Some Time to Kill

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.

Too much? Yeah, I guess you're right. Still, she didn't belong, and it was obvious. We were too middle of the road for anyone to be considered slumming it by being at my bar, but she was pushing it. She came from money. I'm not some fashionista, so I couldn't throw the brands and labels at you, but it was clear she paid more for her shoes than some of my customers earned in a month.

The stunning brunette brought class. She brought beauty. She brought a gun.

The beautiful but sad-looking woman took a seat at the bar, far from anyone else. Wiping my hands off on the rag, I walked over.

"What can I get you?"

"What's the most expensive bottle you have?"

I paused for a moment. Questions like that rarely work out in my favor. I'd rather serve a mid-range whiskey than the highest price-tag item I have. People who throw money around like that usually bring along issues.

"You celebrating?"

She offered a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Not a celebration. A noting, a recognition."

"Okay. I have a Croizet I can let go for about $16,000."

The woman tilted her head slightly and brushed some of her blonde hair from her eyes. "Croizet?"

"A cognac."

"Is it any good?"

I smiled, eyes widening slightly. "Very, if you like cognac."

"Well, Croizet it is." She pulled two envelopes from her purse and tossed them on the bar. "It's $20,000. Let me know when I need more. And bring two glasses, or snifters or whatever they serve cognac in."

Looking toward the door, I didn't see anyone walking her way. Maybe her guest was running late. After checking the contents and shoving the envelope under the till in the register, I signaled Terry to watch the bar while I went downstairs. I was back up a few minutes later with the bottle and two tulip-shaped glasses. Placing them in front of her, I smiled.

"Your guest on his way?"

"You're my guest. Hit us up, barkeep." Her voice was languid, like a 1940's starlet, taking its time as if speaking was an art to be savored.

I tried to be as ceremonious as possible, wanting her to get her money's worth. I poured us each a bit more than an ounce. It was a generous pour, but what the hell. I lifted mine to about eye level, my hand cupping the base.

"You're going to want to wait and enjoy the aroma while letting your hand warm the..."

She threw back the cognac, and my heart broke a little. Such an abuse of the godly nectar broke my heart.

She gestured towards her glass. "A little heavier this time."

I tried to be congenial as I poured. "So, what's the occasion?"

"I'm going to kill someone tonight."

The cliche that bartenders are the poor man's therapist has some truth to it. I'd spent more hours than I'd like to admit listening to the woes and dreams of patrons. Until that night, I'd thought I'd heard it all.

Was it a maudlin joke? An exaggeration? A flight of fancy that she could talk about but never actually engage in? I had no idea, but it made me uneasy. She didn't look like the killer type, although to the best of my knowledge, I'd never met a killer. More than cautious, more than curious, it made me sad.

This woman wore a resigned, sad determination like a weighted shroud.

She sat and drank, and the hours whiled by. I'd take an order, make some small talk, and find my way back to her. I was her drinking buddy for the night. She insisted on buying me one for every drink she had. It took her a while to finish her portion of the bottle, and then she nursed every subsequent drink.

"I feel like we've become friends and I don't want to call you 'barkeep.' What's your name?"

"Antoine. Friends call me Tony."

"Well, it's a pleasure, Tony. I'm Lindsey."

"You're new here, right? What made you choose our place, Lindsey?"

She sighed and offered a sad smile. "It was closest to the hotel."

I nodded. "You staying there? You're not driving, right?"

Her reactions were slow. She shook her head before answering.

"Nope, not driving. Just going to head back and take care of what I have to do. Here..." She fumbled around in her purse and put her car keys on the bar. "There you go, Mr. Bartender. No liability issues."

My blood ran cold. I'd seen the gun in her bag when she went for her keys. This wasn't all some fantasy; she really did want to kill someone.

"Thanks. I'll hold them for you behind the bar."

Standing by the register, my back to her, I took a moment to breathe and think. I eventually poured us two shots with a heavy hand. Walking back, I put one in front of her.

"Bottoms up, Lindsey!"

Her melancholy was a formless shadow that muted everything around her. Lindsey tried banter and failed miserably. Her smile, when offered, was forced performance art, like a grim Scaramouche.

"So, what do you do when you're not pouring drinks?"

I smiled. "It's going to sound childish."

"Childish I can deal with. Lay it on me."

