The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 02

Somewhere away from the cold betrayals of those who'd supposedly loved me.

I was so down, I couldn't even hum the damned tune as I sat on that train.

CHAPTER FOUR

When I got off the Amtrak train in Chicago, I made a beeline out the doors of Union Station and down the street to the Atrium Building. There was a train to Grant City leaving in twenty minutes, and I damned sure wanted to be on it.

An hour and a half later, my body swaying to the rhythm of the train, I looked out the windows and took in the passing scenery. I hadn't been back to Chicago since graduating law school, and I now regretted not taking in at least lunch in the city. I could've dropped by my old haunts, maybe stopped in to see one of my old professors, looked up an old classmate, anything. Anything to ground me again. Ground me in the feeling that I still had a past and people in that past that really gave a shit about me.

"Grant City next stop," the tinny voice said over the intercom. "All exit Grant City. Last stop, Grant City."

Jesus, we get it already, I thought, looking at the other four people scattered throughout the car. People I'd never seen and would probably never see again.

And that's when the thought struck me. I couldn't go back to Chicago and see the people I'd known. This was the White House we were talking about. And Dad's Senate career, too. They'd be looking for me, trying to find out where I'd gone off to and what I was doing. They'd want to talk me into coming back and just playing it all out sweet and easy as pie.

I smiled, picturing them all squirming. I was surprised no one had dropped by my place yesterday afternoon. I know there had been calls, but I'd let them all go to voicemail. Now, though, they'd know I was gone. If not now, then as soon as Sandy came home and saw my clothes and my favorite guitar gone. They'd be scrambling, that's for damned sure, and the whole image satisfied me as I hadn't been satisfied since before Pat Truelson had given his little dinnertime speech. Since before they'd all unknowingly spilled the beans with their little late night brandies and bourbons.

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

* * * * *

Let's cut the bullshit on the next couple of days. The major parts are pretty simple: I got into Grant City; found out it was too small for cabs, but not too big that I couldn't lug my stuff to a hotel a mile and half out on the edge of town; walked next door for a quick lunch, then next door to that to use the cash from my accounts and the sale of my Lexus to buy a decent used car; then went off in search of a realtor and an apartment to rent.

The morning of day two was spent moving a suitcase and a guitar into a furnished one-bedroom apartment, getting a new driver's license, and driving around looking for a job.

Quarter to eleven, I pulled into the parking lot of a tavern on the edge of town. Help Wanted Bartender, the sign read. I hadn't tended bar since law school, but how the hell hard could it be? A gin and tonic's a gin and tonic, and judging by the looks of the place, that would be an upscale drink for this neck of the woods.

It took a moment after walking in for my eyes to adjust to the dark barroom.

"Help you?" a voice to my right said, and I turned. A big dude, late thirties, early forties, maybe six four and at least three hundred pounds, was mopping the floor inside the horseshoe-shaped bar.

"You still hirin'?" I asked.

He motioned me to a barstool, then leaned against the mop and said, "Name's Ferlin Fargo."

I hesitated, unsure whether to give my real name. "Mark Roberts."

"Really," Ferlin said. His eyes flickered to my wrist. To the gold Rolex my parents had bought for a law school graduation present. "You sure about that?"

I nodded. "Last time I checked."

"And you know how to tend bar, Mark Roberts?" The tone of his voice made clear he didn't believe either part of that one, that I could tend bar or that I'd given my real name.

I smiled. "Last time I checked."

"Ever do it before? Tend bar?"

"Some."

"What d'ya mean, 'some?'"

"I did it for awhile in college."

"You know how to make a Rob Roy? A Manhattan? Old Fashioned, Margarita, Daquiri?"

I nodded.

"Then make me one," Ferlin challenged.

"Which one?"

"Old Fashioned."

I stood, made my way to the back bar, looked around at the set up, nodded, and reached for a high ball glass.

"Just tell me what goes in it," he said. "No sense wasting perfectly good booze."

"Muddle some sugar with bitters, stir in a shot of bourbon, fill with ice, top with soda."

"Garnish?"

"Cherry and orange slice if you've got 'em."

He gave a grudging smile. "We've got 'em, all right."

"In the cooler still?" I asked, nodding toward the small refrigerator beneath the cash register.

"Yep. 'Cept we use bar sugar."

"No prob."

His eyes narrowed. "Where you from, Mark Roberts?"

"South."

"Where exactly?"

I didn't say anything, just looked at him.

