Free Tormented by Robert J. Crane Page B

experience in your bathroom.”
    He frowned. “Like … full torso apparition? Would it spike the PKE meter?”
    I sighed. “Why do I encounter geeks everywhere I go? Yes, Egon. The mirror went dark, a shadowed shape told me I wasn’t supposed to be here—”
    “That sounds more like a slasher movie.” Now he was frowning like he was mulling over what I was saying. Still no sign of deceit or trickery, and I was reasonably good at knowing when people were lying to me.
    “Whatever it was,” I said, “it was clearly meant to freak me out.”
    “Yeah, well,” he said, “it doesn’t seem to have done the job on you. I, on the other hand, might need a change of undershorts after that oblique reference to you killing me.” He leaned forward on the bar. “Do you still want your burger and drink?”
    I thought about it for a minute. He seemed guileless, but that could have been a disguise. I’d been fooled by clever liars before, but … dammit, I was hungry, and it wasn’t like my cabin was going to be stocked with food. “Yes,” I said, “I still want the burger.”
    “Then let me get that for you before it becomes not just poorly done, but shittily done.” He disappeared behind the curtain and a moment later his voice wafted out. “You can come watch me if you want, make sure I’m not … I dunno, lacing it with hallucinogens or whatever it is you think I might do.”
    “I’d be more concerned about a hearty spit from you at this point,” I said, slipping up and behind the bar in a couple seconds, quietly moving aside the curtain. He glanced over his shoulder from where he stood at a prep station, plating my burger and made a hocking noise in his throat while smiling. I shook my head. “Gross.”
    “I wouldn’t,” he said. “Not for accusing me of … uh … whatever you accused me of. Rallying ghosts against you or something.”
    “I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said. “I was … probing.”
    He held up a plastic-gloved hand. “You might need one of these if you’re going probing.”
    “Try to pretend like you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
    He chuckled as he put a tomato, lettuce and mayo on a bun before slapping the burger on top. “It’s like you already know me.” He picked up the plate, pulled some fries out of a cage above a still-bubbling deep fryer, and dumped them on my plate before salting them. “Your lunch is served, madam.”
    “Oh, I’m a madam now?” I asked, making way for him to carry my food out of the curtain. “Explains why you think I might be okay with that sort of probing.”
    “I like how we’ve already established this easy rhythm back-and-forth,” he said as he sat my plate on the bar next to my drink. “It’s comforting, isn’t it?”
    “After the bathroom incident,” I said, “a spiked toilet seat might be considered comforting.”
    “But seriously,” he said, leaning on the bar as I sat down, “this is the kind of relationship a bartender is supposed to establish. Make you want to be here, make you want to feel comfortable—”
    “Ghost stories aren’t much of a comfort read.”
    “—to make you feel like you’re someplace safe, where—”
    “Everybody knows your name?” I asked, taking a bite of a fry.
    He smiled wryly. “Hackneyed, but true.”
    “Everybody already knows my name,” I said, “unfortunately. And speaking of hackneyed, aren’t you going to ask me how the first couple of bites are tasting? Isn’t that in the restaurateur’s guild guidelines or bylaws or something?”
    “Ah, but you see,” he said, throwing a towel back on his shoulder, “I am a bartender.”
    “And a short order cook,” I said, “and a waiter, and a one-man ghost prank—”
    “I deny that last bit,” he said, frowning, “though now I am going to have to look into the women’s room—in a non-pervy way. Never heard that particular complaint before, ghosts and whatnot.”
    “Yeah, well,” I said, finally grabbing the burger off the