"Okay, I'm into softball. Really into softball. I'm in a competitive league and I play on two other casual teams on the side. Every season but winter. What about you?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "You don't want to hear about my life. S'boring. Work and home. Work. Home. That's it." She sighed. "I'm not an interesting person and I'm not a good person, Antoine. I'm just gonna enjoy tonight and then do what I'm gonna do."

"Nothing's set in stone. You could just go home and rethink things tomorrow."

She frowned. "No. It's better this way. Better all around. I'm not... I... S'just better. What I deserve."

I answered calls for "bartender" and "Tony!" but always eventually found my way back to her, drink in hand.

"Bottoms up, Lindsey!"

I suddenly realized she wasn't angry, she was sad. Lindsey wasn't searching for vengeance; she was looking for an escape. It was getting late when she shuffled off to the bathroom. Grabbing the gun, I put it next to her keys at the bottom of the register. When she returned, I was waiting for her with two more shot glasses.

"Bottoms up, Lindsey!"

Heading into the storage area that doubled as my office, I sat down heavily and called my sister.

"Hey, Carey, I need a favor."

"What's going on?"

"I've got a customer who... Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, but I'm not comfortable with where she's at, mentally."

"Okay, is she starting fights or something?"

"No, I think... I think she's going to hurt herself. Permanently."

Carey was quiet for a moment. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Our older brother had issues as a teen. He'd been in and out of therapy for years and grew increasingly insular. There were times when weeks would go by and he'd only speak to Carey or me. When he was really bad, we'd sneak food and something to drink to his room where he'd stay for days at a time.

The last time we'd spoken was when he called me from the park. They were watching him, and he couldn't lead them back to the house. Kevin couldn't explain who "they" were. His whispered warnings to me were broken up by his yelling at someone else. I was soul-crushingly weary. The shame haunts me to this day, but I was embarrassed by my big brother and tired of having to deal with his illness.

So, I didn't tell anyone. Mom or Dad could have driven me, but I wanted to be alone. I grabbed some meatloaf from dinner, made him a sandwich, and rode my bike to the park. I stopped at 7-11, grabbed myself a Slurpee, and Kevin some water. Two friends were there, and we talked for a while. I couldn't rush, what would I say? My big brother was flipping out again, and I had to make sure he was okay?

No, that would have been embarrassing. So, we joked about school and talked about the cars we were planning on buying when we became Seniors. It was all bullshit, all of it. I couldn't afford a car, and I didn't even like the kids I was talking to, but it was an opportunity to push my brother and his strangeness from my mind.

When I arrived at the park, I saw the cop cars. They were putting Kevin in the back of one as I rushed over, panicking. He looked so afraid and confused.

"It's okay. It's... His name is Kevin; he's my brother. I'll take him home; it's okay."

One of the cops had put his hand on my shoulder and gently stepped between Kevin and me. "Son, I'm going to give you my card. You give that to your parents, okay? Kevin is going to go to Grandview so some doctors can talk to him."

"No, no, he'll be okay. I can just talk to him; he'll be fine."

"I'm sorry, we can give you a lift home if you'd like? Your bike can go in the trunk."

I pushed his hand off my shoulder and ran over to the car. Another cop grabbed and held me.

"Kevin! It's going to be okay. I'm gonna get Mom and Dad! It's going to be okay!"

He watched me with those huge eyes as they pulled away. That was the last time I saw Kevin.

A 5150 hold order let them keep my brother. My parents explained what that meant, and although I was worried, he was with doctors. He had to be okay, right? I held onto that belief firmly for two days until I heard Mom wailing. No one should ever hear their parent make that sound. Rushing down the stairs, I found her on her knees, rocking back and forth, the phone by her side.

Carey and I were never told what happened, but Kevin died while at Grandview. Because I was slow. Because I was embarrassed. Because I couldn't be bothered to get to my brother when he needed me.

Mom and Dad divorced within a year. We see Dad once every couple of years, but Mom makes up for his absence by needing to speak to us a few times every day. If we don't get back to her quickly, she phone-bombs us or shows up at the bar.

And none of us trusts cops or psychiatrists.

My staff was closing up, and I could hear the bell for last call. I sighed. "Can you meet me at my place? I'm gonna let her sleep it off."

"Sure. I'll bring her some clothes and a toothbrush."

"Thanks, Carey."

"Morning."

"Mmm-hmm."