"You running from the law?"

"No."

"Ex-wife?"

"Not yet."

He looked at me for a moment, trying to gauge my truthfulness. Then he shrugged, apparently satisfied or no longer giving a damn, and reached his hand out. "Ten bucks an hour. Ten thirty to six, Monday through Friday. Maybe some weekend hours if you want 'em or if someone calls in sick or something. Think you can handle that?"

"Policy on tips?"

"Your tips are your own. You work with someone, you split the tips while you're working together. You may want to tip out the waitresses if they help you out or something, or maybe the busboy if he gets you beer or ice. Your decision. How you handle it decides how much they help, I s'pose."

"Fair enough. Prices?"

"There's a list next to the register. If there's a drink special–and there usually ain't unless it's a Friday or Saturday with a band or somethin'–they don't change."

I shrugged. "Seems easy enough."

He snorted. "We'll see."

"So am I hired?"

"S'pose so."

"When you want me to start?"

"Is now too soon?"

"I'm dressed okay?" I asked, looking down at my jeans, loafers with no socks, and long sleeved white dress shirt with cuffs rolled to mid-forearm.

"Overdressed if anything. Need time to go change or something?"

"This works for me if it works for you."

"Works for me."

I extended my arm. "Thanks."

He took my hand in his great big beefy paw on the end of his arm and held me. "Don't steal from me, Mark Roberts. I'll know, okay?"

"Not gonna happen."

"Don't let it."

He gave my hand a squeeze while eyeing me closely, then let go and gave the barest hint of a smile.

"Welcome to The Hitching Rail."

"Glad to be here."

He tipped the mop to me. "See if you can get this area all clean before they start showing up in ten minutes, huh?"

I took the mop and went to work.

"Thank you, Jesus," I heard Ferlin say to himself as he disappeared to the other side of the building, presumably the kitchen.

* * * * *

I waited all of no time before the first customers started rolling in, seven of them before some tall gangly chick with frizzy bleach blonde hair ran in all frantic at fifteen past eleven.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, handing me her purse before reaching over the bar and snatching up a black apron and ticket pad.

"We seem to have it covered," I said, placing the rest of the drinks on a tray.

"I'll take this," she said, her eyes going from the drinks to the dining room and back again. "Two cherries in this one," she said, pointing to a glass of Coke. "Levon always wants two cherries."

I skewered two cherries and laid them across the top.

"I'll take it from here," she said with a bright smile, hefting the tray to her shoulder.

"Go for it."

Two and a half hours later, I was washing up the rest of the dirty glasses from the lunch crowd when the frizzy haired chick plopped down with a huge sigh. "Wednesdays can get pretty nutso, y'know?"

"Not really."

Her head twitched and her eyes narrowed. "Who're you?"

"Mark."

"When did you start?"

"This morning."

She gave a bright, bouncy smile and thrust her arm straight across the bar. "Well, Mark, nice ta meetcha."

I shook her hand and said, "And you are?"

She rolled her eyes like it was the dumbest question she'd heard in ages. "Debbie."

"Debbie who's always late and still hasn't cleaned up the rest of her tables," Ferlin said as he waddled toward the bar.

"That's the one," she agreed, then hopped up and turned to Ferlin. "Jeez, just trying to be friendly and all."

"Be friendly when you've got your tables clean."

Ferlin Fargo sat at the bar looking like a man who'd just played a football game. His thick black hair was damp and all akimbo, his face dripping sweat, his shoulders sagging beneath his sweat soaked shirt. "Water," he croaked.

I got a tall glass, filled it with water, and placed it in front of him. He drank it in one long pull, put the glass down, and nodded for me to do it again. I did, and he chugged this one down in one fell swoop, also.

"Thanks," he said, his breath now returning to normal and the spring returning to his limbs. "Wednesdays can be a real bitch."

"How so?"

"Fuckin' Italian day. Spaghetti and meatballs, ravioli, sausage and peppers. The kitchen's full of pots of boiling water. Like a goddamned steam bath back there."

"Sure seems to pack 'em in, though. Must be good."

He looked at me and I saw the glint of a smile playing over his stubbly face. "Course it's good. More important, it's pretty cheap. That's why it's such a pain in the ass."

"So every day isn't this busy?"

He gave a chortle. "Oh, they're all pretty much like this. Right down to Debbie always being between ten and twenty minutes late for work."

"Always?"

"I s'pose sometimes she's later, but not by much."

"Never early?"

