The Axhead
It was Monday night and closing in on the 2:00 a.m. bar curfew. The day had dawned clear and hot, with the New Mexico sun blazing down leeching color and life from animate and inanimate objects alike. The weatherman on channel eight predicted �a steamy night with lows in the mid-seventies and little to no chance of thunderstorms� but the murky cast to the sky proved the folly of listening to someone who drew smiling suns and frowning clouds for a living.
Bernie walked down the alley, kicking empty beer bottles aside. Once he had to stop and disengage a condom from the bottom of his shoe where it dangled, chewing-gum like. This neighborhood used to be filled with middle-class American families when he was a kid. Now, dealers and whores peddled their goods among the ghosts of lemonade stands and where Scouts had sold cookies and popcorn.
A thin girl caught sight of Bernie and slipped up beside him, trying to look seductive. To Bernie, the overall effect of adolescent gawkiness that comes from being all angles was more sad than sexy. The girl looked barely sixteen, clad in a stained dress, threadbare and patched. She touched her hair, making sure the greasy brown strands were in some semblance of order.
�You lookin� for a date, handsome?�
�Not tonight, honey.� The girl�s face fell.
�You have much luck?� he continued.
�I�ve been out here since ten and haven�t had s�much as a nibble.�
�What�s the going rate?�
�Fifty an hour.� Bernie pulled out a wallet and began peeling off bills.
�Here. Two hundred. Go find yourself a decent meal and get some sleep.�
Waving off the girl�s protests he pushed the still-substantial wallet back into his pocket and walked on. Bernie was at that dangerous time of middle-pushing-old-age. What was left of his hair was a dull yellow-gray, matching his eyebrows and the bristly tufts sprouting wing-like from his ears. A red bulbous nose spoke of his drinking habits, his rumpled appearance vouched for his personal habits. Only his freshly polished shoes betrayed his position as one of substance. When he was very small, his mother had always said that a man was judged by the condition of his shoes. The lesson stuck. In a world where sneakers and loafers were the norm, his buddies were always kidding him about his �Mary Janes� and asking �Do black patent leather shoes really reflect up?� His mother had died four years ago and the perpetually shiny shoes were his memorial to her. Right now, those shoes were heading towards one of his favorite spots.
The Axhead Bar was housed in a squat gray building without windows. The only outside decorations were the spray-painted calling signs left by the neighborhood gangs and the occasional dried smear of urine from those too drunk or high to bother about indoor plumbing. Bernie stepped over the crumbling remains of the stairs and pushed open the battle-scarred wooden door replete with plywood patches. The air in the Axhead was always a peculiar mix of peanuts and beer. Bernie wondered if there was some sort of peanut perfume Max used to overpower the less pleasant odors of stale vomit and other bodily secretions. Once inside, he hesitated, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the non-light provided by a handful of bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Bernie made his way to the bar, pushing heavy black chairs and tables out of his way.
Everything in the place was black, the paneling on the walls, the tables and chairs, the floor, and the bartender/owner. The only thing breaking the monotony was the huge gilded mirror that hung behind the bar. The mirror itself sported its share of scars. Bits and pieces were chipped from the edges and hairline cracks scuttled from one end to the other. There was a hole that was rumored to have been made by a bullet, but Max neither denied nor confirmed that particular story.
Max was a bouncer for the previous owner and managed to scrape up the cash to buy it fifteen years ago. At six foot eight and 250 pounds of pure muscle, he made the ideal security system. The last he had heard, his old boss had relocated to Chicago and now spent his days ensconced in grandchildren up to his knees.
Max looked up from polishing a glass as Bernie eased himself onto one of the more stable-looking stools. With his bulk he didn�t want to chance having a stool disintegrate under him.
�Bloody Mary, Max.� The man nodded and plunked the glass he�d been holding onto the counter. While Max mixed his drink, Bernie swiveled in his chair to survey his fellow barflies. To his left was an elderly derelict crying into his beer. As if it weren�t already watered down enough, Bernie thought. No one was on his right. The tables were mostly empty save a few small knots of men.
�Slow night.�
�It�s a Monday. That�ll be three for the drink.�
Bernie slid a ten across the bar. �Keep the change.�
Max nodded his thanks, stuffing the ten into his pocket. He didn�t bother with such niceties as cash registers. All the drinks were sold in even dollar amounts. On a full night Max�s pockets resembled fat cantaloupes jutting off his hips. Tonight there was just one kiwi-sized bulge. Bernie sipped at his drink, testing. Max waited.
�Just right.� Bernie confirmed.
The bartender slapped the bar with his towel in response and moved down to the old man and his mostly-tears drink. Bernie watched Max for a minute before checking his watch. Half past one. Where the hell was she? Brenda had said one o�clock sharp. Just like her to be late. Shit, gal�d probably be late to her own funeral. Bernie told her that once, back when they were still married. After the divorce she�d confided in him that his funeral would definitely be worth being on time for.
