Free The Morgue and Me by John C. Ford Page B

car keys.
    When the bartender circled back to check on us, Tina pointed her celery stalk at him. “You ever hear of a guy named Mitch Blaylock?”
    He wiped his hands on a pristine white towel hanging at his waist. “No, don’t think so.”
    Tina got her bag out. She reached into her Mitch Blaylock file and retrieved a photocopied picture of Mitch from his high-school yearbook. “This is him. Think he worked here, a long time ago. Before the redevelopment.”
    The bartender held the picture for a long minute. He was old and brought it close to his glasses. The Polo-model dude held out his check, but the bartender paid him no mind. His date coughed.
    The bartender slapped the picture down. “Nope. Sorry.” He took the check and punched the couple’s bill up on the old-school register, which whirred and dinged ferociously.
    Polo model turned the picture around. “I’ve seen him,” he said.
    “You have?” Tina asked.
    “Sure. I remember that guy. He was around here last week, Friday, talking up a storm. Kinda drunk, too.”
    The guy’s date stuffed their change in her purse. “Sweetie, let’s go,” she said.
    “Just a sec, doll.”
    They used their sweet talk like knives on each other. The woman gave up and tore for the lobby. The red puff-balls on her socks bobbed up and down on her way out.
    “Yeah, he got kicked out,” the guy said. “That’s why I remember.”
    “He got thrown out?” I said.
    “Yeah. It’s usually a mellow crowd, but this guy was pretty sloppy. The lady with him looked embarrassed.”
    “Lady?” I said. “Who?”
    “Hell if I know. Kinda young. The guy put up a little fight when they threw him out, but he went quiet in the end. He was all, ‘Hey, can’t a guy have a drink?’ And then he left.”
    Tina bit off another chunk of celery. “With the girl?”
    The man chewed his gum aggressively and removed his sunglasses for a better view of Tina. “Don’t remember. I could give you a call if something comes to me.”
    “Thanks a lot,” Tina said. “We don’t want to hold you up any longer.” She nodded toward the lobby, where his date was tapping her toe like they’d be late getting out to the yacht.
    He laughed. “Forget it. Maybe I’ll see you up here. I come with my friends. Sometimes alone.” His smile lingered on Tina as he parted.
    “See what I mean?” Tina said. “Asshole magnet.”
    She polished off her Bloody Mary and oomph ed in appreciation. “But that guy”—she pointed to the bartender—“he’s the real deal. He better watch out.”
    The bartender threw his head back. His cackle echoed through the open room.
     
     
    Tina said the Bloody Mary had hit her pretty hard and that we’d better eat lunch before she hit the road. “Not that I’m normally this responsible,” she said. “I guess you’re a good influence or something.”
    We stayed and made friends with the gray-haired bartender, whose name was Buddy. A few golfers stopped at the bar while we ate, and after a while they started sticking. They had half pencils stuck behind their ears, and they kept snatching their score cards from each other. They would point at them and bark things and burst out in baritone laughs.
    My eyes kept returning to the fox hunters on the wall, elegant in their tight red jackets with gold buttons, blowing pretty horns on their way to the kill. Julia would’ve hated the place—she was big on animal rights and had gone vegetarian in seventh grade. It’s one of many reasons my parents liked her so much.
    “My mom and dad tried to stop them from building this place,” I told Tina.
    She turned to me sharply. “Really?”
    I nodded. “It was back before the disaster happened.” My parents just wanted to preserve the beauty of the bluffs. They thought the hotel would be ugly, and they were against the chemicals and tree-cutting to build the country club’s three golf courses, and the spa, and all the rest of it. Memories started flooding through me: our