It had been many years since he had had to take drink orders.
Still dressed in a long-sleeve white shirt, colorful “power tie,” Dockers slacks, and black Reeboks, he zipped from bar to tables to kitchen and back, memorizing drink and appetizer orders while wiping tables and setting up place settings, all the while remembering that he had to smile, say a pleasant word, and stay as cheerful as he could. The original owner had bought the bar after his retirement from the Sacramento Police Department more than fifteen years earlier, and he had never seemed cheerful or pleasant. Despite this—or possibly because of it— McLanahan’s Pub, only seven blocks from police headquarters, had been one of the most popular cop bars in town. Police, sheriff’s deputies, even federal agents working downtown in California’s capital had regularly shuttled between Gillooly’s, the Pine Cove, and McLanahan’s after duty hours. They’d always gotten good advice from a seasoned veteran sergeant, a lot of stories, and a little cajoling and friendly criticism—but never cheerfulness.
The new owner of McLanahan’s wasn’t a cop, and although his younger brother was slated to start the police academy soon and all of the police photos and memorabilia were still on the walls of the place, it wasn’t the same popular cop hangout it had been years ago. Because the clientele was more touristy and more sophisticated these days, McLanahan’s had changed as well: they served selections of Napa Valley chardonnays and specialty espresso coffee drinks as well as cold beer and bourbon. Tourists who ordered cafe mochas and veggie appetizers expected cool, suave Tom Cruise-look-alike bartenders and cheerful, trim-and-tan California-cutie servers, not loud, adrenaline-pumped cops lining the bars being served by gruff, overworked owners.
The second-generation owner, Patrick McLanahan, indeed looked as if he might be more at home in a squad car or on motorcycle patrol than in a bar. Patrick was a bit less than average height, but his broad shoulders, thick forearms and neck, and deep chest made him look much shorter. If the blond-haired, blue-eyed man smiled, which was rare these days, one might almost call him disarming, like a big, cuddly teddy bear. But no one remembered the last time their forty-year-old boss had smiled for real, and now it was easy to see a lot of turmoil going on behind those shining blue eyes.
It was Monday night, and the crowd was small and quiet. A few regulars at the bar, a few cops still hanging around (although shift change was a couple of hours ago), a few strangers getting out of the off-and-on drizzle outside. Quite a contrast from table to table. Three guys and a woman, sitting at different tables, reading the paper or watching the news on TV, all drinking coffee; Patrick guessed they were U.S. Marshals or Secret Service, still on duty or on call. A few San Jose Sharks fans were still here, celebrating the hockey team’s latest victory at home over the Stanley Cup champions, the Buffalo Sabres, that they had watched on the big-screen TV here at the bar. One big black guy was by himself in a booth in the corner, still wearing his dark overcoat, watching TV as well—he looked a little rumpled and overburdened, maybe a mid-level manager for the state who had just had an argument with his wife, or a local businessman worrying about the state of Sacramento’s economy now that all of the area’s military bases had been closed down. He paid for his Samuel Adams with a fifty-dollar bill. His only interaction with Patrick was when he asked him to switch the TV over the bar to CNN, and since there was nothing on ESPN, he complied.
In between serving drinks and wiping tables, Patrick made lots of calls to other employees, asking for help, and after an hour and a half he finally got someone to come in from eleven to closing, so he had a bit more time to circulate and do owner things rather than serve tables. He finally escaped to his office and plopped down in a spare chair beside the woman seated at his desk, who was punching numbers into a computer with the speed and ease of someone very familiar with using a keyboard. “Damn, if I ever see another plate of potato skins or another glass of white wine, it’ll be too soon. My feet are killing me.”
Patrick’s wife, Wendy, turned and smiled at her husband, and Patrick automatically extended his hand to her and they held hands as they talked. Wendy was in her mid-thirties, with short strawberry blond hair and bright green eyes. Bandages still covered the left side of her neck and her right arm, and her breathing was noticeably labored, but her smile could still melt Patrick’s heart like nothing else. Wendy and Patrick were still newlyweds, having married late last year, but an entire lifetime’s worth of events had interrupted their new life together, and they spoke and treated each other as lifelong mates. “Think about that the next time you chop on a server because she’s not going fast enough for your taste, hon,” Wendy said. She stifled another cough, and Patrick winced inside as he heard the delicate but raspy noise.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Patrick asked. It was the end of Wendy’s first full week of part-time work doing the books, payroll, and ordering at the tavern. Patrick had seen some of the country’s toughest professional soldiers in sixteen years in the U.S. Air Force, and there was no doubt in his mind that Wendy was stronger and more durable than any of them. Yes, she had lost a lot of weight, and she suffered shortness of breath if she walked around too much, and she required a two-hour nap in the afternoon as well as a full eight hours of sleep at night, but she had been out of the hospital after three weeks and working just a few short months after her horrible aircraft incident.
