(Installment 16)
He felt the wake
of torrid days
ushered through
by warm mistakes
***
Kenny offered a knowing glance at the day’s headline. So she had the guts to go through with it after all. He shrugged his shoulders and folded the paper under his arm as he began a slow stride.
Everyone, under the right circumstances was capable of murder. Or that was the conclusion he’d ultimately reached. The reason was simply because everyone believed in something. Since he’d also concluded that the state of nothingness was indeed something, because having a state void of anything still implies that it is a void thereby qualifying as something, even Kenny fit his own logic. Fanatical Christians bombed abortion clinics, other such religious groups were perfectly fine with murder for the good of their faith, and if these people who claimed to be so civilized were capable of taking a life, the average Joe should have no problem.
Then again, he didn’t really care.
The bar was quiet today; only a few customers sat idly either watching television or even worse, enjoying each other’s company. Kenny took his seat at the bar and put his newspaper down. As customary, the bartender set a glass of gin down in front of his most reliable customer and caught a glance at the paper’s headline.
“You see the headline?” He asked.
Kenny nodded, taking a gulp from the glass.
“Wasn’t he the guy you played poker with?”
“Yeah. Fucked his wife too.”
A silence. “Did you…”
“Kill him?”
“Yeah.”
“I wouldn’t waste my time. Though you could call it assisted suicide.” He replied, an immature smile tugging at his lips.
The bartender looked terribly confused.
“I told the wife what to do. It was her idea.”
He emitted an enlightened “Oh.”
Kenny took another drink from his glass and a hesitant silence descended upon the pair. “What?”
“No, nothing… it’s just,”
Kenny rolled his eyes as if to say, I knew this was coming.
“It’s kind of coincidental… you know?”
Kenny’s glance told him that he most certainly had no idea.
The bartender shook his head, “I mean, first you show up here with two hundred for information on a guy who just happens to die hours after you meet him and now, this? I mean, they sound kind of…”
“Related?”
He nodded, “Yeah.”
“Someone sounds a little suspicious.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Can’t say I can.” He replied, finishing his glass.
“Well… did you?”
“Did I what?”
“You know… kill him?”
“The papers said it was an accidental suicide.”
“Don’t be a smartass,” he said in a very fatherly manner, “I know what the papers said.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“You know why.”
“It seems like you’ve reached a conclusion on your own.”
“Look,” he said, resisting the impulse to address his customer as ‘kid’, “I ain’t smart and you’re confusing the hell out of me. All I know is that you came in here and paid me two hundred dollars for information on a guy who died after meeting you.”
Kenny studied the man for a moment and realized what was going on. “You’ve got a job for me, don’t you?”
The bartender looked shocked. After a pause, he spoke, “I’ll pay you six grand.”
Kenny laughed, “Forget the money,” he said, “I like you. I don’t know why, but I like you.”
“…I can’t ask you to do this, not without giving you something in return.”
Kenny rolled his eyes, “I don’t need it. And I know that whoever this asshole is, he’s gotta deserve it.”
“How can you know that?”
He sighed, “Because I know that you’re the only person in this side of town who hasn’t been convicted of a major felony. Except me, of course.”
“I was – ”
“Arrested, not convicted.” He said with a smirk.
“How the fuck do you know that?” He asked, a little disturbed.
“I know a lot more than you think. I know that you were married. Your wife died, didn’t she?”
The man was too shocked for words.
“Relax,” Kenny said, “your wedding ring is on the opposite hand, which means you still love whoever you were married to.”
He looked at his hand, understanding what his customer meant. “You just scared the shit out of me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He said, finishing his glass. “By the way you run this place, I’d say you were busted for smuggling liquor.”
“Two for two so far.”
“You and your wife were high school sweethearts, weren’t you?”
A nostalgic smile settled over the bartender’s lips. “Yeah, we were. How the hell did you manage to figure that one out?”
“It’s simple,” he explained, “you live in this part of town and you believe in love.”
“That’s a fair enough point. Anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“I know why you used to call me ‘kid’ all the time.”
“Why’s that?” He asked, posing the same question to himself.
Kenny offered an unsure sigh, “Your wife was pregnant when she died.”
A silence passed between them, one that seemed to say: we won’t talk about this again on both parties.
“So, you gonna help me out?” the bartender asked.
