“Ilove thrillers. Have you read Neil Hunter’s ‘Missing Autumn’? It sounds kind oflike that.”
Hiseyes went wide. He’d never met anyone else who’d read Neil Hunter.
Theline moved forward and they inched closer to the door talking about theirfavorite books and Sam felt less and less like he needed that drink after allto help him relax into the conversation. Eventually, the bouncer waived them inwhen space opened up. They descended into the basement establishment, and founda pair of empty stools on the far side of the square bar. The bartender wipedhis hands on a towel, leaned over, and asked what they’d like. With his vest,sleeve garters and handlebar mustache, he looked like a time traveler, or aghost. Joye told him she wanted something “tart, with whiskey.” The bartendernodded, said, “Gotcha covered,” and went to work. A minute later, the man set adrink in front of her and waited. She took a sip and said, “Perfect.” Henodded, turned to Sam, and asked what he wanted.
Samopened his mouth to ask for a Manhattan, when a flash of movement in the windowbehind the bartender caught his eye. He glanced up in time to see a child’slegs walking past the window. Sam waited a moment for a pair of adult feet tocome chasing after them. But none did. A knot in his throat choked him as thebartender asked him again what he’d like.
“Um,a… Manhattan, I guess.”
Theman furrowed his brow, and said, “You can get that anywhere. Let me make yousomething worth coming in for.” Sam nodded his head and the man went to work.This time, however, Sam wasn’t interested in watching him pour intuitivevolumes of ingredients into a shaker and chip ice off of a block with a pick.He kept staring out the window.
“Areyou all right?” Joye asked.
Henodded, though he felt certain his face was as white as the bartender’s shirt.“I’m okay. I think I just need to duck into the bathroom real quick. It must bethe fish I didn’t eat.” He winked at Joye, but she still looked worried.
Samblushed again. He wanted so badly to sit back down and grab ahold of her hand.Instead, he leaned over to give her a small peck on the cheek. She turned intoit and he ended up kissing the side of her mouth. Her lips tasted like rye andlemon and he wanted to kiss her again. Taste more. Instead, he straightened up,shrugged off his sport coat, and draped it over his stool. “Save my seat,” hesaid, patting his jacket. “I’ll be back in two shakes.”
“Anymore and you’re playing with it,” the bartender said as he mixed theingredients for Sam’s drink in a Boston Shaker.
“Youshould leave that to me,” Joye purred. The bartender let out a wolf whistle andstarted stabbing at the block of ice in front of him with a long metal pick.
Alump grew in Sam’s throat and he tried to think of something witty to say inreply. Nothing came out but a hoarse whisper that was lost in the din of thebar. He turned and headed for the door.
Thebouncer sitting at the door said, “No reentry,” as Sam stepped past him.
Samstopped and looked at the man perched on the tall stool. “I just want to getsome air,” he said. “It’s, uh, stuffy in here.” The air conditioning wascranked, but needing some air sounded more reasonable than that he thought he’djust seen a child walking all alone up a city sidewalk at ten at night and ifhe didn’t make sure he was all right, he was going to have a panic attack.
Thedoorman seemed unsympathetic. “Whatever, bro. Your call. In or out. You can’tbe both.”
Ananxious woman standing on the other side of the glass door opened up her palmsas if to say, come on—just leave already. Sam held up a hand and mouthed,“Sorry,” to her. She rolled her eyes and began talking to her friend in line.Her raised voice filtered softly through the door. “Will you look at thisasshole?”
Samturned and nodded at the doorman who didn’t nod back, and went to the bathroominstead.
Atthe sink, he splashed some water on his face and stared at himself in themirror for a moment trying to push his anxiety down. The man who stared backwasn’t a stranger; he had the same haunted look Sam was very familiar with.He’d been wearing that look for over a year now.
Inthe reflection behind him, he saw a pair of feet dangling under the first stalldoor. Small feet in bright colored sneakers that couldn’t quite reach theground. Sam’s breath caught. He squinted his eyes shut and held his breath whilehe counted to ten. He opened his eyes when a man shoved his way into thebathroom took a place at a urinal, sighing loudly. Sam turned and looked at thestall. The door was open. No feet. No child.
Heturned off the water and plucked a handful of paper towels off the counterbeside the faucet handle, refusing to look at his reflection—or what might bebehind it—again.
Whenhe returned to his seat he found his drink waiting for him. Joye’s glass wasfull as well. Either she hadn’t drunk any of it during his absence, or she’dordered a second already. He apologized for being gone so long. Joye said, “Iwas starting to worry.” He smiled and told her that everything was just fine.He took a sip of his drink and murmured his approval. Joye reached out and puther hand on his. “You sure everything is all right?”
“Rightas rain,” he lied. He tapped his glass to hers and smiled before taking anothersip. Joye lifted hers, and took a big swallow. She pulled her nearly emptyglass away from her mouth and smiled. Her lips glistened with whiskey and hisstomach knotted at the memory of kissing her a moment earlier. He wanted
