "I love them so much."

  Not possible, Tommy thought. Not real.

  "You did this?" Tommy asked.

  Alice didn't look at him when she responded. "When I pulled them out of their bitch mother's womb, they were holding hands. Isn't that sweet? Isn't that the sweetest thing?"

  "What happened to Sherri?" Tommy asked, under his breath. He didn't want to know. He needed to know.

  Alice made a noise of dismissal and waved her hand. "Collateral damage," she said.

  Tommy buried his head in his hands, not sure how to feel. He heard the soft clanking of the jars as she put them back in her purse. He heard the soft snap of the latch. Only after a few seconds of silence did Tommy dare to raise his head.

  "You're a murderer," Tommy whispered.

  "Now that is an ugly word, young man." She took the last sip of her cocktail and stifled a burp.

  "You killed your daughter and your grandchildren," Tommy repeated. "How could you?"

  Alice ignored his question. "Now, that cute little bartender is going to come back. You could tell her I have dead babies in my purse. But is she going to believe you? Would anyone? Sweet, little old me? You already know the answer to that."

  Then, there was Shelly. "Hey, kids! How are we doing?"

  Tommy weakly raised a hand. "I'm ready to cash out," he said. Shelly nodded and headed towards the cash register to clear out his tab."

  Tommy turned back to Alice and her hideous purse. "I'm leaving," he said. "But I need to know why you would tell me all this. Why me?"

  Alice laughed, a high, piercing cackle, like she had just heard the funniest joke ever.

  "You asked, dumbass," Alice said, gesturing towards the button on her purse. "Besides, I get off on this shit."

  Shelly handed Tomm
y his receipt, credit card and driver's license. He absentmindedly signed off on the tab, then slinked off his barstool, away from the loud music, away from the Keepers, away from Alice.

  He looked like hell to Terry, who instantly put down his phone when Tommy approached the front desk. "What happened?" Terry asked. "Are you okay?"

  "My suitcase is in my room," Tommy said. "Send it to me."

  "Okay," Terry said. "Are you leaving us tonight?"

  "If Regina calls, tell her I quit my job and I'm coming home."

  "I can do that," Terry said. "Are you all right? You look pale."

  Tommy almost laughed in the man's face. There were so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to talk about people and buildings, how smiles can hide the worst monsters. He wanted to ponder the things we all keep concealed, secret rooms of the heart, terrible dungeons in cinder-block houses. Instead, he asked one question.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you people?"

  Swear Words

  THE OLD CUSTODIAN had put the podium at the top step in front of the city building hours ago. Half of a red, white and blue crepe paper medallion, poorly taped to the worn wood, flopped about in the chilly evening breeze. The microphone was plugged into a little practice amp Deputy Moon had borrowed from his teenaged metalhead daughter.

  "Official city business," he told her.

  "Get fucked, fascist," she replied.

  It was early evening. The sun was still spilling red behind the grey November clouds. A few folks had started to gravitate towards the steps, shaking hands, inquiring about family members, holding travel mugs filled with strong coffee and whiskey.

  The crowd increased as the sky grew darker, until it seemed as though half the population were roaming through the middle of town. In time, men would bring tables up from the church basement and women would brew two giant metal cylinders filled with coffee (one regular, one decaf) and a smaller decanter of hot water for those who preferred tea or instant hot chocolate, all provided free of charge, although donations were accepted. Please drop your change into the ancient wicker basket at the end of the table by the trash can.