“Just tell me who, where and when.”
“His name is Rob O’Connor. He’s usually at the Irish Pub on the other side of town.”
“He’s a regular?”
“Every Friday through Monday, eight till two.”
“Anything I should know about him?”
“I’d tell you to be careful, but I know you won’t listen.”
He smiled, “How’d you guess?”
He sighed. “Just don’t get yourself killed, okay?”
Kenny laughed, “Are you kidding? I should be so lucky.”
“Why do you think like that?”
“Why do any of us think the way we do?” He asked, philosophically teasing.
“Because of the shit we’ve been through.” He answered tersely.
Kenny looked up at this, surprised at the bartender’s bluntness.
“You know, for somebody who can’t remember anything, you’ve sure got something against the world.”
“Yeah, well I’m sure there’s a reason for that.” He scowled, lighting a cigarette.
“And you’re gonna tell me that you honestly don’t wonder, even a little bit, about why?”
“You’re starting to sound like the voice in my head.” He grumbled.
“Wouldn’t happen to be the voice of reason, would it?” the bartender teased.
Kenny’s expression conveyed that he found no humor in the man’s joke.
“Okay, okay, point taken.”
Kenny shook his head, unable to think of anything else to do. “What time is it?”
“Seven thirty four.”
“I should probably go do some recon on this O’Connor character of yours.” He replied, throwing a twenty on the bar and standing up.
“The bill is only five fifty.”
“Keep the change.”
The bartender sighed, “You’re impossible.”
“I’ll assume you mean that in the nicest way possible.”
That fatherly grin graced the lips of the man behind the bar, “You know I do.”
“Later.” He said, taking a drag on his cigarette before disappearing through the door.
He found the pub quite easily. It is rather difficult to miss a building with twenty foot neon red letters blaring: KELLEY’S PUB – OPEN ALL NIGHT. It was the only Irish pub this side of town, which made it all the more obvious. It was in better condition than his usual bar, but found that the liquor was watered down and tasted as if the bottles had been improperly stored. It was the only time he could remember purposely refusing to tip. There was nothing worth tipping – the service was horrible, the help appeared sleazier than himself, the alcohol was awful (this coming from the man who’d once drank an entire bottle of two dollar chardonnay), and it lacked any form of entertainment aside from a cheap television. It was quite obvious that gambling went on in the back room, not because it was an Irish pub, but because the men who disappeared through the back door knew not the meaning of the word discreet.
He remained seated at the splintered bar with his glass of horrible scotch, seconds away from slamming his head down on it. He decided against the idea because he really wasn’t in the mood to pluck splinters out of his face… but at this point, it was beginning to appeal.
So far, he’d learned that Rob O’Connor was married three times, and another two in Reno but nothing ever counts in Vegas. He was primarily a smuggler. Mostly alcohol, but occasionally he would deal with cocaine and opium. He worked the Canadian border, which was fairly obvious by his almost unnoticeable accent. He had a very cold, reserved manner. He’d been sitting there for a good three hours and had so far said absolutely nothing to anyone but the bartender. He seemed a genuinely unhappy man. All his wives had left him, and he was probably single, and something told Kenny that he wasn’t seeing much action in the bedroom. He mentally guessed some sort of erectile disorder was the root of the problem, and couldn’t help but laugh. He knew he shouldn’t, after all, God giveth and God taketh away – but the prospect was too amusing and he was so terribly bored. Contemplating the means by which he would meet his end, Kenny proposed the idea of a Viagra overdose, and nearly spit his horrible scotch all over the bar as he laughed. This earned some strange glances, after all he was laughing at absolutely nothing. He just shot back a smile that seemed to say, “leave me the hell alone or you’ll wish you were never born”.
He held his head in his hands and laughed a bit. It felt good to do so… he hadn’t laughed, really laughed in so long. It was ridiculously childish to find it humorous, but he had no reason to care. So, he silently stifled his fits of hysteric laughter with his hands.
Once his laughter subsided, he stood up and headed for the door. He was in too good of a mood to waste it watching some guy drink himself to death. He should laugh more often, he thought. It made him feel young – not that he was incredibly ancient to begin with, but it offered what he guessed was happiness. He knew he shouldn’t get too used to this feeling, as it would be gone soon, but he had no desire to will it away. Part of him knew that emotion, regardless of its effects ultimately lead to misery, but he managed to ignore that for the time being. He would probably regret that later, but regret was nothing new to him.