“Don’t change the subject, hon,” Wendy said with a stern smile. “That was the second waitress that quit this week. We’re hiring only experienced persons, Patrick—they’re not butter-bars. You’ve got to let them make a few touch-and-goes and get some pattern work on their own before you start a full-scale stan-eval ride on them.”
Patrick smiled at all the military aviation jargon. It had been quite some time since he had heard them. “Yes, ma’am,” he responded, snapping a left-handed salute, then kissed her hand.
She looked at him skeptically, as if afraid he wasn’t listening to her indirect criticisms. “Hey, I’m just trying to keep things moving, trying to pitch in. It’s easier for me to notice how long an order’s been sitting ready to be picked up if I’m just standing by the door. I’m only trying to help, you know, keep things moving …”
“The only things that keep moving are the servers,” Wendy said.
“Let them do their thing—they feel uncomfortable having the boss hovering nearby all the time. Did you ever work better with that slave driver Colonel Anderson standing over you telling you to …?” Wendy paused as she saw Patrick’s eyes drift away and begin staring at faces and places long lost but certainly never forgotten. “Sorry, sweetheart,” Wendy said in a soft voice. “I hope it’s not too painful for you when I mention …”
“No, it’s okay,” Patrick said. “I just hadn’t thought about him, or any of them, for a while.”
“If I may so politely and delicately point out: bullshit,” Wendy said, squeezing his hand. “You think about them all the time. I can see you talking on the phone or sweeping the floor, and all of a sudden you’ll stare off into space, and I know you’re on the deck of the Megafortress or one of those other creations you built, dropping bombs and screaming around at Mach one with your hair on fire.”
“Hey, c’mon, that’s all past me … us,” Patrick said. He glanced at his wife reassuringly, then motioned at the computer screen.
“Can you give me a list of applicants? I’ll call a few tomorrow morning and find us a replacement.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Wendy said. She turned his face back to face hers. “We can talk about it, you know—the service. I can talk about it.”
“There’s not much to talk about, is there?” Patrick said, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “We’re out, involuntarily retired.
Everything we built is gone, everyone we know is gone. We’re two grad-school-plus-educated professionals living in a one-bedroom apartment over a bar. We live off your disability payments, we eat bar food, drink bar drinks, and watch bar TV because we can’t even afford our own TV.” He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “Not exactly the kind of life I wanted to make for you, Wendy.”
“Maybe you should soak your head, lover, not your feet,” Wendy said disapprovingly. “Where did you suddenly get this sad-sack streak from? You took an early retirement as an Air Force lieutenant colonel—you can’t draw your fifty percent retirement salary because you’re barely forty years old! You’ve lived more and done more in the past twenty years than most men would in two lifetimes. You own an established restaurant and tavern in the capital city of the state of California, which earns enough to put a brother through college and pay for your mother’s condo in Palm Springs—we live over the bar because it doesn’t cost us anything and we’re saving up for the lake-view condo up on Lake Tahoe you’ve always wanted. You’ve got so many prospects available, you can’t count them all. Yes, we eat bar food, but we eat pretty dam good bar food, thank you very much—I don’t see any ribs sticking out your sides, if I may say so, lover. Why are you suddenly so down on life?”
“I’m not down on life, Wendy,” Patrick responded. “I just wanted more by now, that’s all.”
“You’re unhappy because you’re not flying, that’s what it is, isn’t it?” Wendy asked. “Patrick, you can go flying anytime you want. There’s a bunch of rental planes waiting for you at Executive or Mather. You can do aerobatics, you can go high and fast and push the Mach, you can fly a helicopter or a war bird or a racer—you’re checked out in almost everything with wings. In fact, I wish you’d get out a little more often, look up your pals in the service,