Bernie snorted. No word from her for five years. Then last week, he�d answered his phone and there she was, asking to meet him at the Ax. Bernie wondered why the Ax, of all places. Max would probably faint if a woman like Brenda ever darkened the doorway. Bernie checked his watch again. Quarter til. He began to worry. This was cutting it close, even for Brenda. Maybe he should call her. Max spoke suddenly.
�Last call boys, come on and fill up once more.� No one moved except the teary fellow down the way, and he only blew his nose on a bar napkin and took another sip. Max turned back to Bernie.
�What�s gnawing at your balls? You�ve been eyeing that door like you expected a snake to come through.� How appropriate. His ex was like a viper-�strong, quick to anger, and poisonous. He shrugged away Max�s concern.
�Just jumpy I guess.�
�Yeah, well, I close in a minute. You�ll have to jump elsewhere.�
�All right. Hit me again?� He tapped his empty glass and produced another ten to back his request. Max exchanged glass for cash and left.
Why had Brenda called him? Money? Her lawyer had bilked Bernie out of almost all his money, but with Brenda you never knew. She was famous for once blowing a thousand bucks on a pair of shoes. The first time he had met her�-at the Christmas party his precinct gave every year�-Brenda was wearing an eye-catching pair of emerald green half boots that could have fed Mary, Jesus, and Joseph for a year. Brenda was just an assistant to the District Attorney back then. Bernie was tending the make-shift bar, and she�d ordered a White Lady. The rest, as the tired clich� goes, was history. Bernie shook his head. This was getting him nowhere. He gulped at his drink and choked.
�Jesus Max, you trying to kill me?� A glass of water slid down the bar in the style of old Westerns.
�I thought you like it strong.�
�Strong booze, not strong spice!� Bernie seized the water. He was still drinking when the door opened and she walked in. Max blinked the lights.
�All right, bar�s closed. Go home and sleep it off or get drunk somewhere else.�
The handful of occupants got up one by one and started for the door, Bernie�s bar buddy bringing up the rear. They gave Brenda a wide berth that spoke of recognition but not respect, like stepping over an old dog. She walked straight up to the bar, weaving carefully between table and chair. God forbid she get anything on her suit, Bernie thought as she sat down next to him.
Physically speaking, Brenda MacDonald and Bernard Willis were the embodiment of �opposites attract.� Where he was short, she was 5�9� in her stocking feet. Add to this the 3� heels she was wearing and there was almost a foot of height difference between them. Brenda had long peroxide blonde hair pinned into a bun so tight Bernie half-expected to see her face pull back from the strain. Bernie�s eyes were weak-tea brown, hers an icy cobalt. He wore rumpled cords and a spotted polo, she was turned out in a red Marshall Fields suit in impeccable condition. She laid her purse-�a tight little streamlined number�-onto the bar. The description of the purse was often extended to the woman herself. The purse, at least, did not take umbrage to the remark.
�Bar�s closed, Brenda. Didn�t you notice?� Brenda ignored her ex.
�White Lady, please.� Max didn�t protest this after-hours order but placed a glass before her and gingerly took the five she offered, adding it to the rest of the wad lining his pockets. She took a sip of her drink and nodded.
�Come on, Brenda. Max wants to go home. You�re an hour late as it is.�
�Oh do sit down, Bernard. You were late often enough during our marriage. It is my turn now.�
�Late? I worked the third shift!" Bernie rose. "Forget this. Max wants to go home.�
�No sweat Bernie. You�re a regular customer. Damn good one too. I�ve got some stuff to do in back anyway. Yell when you leave.� Max vanished through the swinging doors. Bernie suspected Max�s �stuff to do� included the bottle of Jack Daniels he kept in his office.
�I told you he would not mind. Sit down, Bernard.�
Bernie grudgingly complied. The stool squeaked ominously.
�What do you want, Brenda? And why here? This ain�t exactly your kind of place.�
�What do I want? The same thing any nice girl wants, I suppose. A career, a nice house with a picket fence. Two point five children. How did they come up with a point five child anyway? Perhaps it covers a pet. Yes.� She paused to study the play of light through her glass as a faint rumble of thunder sounded. Bernie successfully swigged the rest of his drink without choking and smacked the glass down on the bar. Brenda started slightly, then frowned.
�Cut the crap, Brenda. Do you want money? I�ve got better things to do with my time then sit here listening to Ms. District Attorney pontificate on the--�
�Damn it Bernard. Will you shut up for five minutes? I could have given you the news over the phone, but�� Brenda shrugged and let the rest of her sentence drift away.
�What news?� For the first time a prickle of anxiety tickled Bernie�s stomach. �Did something happen to Will?�
�No, our son is fine. Training with the San Diego police, last I heard.� She smiled briefly. "Like father like son, I suppose."
