Free Last Call Lounge by Stuart Spears Page B

turned and headed back to the window. He went outside and I saw the spray bottle come up, then the hand with the crumpled newspaper. I gathered up the checkbook and the bills and put them back in the office. Boyd was behind the bar when I came back out, waiting on a couple. I gave him a cursory wave that he didn’t return.
    Out the front door, I stopped next to Frank. He kept scrubbing at the window.
    “When you’re finished with that,” I said, “you can sweep the parking lot. There’s a broom and a dustpan in the closet in the men’s room. You already know where the men’s room is. If Boyd gives you any trouble, tell him to call me and I’ll explain it all.”  I knew Boyd wouldn’t give him any trouble – it wasn’t in Boyd to stop someone else from sweeping if they wanted to.
    “Okay,” Frank said. He chuckled, ducked his head a little. “Thanks.” 
    I turned toward my truck, then turned back.
    “Come back at nine,” I said. “You can bar back. I’m not promising anything. We’ll have to see how it works out.”
    “Sure,” he said, grinning widely. “Thanks, John.”
    “And you might as well call me Little John,” I said, walking away. “Everyone else does.”
    He bustled inside to get the broom. I leaned back against the front wall, squinted into the falling sun. Mitchell pulled into the parking lot, squeezed his tall frame out of his tiny Ford Festiva, and loped his gangly lope up to me. He had an Astros hat pushed back on his head. Even though I'd given him shit about it dozens of times, he wore black socks and white tennis shoes and cargo shorts. He held a plastic grocery bag, bulging with lemons and limes. He was about to say something when Frank burst out the door, broom in hand, and went running to the parking lot.
    “Hi,” Frank said to Mitchell as he passed. Mitchell cocked his head to one side.
    “Okay,” Mitchell said. “What the hell is he doing here?”
    “He told me he was impressed with our fair prices and friendly customer service,” I said.
    Mitchell stared me down, waiting for an answer. Mitchell would have made a good cop. “He came by today, said he’d quit drug dealing and wanted to learn how to tend bar,” I said.
    “And you believed him?” Mitchell asked.
    “Look.” I tried to think of the right way to word it, but nothing came to mind. Instead, I said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About the mask.”
    Mitchell frowned at me.
    “He might have taken it,” I said. “And at least if he’s around and we get the chance to learn some things about him, we might be able to find it.” 
    Mitchell’s frown relaxed a little bit.
    “I told him he could bar back tonight. We’ve been talking about getting you a bar back on Fridays,” I said. Mitchell worked with another bartender on Fridays, sometimes Tracy, sometimes a guy named Kenny, and usually it was just busy enough to be too much work for the two of them. I'd end up jumping up to get them ice or shag glasses. “I told him we’d give it a try. It seemed like the best chance of finding out what happened to Pancho,” I said, playing the Pancho card.
    Mitchell put his thumb between his teeth, nodding. Mitchell was a boy scout when it came to evil-doers, and the idea of knowingly letting a drug dealer behind the bar was a tough one for him. But his desire to get the mask back, I figured, would win out.
    “Okay,” he said. “But remember -- your father always said, ‘Don’t feed a stray or you’ll never get rid of it.’”
    “I know,” I said. “He said that’s how he got stuck with you.” 
    Mitchell rolled his eyes and almost laughed -- which is as close as I ever got with him.
    I pointed to the grocery bag.
    “What's with all the fruit?” I asked.
    Mitchell looked down at the bag in his hand.
    “I stopped at the store and people were buying up everything,” he said. “I figured it might be our last chance to get lemons and limes before the hurricane hit.
    “Shit,” I said.