Chapter 1 - Lonely Feelings

I always wondered about the gangster movies I watched as a kid. I thought about big time mob bosses and goons alike, the people who supposedly ran millions of dollars in illegal transactions getting together to discuss how to make millions more from other illegal activity. In the movies, these bosses and thugs, the places they met never seemed logical to me. They always met in the back of some deli or in an abandoned warehouse or something, places that seem ill-fitted for the big money schemes they were discussing. I always wanted them to meet at some huge mansion or on a yacht or something. And the gangsters themselves, people who could injure, rob, and kill on demand, never seemed to fit right either. You’d expect someone to be tough and fit, after all they have to chase down the enemy, beat them up, and run from the cops if necessary. I remember watching these movies and thinking to myself that if this was real life, those overweight, aging goons would never be able to carry out the crimes they represented. It makes you wonder, the next time you go into your favorite deli or drive by that old paper factory, if there aren’t some back room dealings going on at that exact moment, some scheme to bring down a Politician, making a huge arms purchase, or taking out a contract on someone’s life. Kind of makes you want to peer in through that “employees only” door or wipe off the dust from a window of that old factory to sneak a peek. It’s the journalist in me that wants to discover those types of events, some big story that would get reported by Ed Bradley on 60 minutes. However, the days of journalist curiosity were behind me now, the movers and shakers of the reporting world had decided that my work was not significant enough to be brought to the public. Sure The Central City Tribune and the Sunday Republican had purchased some of my work, still waiting for a slow news day to print them, and a year after they had purchased my last article I pretty much accepted the fact that they would never go to the press. In fact, I am sitting in this bar thinking about all of this because the Editor of The Weekly Times had just told me to clean out my desk, it was no longer worth it for them to employ me if none of my work was ever going to print. I was actually surprised – surprised that they hadn’t done it 6 months ago when I submitted my last piece on the cop who rescued the baby from a house fire only to drop him on the street handing him over to his mother, killing him instantly. My editor said there was no motive to print it, there was no hero and no happy ending, which is pretty much all the Times printed, stories with happy endings. Since that last article was rejected, I just sat at my desk, not even going out on field assignments or following leads, because there was no real point. Instead I browsed the internet for celebrity marriages and divorces, watching endless youtube clips with my feet up on the desk drinking gin carefully poured into a Coke can for easy concealment. I guess that was also a factor in why I was fired…

This place I’m at, Lucky’s it’s called, though there is nothing Lucky about it. In fact it’s the exact kind of bar that you’d expect from those gangster movies, dimly lit, dusty bottles on the shelf, one type of beer on tap. There’s a fat, white haired, cleanly shaven bartender sitting on a metal stool flipping through channels of the 13 inch TV placed carefully on another metal stool about 6 feet away. Every time you ordered a drink he seemed bothered by having to get up, and as often as I came there I don’t think I’ve ever said more than “whiskey, on the rocks, better make it a double” to him. All he did was grunt and moan when he stood up, then placed the glass down hard enough in front of me to make an authoritative thunk sound as it hit the wooden bartop and saying “three fifty”. For all intents and purposes he was the quintessential nobody, the person who is exactly the kind of guy you’d expect working at this dive bar, the same guy you forget almost immediately after you leave. The bar itself would make most people uncomfortable to hang out in. It made you feel like a mugging could happen at any time or if you looked at the wrong person you’d catch an ass whooping, especially a scrawny fair skinned college graduate like myself. I was confident here though, I had seen most of the locals around, and besides, if anything went down I knew I was tough enough to handle my own. I was never really a big guy, but I knew how to fight and I thought quickly on my feet, usually grabbing something that I can use as a weapon.

I’m sitting at my normal booth looking down at my glass, the beads of water running down the outside of the glass wetting the napkin below my drink contently occupied with feeling sorry for myself, when I hear a voice.

“Anyone sitting here?” A man’s voice asked. I looked up to see a middle aged man in a grey suit, white button up shirt but no tie, kind of like a business man, but more like an insurance salesman who would talk to anybody if there was a chance of bundling home, car and boat policies together.

“Just me.” I muffled, lowering my head back down to look at my glass, which was almost empty.

“Well do you mind if I sit with ya?” He smirked as I looked back up at him, then around the empty bar at the dozen or so empty booths.

“There are empty tables all around…” And I lifted my hand to point to some at the other end of the room.

“Oh I know, but you look like an interesting guy and it’s sure as hell looks like you can use a good conversation.” He chuckled when he said hell and his tone was more sympathetic than condescending.