Bernie sighed with relief. �Then what?�
�I have been feeling tired lately so I went to the doctor for an examination. He drew blood for testing.�
�And?� Bernie wondered what Brenda was building up to.
�The doctor said I have AIDS, Bernard.�
Bernie waited for the punch line.
�That is the Auto Immune Deficiency Syndrome.� she added.
Bernie rolled his eyes. �Christ, I know what AIDS stands for, Brenda. I�m just�I don�t understand. We took AIDS tests before we married. We both passed. We were together for fifteen years. You must have been sleeping with some pretty rude customers after we split. Rotten luck, but what do you expect me to do about it?� Bernie hated to sound like a hard ass but sometimes Brenda didn�t leave him any choice.
Brenda laughed, a hard brittle sound from the back of her throat. Another rumble of thunder, closer this time, followed immediately after.
�You pompous ass.� She said it almost regretfully. �Think Bernard. The symptoms of AIDS do not show up immediately. I could have slept with Magic Johnson every night for the past five years and it wouldn�t have had time to show.�
�What, exactly, are you trying to say?�
�Some detective you are, Bernard. I�ll spell it out for you. Remember all those lonely nights you spent away from home, doing your little cop things? I didn�t find them lonely. Not at all.� Brenda shook her head. �Poor Bernard. You always prided yourself on the fact that you were such an observant little gumshoe. But you never figured out what was going on in your own bed.� Brenda drained her White Lady and sat the glass next to Bernie�s. His jaw worked for a minute, trying to summon enough spit into his mouth to speak. Brenda waited. A crack of thunder broke the silence before grumbling away.
�You goddamned bitch! You lying cheating backstabbing manipulating slut!� Bernie picked up his glass and hurled it at the mirror. The resulting crash punctuated the �slut� comment perfectly. Brenda blinked. Not satisfied with that, Bernie threw Brenda�s glass too. It made a gentler crash before joining fragments with Bernie�s. Brenda pulled a cigarette out of her purse and tilted the pack towards Bernie. He slapped it way, sending it spinning across the surface of the bar. She shrugged and brought the tip of a lit match to her cigarette. Inhaling deeply she shook out the match and turned to Bernie.
�Do not be so upset, darling. It is not like we are still married after all.�
�What the hell do you mean, �don�t be so upset�? I just found out my wife of 15 years has been cheating on me!�
�Ex-wife, Bernard, ex-wife. The fact that you just found out can hardly be considered my fault. You are the detective, after all.� Bernie took a deep breath, inhaling courage as well as a healthy dose of second-hand smoke.
�If you have AIDS, than Will��
�No.�
�How can you be so sure?�
�I did not cheat on you until he was born.� A flash of lightning sent purple fingers seeping underneath the door outside before disappearing again.
�Oh, well, thank you so fucking much for your sense of decency.� He rose to his feet. Brenda still had few inches on him, though she hadn�t moved from her stool.
�Decency? Do you call it decent to leave your wife alone for God knows how many hours? Hours that turn into entire days? I might as well have been a widow for all the time you spent at home. Day in and day out with only little Willie for company.� Brenda shook her head, puffs of smoke exiting her mouth in time to her words.
�You make it sound like I was gone for weeks and months at a time. What was the longest time I was ever gone? Twelve hours? Fifteen? Jesus.� Bernie sighed and shook his head.
�Hours are endless to the lonely, Bernard. And the scared.�
�What could you possibly have been scared of? We had a state of the art security system, deadbolts, locks on the shatterproof windows��
�I was scared for you! Do you have any idea how hard waiting can be? I waited for you to come home, to call, telegram, anything to say you were all right.�
�How did it start?� Bernie�s voice was flat, matching his expression. He slumped back down onto the stool.
�I went out one night to find you. Left Will with Mrs. Holmes and started searching the bars. I came here last.�
�Here?� He was dimly aware of Max hovering at the other end of the bar, towel slung over his shoulder.
�Max said he had not seen you. I had a few drinks at each bar I stopped at--�
�How many?�
�Bars? Or drinks?�
�Bars.�
�The Den, Spider�s, Pickled Fish, the 5 o�Clock Club, and here.�
�Brenda wasn�t in any shape to drive, so I saw her home myself.� Max stood behind Brenda, laying a hand on her shoulder with an easy familiarity.
�It was you! You were the one fucking my wife. Max, how could you do this? After all the years I�ve been coming to the Axhead? All this time you and her�?� Bernie�s voice broke off. He took a swing at Max, who knocked Bernie face-first into the counter. He got to his feet swaying and spitting blood.
�You get one free swing, Bernie. Try again and I'll rip off your balls and shove them so far down your throat you'll be shitting sperm for a week. Now get out out.�
�Get tested, Bernard. After all, you never know what life will deal you, right?�
Bernie pushed open the door and lurched outside. Overhead, the first few drops of rain began to fall.
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