Free Crack-Up by Eric Christopherson

bartender approached to take my order.
    “Scotch on the rocks,” I said.   “Twist of lemon.”
    Then I drank.   In fact, I drank and drank.
    “Okay, okay,” I said to the bartender some hours later.   “Maybe you’re right, maybe I’ve had . . . enough.”   The bartender was serious about cutting me off this time, anyway.   He had my bar tab in his hand.   I signed the Pope’s name to it.
    He crossed it out, crossed himself, and insisted that I sign my own name and indicate my own room number.   I complied.
    He left me.   I sucked on ice I’d swallowed from the bottom of my glass.   My tongue felt too big.   Felt like a damn beaver tail.   I thought if I kept sucking on the ice it would shrink back to normal size.
    I knew it was getting late, but I wasn’t really tired.   Which was strange.   The medication I took made me extremely drowsy when I drank too much.   At least it usually did.   And, boy had I had too too much.   I checked my watch.
    How the hell did it get to be almost
midnight
?   It’s almost
midnight
and I still didn’t know what to do about . . . me .
    There was only one other customer left in the bar, and he’d been sneaking peeks at me, sneaking peeks every other minute or so.   Either that , I thought, or it’s just my imagination .
    The man got up to leave.   He came by my stool on his way out, peeking at me again.   Then staring.
    Absolutely staring!
    I stared back.   The man was middle-aged, in his mid to late fifties.   He wore a dark gray flannel suit.   He was short—about five foot five or six—with a husky build and a large Roman nose.   A real honker.   Which was red now.
    I heard a tapping noise, and when I’d located the source, thought to myself, Well, la-dee-dah, he’s got himself a fancy walking cane . . . Oh, oh, oh, that’s because he limps .
    The man halted right in front of me, took a quick glance at the bartender, who was drying shot glasses over by the sink, then stared at me again.   Stared me right in the face.   Leaned in a little.   A little too much.   Violating my personal space.
    “Save yourself,” he whispered.   “Kill John Helms.”
    I could only whisper back.   “What did you say?”
    “Kill John Helms,” he repeated.   Then he was off, his cane poking the wooden floor again, and I couldn’t believe I’d just heard that.   But this time I knew I had.   No tricks of the ear this time.   I knew—I absolutely knew!—what I’d heard.
    I bolted off my stool.   I tapped the man on the shoulder from behind.   The man stopped.   I didn’t wait for him to turn, I spun him around until we were standing face to face.   I held the man by the lapels of his suit jacket.   Pulled him close.
    “Who the fuck are you?”
    “Please, sir!” said the man.   “Let me go!”
    “I heard what you said, mister.   I heard you loud and clear.   You told me to kill John Helms.”
    “I did no such thing!   You’re drunk!”
    “You’re lying!”
    I reached around behind him, grabbing an ass cheek in each hand, searching for the man’s wallet.   It wasn’t back there.   I dipped a hand inside the man’s suit jacket.   Found it.   Snatched it.   Opened it.
    “What do you think you’re doing!” said the man.   “Bartender!   Oh, Bartender!   Help me!”
    I read aloud from a Maryland driver’s license.   “ ‘Bernard Alan Simpson.’ ”   The man’s attempts to retrieve the wallet I fended off with my forearm.   “ ‘15 Warfield Road , Columbia , Maryland .’ ”   I handed back the wallet.   “Never heard of you.   What are you doing down here in Alexandria , Virginia at this late hour, Bernard Alan Simpson?   It’s a good hour’s drive home.   Who sent you here to screw with my mind?”
    Bernard was frightened, I realized, just as a hand clamped down on my right shoulder.   Hard.   Then it was my turn to be spun around.   I found myself staring at the bartender’s neck: a tree trunk with