“I’m not…and I don’t, but if you want to sit here, by all means, just don’t expect it to be very exciting.” I really didn’t want to talk to anybody, in fact I never want to talk to anybody, but for someone without a job or job prospects, if 30 minutes talking to this guy could help me to find a job selling life insurance to old ladies, I might entertain the idea.

“Oh, don’t underestimate yourself, I bet you’re a pretty interesting kid.” He exhaled deeply when he sat down after unbuttoning his coat, and after he sat, he slid into the booth all the way to the window and said “Whiskey?”. I nodded. He throws his hand up, no wedding ring, and shouted “hey Shifty! A couple of Whiskey’s over here!”

He was a pretty fit guy, more muscular than myself and his long brown hair was supposed to be slicked back but it had started to come undone from what I had assumed was a long day of work. He opened up his wallet to get money to pay for the drinks, but the bar was too dark for me to be able to see how much money he had or what state his driver’s license was from. The bartender, who I now discovered was known as Shifty, shuffled over and placed two glasses down. “Seven.” He grunted from a frown with a cigarette hanging between his lips. The man held up a ten dollar bill and Shifty grabbed it and shuffled back to his stool.

“So, off of work today?” He asked after taking a sip of his drink and then held it up by his chin to cool his face.

“I just came from work.” I now started to make eye contact with this stranger, because I figured if he’s not gunna leave, I might as well get involved in the conversation. “I’m a - I was a writer.”

“A writer huh? Do anything I’d know of?”

“Nope.”

“You said you were a writer, what happened there?” He asked as he leaned in to get a better look at my sullen face.

“I got released by the Times today.” I leaned back against the padded backing of the booth and for the first time since sitting down, truly lifted my head above 45 degrees.

“Released – I like that, a good euphemism for getting fired.” He laughed, “any particular reason why? Could it be because of the sweat suit you got going on?” He laughed louder as he pointed at what I was wearing.

I looked down at my blue hooded sweatshirt with the word STATE printed in white. Then looked up and pretentiously respond, “A lack of published material and no current effort to pursue new projects, according to the notice from my editor.”

“Damn, that’s cold. Maybe he just isn’t a fan of Central City State University.”

He laughed again. “When did you graduate kid?”

Cringing at the word kid, I respond through my teeth “Two years ago.”

He smiled, showing all of his bright white teeth, a smile fit for an insurance salesman and said “That’s cool.” Then he ran a hand over his head to smooth his hair back down, “Harvard, class of ’97.”

“Harvard huh? I knew a couple of guys who wrote for the Crimson.” I said in an exciting tone because now I had some knowledge I could bring to the table.”

He chuckled “Crimson? What? You’re a riot.” Not knowing what to make of his response, I sunk back down in my seat and hung my head.

“So you’re a journalist huh? Ever hear any ghost stories?” He leaned in almost all the way across the table when he whispered this.

“Ghost story?” I looked up and asked with a perplexed look.

“Yeah, like a rumor, a myth, some fairy tale that someone who knows someone who saw something go down, like a massive conspiracy or murder or something.” He said even quieter.

“Ummm no, not really…I don’t really –“ before I could finish he interrupted.

“-well I got one for ya. You know that bartender over there?” He signaled with his head over to the direction of the man on the stool.

“Shif-ty?” I asked.

Still whispering he responds “yeah, well apparently he runs this city right from this very bar”, he taps his index finger on the table, “buying off politicians, drug trafficking, and even shady dealings with foreign diplomats. From what I’ve heard this guy is the guy to go to if you want to get anything done in Central City. They say nobody works for him, and everybody works for him”

“Wait, that guy?!” I said louder and pointed.

“Shhhh, hey man, that’s just what I heard, who knows if it’s true, like I said kid, a ghost story, a legend.” He had his finger up to his lips the whole time he said this. Then he downs what’s left of his drink and gets up.

“Sorry you got fired today kid, my names Mark, I come in here quite a bit, maybe I’ll see ya around.” He buttons his jacket back up and extends his hand for a shake.

“Taking off? Got to go back to work? What do you do?” For some reason I never think of anything to ask to spark a conversation until it’s over.”

“No time to discuss that kind of stuff, take it easy kid.”

I don’t stand but I grab his hand and give a firm shake like I was taught at the career center at State, “Yeah, man. See ya ‘round.”

Mark turns and swiftly walks towards the door, he pulls out some paper money and drops it on the bar on his way passed, “another drink for the kid, see ya later Shifty.”

I quickly dismiss this tale Mark told me and come to the conclusion that he was just fucking with me. Drop my head back down to it’s original position and wait for Shifty to bring me my drink.