The air was cool, but not cold and either way he doubted it would have bothered him. Kenny was never cold. There was a reason for that, a very logical one, however, it escaped him at the moment and he really didn’t care to pursue the train of thought. Tonight he was content just staring at the scenery as he restlessly paced the worn city streets. He was still smiling, as if it were impossible to shake the grin from his face. It must have been years since he’d felt this way. Sure, he would manage a sarcastic or sadistic laugh every now and then, but to just crack up, so to speak, was a profound experience. Or something like that.
The feeling began to lose its newness, giving way to a calmer sort of elation. How long had it really been since he could say he was happy? Had he ever really been happy? He wasn’t talking about apathy or indifference, but just content? Was there ever a time during which he could truly have wanted things no other way?
The more rhetorical questions he bombarded himself with, the more confused he became. The only time he could remember feeling something remotely similar to this current wave of emotion was the fourth day following his massive hangover. The Jazz club, when he watched the band and danced with that woman… that was the last time he could recall. Katie. He sighed, recalling her memory as best he could. It was odd how he could remember her, yet years of his life were locked away.
He must have been happy.
He decided against pursuing the idea any further as he lit another cigarette and exhaled into the night sky. He didn’t want to try to remember anymore. Even if he could find something, some remembrance of some time when he had been content, it would only serve to bring up another less pleasant reminder somehow attached to it. Memories were never bad unless another happier one was attached to them.
Sighing, willing this internal conflict aside, he calmly continued onward without a destination in mind. He had no desire to be anywhere at the moment. He would get tired of walking soon enough.
He found himself in the same neighborhood as Isabel, and found himself also pondering the question of whether or not she’d left for Spain yet. There was still a chance he might get one last screw before she would be gone for good. Besides, she owed him. Her husband would still be alive if not for his advice.
Once he’d reached the mansion he was informed that Isabel was, in fact, still there. She would be leaving soon, according to one of the hired help. He made his way up the stairs and into her bedroom, a route he knew very well by now. She caught sight of him immediately, greeting him with a wordless smile. He returned the gesture, observing her suitcase.
“You’re leaving.”
“Tomorrow.”
He nodded his head. “Good luck.” He said, not really meaning it.
“Thank you.” She said, the smile still on her lips. Her face looked younger, somehow less hardened and more innocent. She could probably have passed for nineteen if she wanted to. He could hardly believe that this was the same woman he’d been screwing on something like a regular basis. “I could not have done this without you.”
“But you did.”
She smiled and sighed, “No I did not. Without you I could not have done anything.”
He took this as a bizarre compliment. “Thanks.”
“…I was hoping that I would see you before I left.” She said.
“Oh. Why?”
She handed him an envelope, “This is for your troubles,” she replied, “and this is for luck.” She finished, giving him a kiss.
Kenny pocketed the envelope, trying to submerge the rising sickness inside him. He’d never felt so cheap in his life.
You’re a just a whore. His mind said. What did you expect? A love letter?
“Thanks. Look, I have to go. Just came to say goodbye.”
His words shocked him. He was starting to fall apart again… he needed to get the hell out of there.
She took his face in her hands and kissed him again, “Buena suerte.”
He said nothing as he turned and left without so much as a glance in the opposite direction.
Outside, Kenny tore the envelope to pieces, along with the two million dollar check inside. He tossed it into a garbage can on the street followed by a lit match. He watched the trash ignite, thinking idly how ironic it was that he himself was not aflame. He watched the orange-red flames burn intensely for a few moments, marveling at them. He felt a deep sense of longing in that moment. Even trash could burn out, while he was destined to fade away.
He started off in frustration. He needed to go kill something.
By the time he’d reached the pub, O’Connor was nowhere to be seen. It really didn’t matter, he was already marked – it was just a matter of time. He thought it for the best, because he hadn’t even contemplated how he planned to kill the man, let alone who to hold responsible. The return journey from the mansion had helped clear his head and he was grateful for it, or he would have been, had he not already blocked the occurrence from his memory.
©Danielle Lovallo, 2004
Lyrics © Emery, “Bloodless”