Having a conversation with my sister was an impossibility before she had her first cup of coffee. Carrying her little overnight, she trundled to the bathroom, and I soon heard the shower running. I put out an array of pods in front of the Keurig and started on the bacon. When they began to sizzle, I added some compound butter and a bit of bacon grease to another pan and whipped some eggs.

That weird feeling that you are being watched settled between my shoulders and I turned around, whisk in one hand, hot cocoa in the other.

Lindsey stood there watching me from the doorway, mostly still in the guest room. The blinds were open behind her, and the diffuse sunlight bathed her in a warm cocoon. She was tall, standing only two inches shorter than my 6'1". The blue sweatsuit offset her pale skin and dark hair.

"You... You're the bartender."

"Yup." I lifted my cup in her direction and took a sip before speaking again. "Hot chocolate? It's Starbucks. Pretty good. Or coffee?"

She stared at me for a moment. "Did we—"

"No! No, no, no. I just brought you back here so you could sleep it off."

She seemed guarded and hesitant. I couldn't blame her.

"I don't remember much. Whose clothes are these? Did... Did you help me change?"

Carey stepped into the kitchen with a towel over her head. "I did. I'm the sister. You were a little out of it and asked for help. Feeling any better? He keeps ibuprofen over the sink. Four hundred milligrams and plenty of water should help."

"Who are you people? Why am I here? You just took me back to your house?"

I frowned, knowing how scary this must be for her. "Condo, but, um, yeah. You were pretty bad off and were... Well, I don't know what you were planning, but it wasn't good. I asked Carey to come over. She took my room, you took the guest room, and I took the couch."

She took in a deep breath. "I found my purse. Where are my keys?"

"At the bar. You forked them over a few hours before closing."

"Okay. I... Okay. I'm going to call a Lyft."

She went back into the room and closed the door behind herself.

"So much for breakfast."

Carey gave me a half-smile. "Yeah, not too terrifying. She doesn't know either of us from Adam, wakes up in a strange bed in clothes that don't belong to her, and we're out here cooking up omelets. You can't be too surprised."

"The only thing I'm surprised by was you saying we are cooking. We? You haven't cooked more than a frozen burrito in your microwave in five years."

She laughed lightly. "You have so few talents, why would I want to eclipse you in cooking as well?"

"So, no eggs for you?"

"I'll take both the eggs and bacon. You owe me."

"I do. One omelet coming up."

The door opened again, and Lindsey walked out. She had the bag that Carey had put her clothes in the previous night and carried her shoes.

"I... I'm not sure what to say. This whole thing is really weird. You could have just dropped me back at the hotel."

"That didn't seem like the best of ideas. You were a little dark last night."

"What did I say?"

"Um, well, you said you were going to kill someone."

She looked down before nodding, still not meeting my eyes. "It was a bad day. This is just... odd. I'm going to wait outside. The car should be here any minute."

Lindsey turned to Carey. "I'll get you your clothes back. Thank you. Both of you."

"You want some breakfast or something?"

"No, thank you. I just want to forget all about this."

"Okay, you're free to wait until the car gets here."

"I'll be fine." She walked over to the main door. "Um, yeah, thanks."

She was gone, and I turned to Carey. "If we don't hear from her in a week I'll buy you a new sweatsuit."

Carey rolled her eyes. "Yeah, 'cause I can't afford some new sweats."

"Whatever." Tilting the pan, I rolled her eggs over, moved them to a plate, and sprinkled on some chives. "Voila!"

"Really, fancy dan? You just can't hand me a plate with eggs?"

I smiled. "You know, I can always eat it for you."

"No, it's fine. Voila, or whatever you fancy cooking people say. Where's my bacon?" She continued talking as I passed the bacon. "This was sort of nice to see, you know? Not for her. I feel bad about that, but seeing you do something for somebody."

"What does that mean? I'm a nice guy."

"Yeah, you are. Nice is a good word for it. Sort of bland. Just... nice."

"What the hell, Carey?"

"This is coming out harsher than I meant. I was just happy to see you getting involved. You usually just sort of... I don't know, flitter through life. Not hot, not cold, just sort of lukewarm."

I sighed. "Give it a rest, okay? I'm happy. I have the businesses, I'm good."

She gave me a sad smile. "Sorry. You did good. And the eggs are excellent."

The doorbell rang. Wiping my hands on the dishtowel, I rushed over and opened the door, wondering if Lindsey had forgotten something. Evelyn sat there in her chair.

"Oh."

"Yeah, morning, Tony. Real excited to see you too."