"Never."

I looked at the waitress in the other room, stacking dishes on her arms and humming to herself. "Crowd loves her. They don't love you. She can get away with it. You can't. Understand?"

"Yet," I said, trying to hide my smile.

"Yet? What d'ya mean, 'yet?'"

"The crowd don't love me yet. But they will."

He looked at me, then threw his arms up. "Great. Another prima donna. Just fucking great."

I stifled my laugh and went back to cleaning.

This sure beat researching and writing appellate briefs.

* * * * *

After work, I drove slowly past 714 Madison Street. It was a tiny little bungalow, no more than thirty-five feet wide, painted white with yellow shutters and a green shingled roof. It was neat, though, and the yard was kept up and trimmed. Behind the gauzy white curtains in the front picture window, I saw the shadow of a person moving toward the back of the house. Kitchen, probably.

Pulling over to the curb, I parked and shut off the car. Now what? I'd found where Clarice Talbott lived with her son–with my brother–but I didn't know how to proceed from here. My plans had been to leave and find them. Well guess what? I'd left and now I'd found them. But I couldn't just go up and knock on the door, could I?

As I pondered it, a car drove past me and swung into her driveway. Almost before it was fully stopped, the rear passenger door opened and a little kid in an impossibly bulky football uniform got out. Reaching back in, he pulled out a football helmet, gave a wave, backed away, and slammed the car door.

The front door opened, spilling warm light across the front lawn of autumn. A woman stood in the doorway, a tired smile on her pale face. The little boy ran to her, gave her a hug, and pushed past her and into the house. Without another look, she closed the door and followed him inside.

So that was her. That was Clarice Talbott. Looking much as she'd looked in the eight-year old picture with my father, except now she seemed more tired and worn and sad. Even her smile for the little boy was tired, though it seemed to exude genuine warmth.

What the fuck had Dad done? How could he just so callously do this?

I felt my anger building again, and I slammed the steering wheel in frustration at my years of ignorance.

Goddamn them all to hell. Right straight to hell.

* * * * *

About two weeks later, I walked into The Hitching Rail to be met by the burly figure of my boss, the ever grumpy and grousing Ferlin Fargo.

"Take your shirt off and come with me."

"Take my shirt off?"

"You keep wearing those damned white dress shirts. Don't know how you haven't ruined them all by now, but you'll sure as shit ruin one now."

"Doing what?"

"Helping me move some chairs and tables up from the basement."

"Something special?"

"Lincoln County Women's Bar Association meeting. They meet once a month, bouncing from place to place. They're here three times a year. Today's our turn again."

I smiled. "I've gotta wait on a bunch of women lawyers?"

"You won't be smiling in a couple of hours. Demanding as hell and lousy tippers."

I shrugged, unbuttoning my shirts.

Halfway through lugging up extra tables and chairs, Ferlin grunted, "So why do you always wear the same thing?"

"All I got."

"You ain't got no other shirts?"

"Not appropriate for workin' in, I don't."

"You ever thinking of just maybe buying some? Something cheap at Wal Mart or something?"

"Nope."

"Wierdo."

"Whatever."

Ferlin was like that. Too young to be a father figure, too old to be like an older brother. Still, he treated pretty much everyone the same. Grousing, bitching, complaining, and then a shy smile and a quiet thanks or simple pat on the back. Debbie seemed to worship him, though he easily weighed a buck eighty more than her and had fifteen years on her. She just glowed whenever he was around. All the employees seemed used to him and comfortable with his gentle pokes at everyone.

"So anybody find you yet?" he asked, leaning against a table and catching his breath now that we were done.

"What d'ya mean?"

"This soon-to-be-ex-wife you seem to be running from."

"No one knows where I am."

He nodded, his face troubled.

"What?" I prompted.

"None of my business," he said, shaking his head.

"Fine," I said, smiling. "So it's none of your business. So what? What were you gonna say?"

"Must be hard, is all. Just leaving and now you're surrounded by total strangers. Don't know anyone. No family."

I smiled, grabbing a dry bar rag and wiping the perspiration off my chest and from under my arms. "My brother's dead. Killed in a car accident awhile back. And my Mom and Dad . . . well, let's just say they were in cahoots with the soon-to-be-ex, okay?"

"Taking her side?"

"A little more complicated than that."

He nodded, then left it alone as I pulled on my shirt.

* * * * *

I helped Debbie serve the women of the Bar Association, then spent an hour and a half fetching drinks and refilling water glasses. Most of them ignored me and treated me like a cockroach beneath their feet. Four of them, though, gave me the smile, light brush, and eyelash batting that indicated they may be available.

One was about fifty, full figured in a too tight sweater and too short skirt for both her age and her figure, but she seemed carnivorous whenever I was nearby. I was afraid she'd trip me and beat me to the floor.

Toward the end of the row of tables sat a platinum blonde, maybe in her late twenties, who kept gazing at me and, once I made eye contact, kept giving a gentle tilt of the head to indicate she was curious. When she got up to go to the restroom, though, I noticed she was tall and skinny verging on anorexic. Also, the foam domes and flat ass didn't help things much. I suppose she was pretty if you're turned on by lanky models who look like a pipe cleaner with big tits.

The other two sat next to each other. One of them was short and slim, early to mid thirties, with a pale complexion and tired eyes. Her hair seemed limp, too, which matched the rest of her posture. She reminded me of Ally McBeal, sort of wan and weary in a business suit. She didn't really give the flirtatious smile or the light arm brush so much as she kept looking at me, then turning away with embarrassment when our eyes met. Her smile seemed forced, and she seemed just all broken and insecure.

To her left, though, was the hottest one of the group. My eyes had latched onto her the moment she'd walked in, unable to look away until she was seated and my duties suddenly thrust upon me. She had it all: Pale olive complexion on smooth, flawless skin; lustrous mane of thick, black hair framing the face of a Latina goddess; a beautiful body with high, perky breasts complemented by a round, perfectly squeezable booty and long, slim legs. She was like Pocohantas in those old paintings from grade school. Classic dark beauty, tall and proud and stacked perfectly. She was dressed neither sexily nor conservatively, her eyes and smiles not promising untold delights so much as appraising and considering the possibilities. Her dark eyes were direct and unflinching. She was the bowl of porridge that was just right, and I spent half of lunch imagining how that bowl would taste.

All too soon, they were all gone.

And Ferlin was right. They were lousy tippers.

The fifty-year old left me her phone number, though.

* * * * *

My back was to the bar at five twenty that afternoon, reaching into the cooler for three Budweisers and a Leinenkugel.

"When you have a moment," I heard a voice say to my right.

Turning, I was surprised to see the two women from the Bar Association. No, not the pipe cleaner and the cougar. Pocohantas was the one who had spoken, and Ally McBeal was sitting beside her trying to slink down and hide on her barstool.

"Just a sec, ladies," I said.

I delivered the beers in my hands, then came back.

"Gin and tonic," Pocohantas said. "Lime."

I nodded, then turned to her companion. "And you?"

She looked to Pocohantas, then back to me. "The same, please."

I turned to make their drinks, delivered them, got the money and gave the change, and went about my business, all without another word.

"Mark," Ferlin called a few minutes later from the corner of the bar.

I walked over and leaned against the inside of the bar, my eyes sweeping the bar top for empty drinks as Ferlin talked in that low, gravelly rumble of his.

"Think you can pull a double tomorrow?" he asked. "Terry's kid's got a game."

I shrugged. "Sure."

"It's a Friday, and they're our busiest days around here. The fish fry keeps us scrambling from lunch until closing time."

"I'm in."

I stood to move back to the center of the bar to better keep an eye on things when Ferlin locked his hand around my forearm.

"Don't look now," he said, his voice getting lower, "but I think those two over there are giving you the serious once over."

"You think?"

"Doesn't hurt business none to maybe sidle over and say hey once in awhile. Know what I mean?"

I tensed, then gave a curt nod. The slight smile left my face.

"I'm not saying you need to be a gigolo or something," Ferlin said, backpedaling. "I'm just sayin' that bein' friendly don't hurt things, y'know?"

I tried to force the smile back and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll do my best." Spotting an empty beer bottle hit the bar across the way, I muttered, "Excuse me," and escaped.

"Ladies," I said a few moments later, standing in front of them and giving a brief smile before again sweeping the bar with his eyes. "We set for drinks okay?"

"We're fine on drinks," the taller one said, managing to make that simple response suggestive with the way she emphasized 'drinks.' "We're actually wondering about you."

I looked at them and gave a smile. The tall one raised an eyebrow, but the smaller one seemed to shrivel in embarrassment.

"And what, may I ask, were you wondering about me?"

"You hear that, Whitney? A Southern gentleman." She faced me and said, "I just love a nice soft Southern drawl."