I laughed. "Sorry, I thought you were... Well, we had a weird night. You here for Carey?"

She nodded and handed me a bag from Wally's Bagels before entering. "You making eggs?"

"And bacon."

"I knew there was a reason you were my favorite fake brother."

"A fan of my cooking. You know the way to my heart, Evy. Eggs and bacon coming up."

She wheeled her chair over to the table, and they chatted while I cooked. They'd been thick as thieves since elementary school, and from what I could overhear, they were going shopping. My place was central, so Carey had texted her to meet up.

That day went by without incident, but the following morning I was sanitizing the ice bins when I heard her behind me.

"Was it Antoine?"

"Got it in one. How are you, Lindsey?"

She paused. "I'm not sure if that's a general 'Hey, how are you doing?' or if you're talking about... the other night. Either way, I'm better than I was then."

"Glad to hear it. Can I get you an orange juice or something?"

"Thank you, no." She lifted a bag in her left hand. "I have your sister's clothes. You have my... items?"

"Absolutely. Give me two minutes."

I went back to my office, grabbed the large envelope with her keys and gun, and headed back out. We weren't open yet, and she was standing in profile looking out the window. Lindsey's wavy hair flowed past her shoulder, and I stared for a moment until Jerry brushed me on his way into the office.

Moving towards her, I held out the envelope. "Here you go. Your change is in there as well."

She nodded as we exchanged items. "That's not necessary. It was a gratuity."

My hands held up, I shook my head. "No, we're good. Listen, can I buy you lunch? Are you in a hurry?"

She paused again. Now that I was close, I could see the sadness in her eyes.

"I don't... I'm sorry, but I can't. Thank you."

"Okay. Good enough. Thanks for bringing back the clothes."

Lindsey nodded. "I need to go." But she lingered.

"Alright."

"I need to get back to the office."

"Alright."

She finally turned and left.

It was a busy shift, and I made some decent tips. I put roughly half in the general tip jar that the waitstaff split at the end of the night, and the rest got shoved in a drawer in the office. At the end of the month, it would be sent to The Jed Foundation. Since we lost Kevin, Carey and I made it a point to donate something every month.

Some years the donations were lean, some years they were better. We were both doing pretty well now, so we were able to do more.

Changing into my uniform, I grabbed the bag with my cleats, mitt, and balls. I was almost out the door, so very close, inches from freedom when Jerry called out.

"Tony, call on four."

I stood there as the door swung open and more customers piled in. If I'd chosen the back exit, I'd be gone by then.

"Tony?"

Sighing, I turned around. "Yeah, give me a minute."

Going back to the office, I plopped down and picked up the phone.

"Hey, Mom."

"You didn't call."

"It was a busy shift, Mom."

"You didn't get a lunch, Antoine? You couldn't send me a text? All those people working for you and they couldn't get you a five-minute break to call your mother?"

"I'm here now. Everything is fine. Just got off and I'm heading to the game."

"Your sister?"

"She's fine. I saw her day before yesterday."

"You have time to see your sister, but not your mother?"

"Mom... Look, I'll stop by Sunday, okay? I'm fine, Carey's fine, and I have to be at the field in twenty minutes."

"Okay. I'm sorry. I know that I—"

"Don't do this. It's fine. I was just busy. I'll call tomorrow. You alright?"

"I'm fine. I just worry about you two."

"I know, Mom. We're good. I gotta go, okay? I'll call tomorrow."

"Alright. I love you, Antoine."

"Love you too. Talk to you tomorrow."

I hung up before she could continue.

The field was an oasis. Every concern faded from my mind while I was there. Every burden slipped from my shoulders as I smelled the fresh-cut grass, heard the thunk or clang of the ball on the bat, and listened to the banter. It was a piece of heaven. On a good week, I stood at these pearly gates four times a week. A doubleheader on Saturday and two night games during the week and everything in my world would be manageable.

When I was done lacing up my cleats, I called Carey.

"Hey, do me a favor?"

"How many favors do I have to do for you? For a brother, you're pretty demanding."

"Yeah, funny. Look, call Mom. She didn't sound so good."

She sighed. I knew the feeling.

"Okay. I'll call her now. Maybe I'll grab some Italian and stop by."

"You're the best."

"I really am. Good luck tonight."

"Thanks. Oh! Almost forgot, I got your sweats back from Lindsey."

"Great. Throw them in the trunk. I'll get them the next time I stop by. Did you ask her out?"