Gathering Storm (12 page)

His hands were itching to
dial Litha’s number. He told himself he wasn’t scared, just
anxious. He had made a habit of manually dialing every so often
instead of relying on speed dial for this very reason – in case he
ever needed to call her number from memory. He held his breath when
the number rang once, but the little bit of hope didn’t last long.
The ring was cut short by an annoying set of discordant electronic
tones and a recorded voice saying that was not a working
number.

His heart was hammering in
his chest, but he tried to tell himself not to jump to conclusions.
No sense borrowing trouble. Maybe he’d misdialed. He touched the
numbers on the screen again. Slower. Double checking each digit.
One ring followed by a recorded voice that was the last thing in
the universe he wanted to hear.

He figured he didn’t have
to be a genius to come to the conclusion that Deliverance had
abandoned him to another gods forsaken dimension. And he was alone.
He could hear his heart beating in his ears then realized that was
because he’d forgotten to breathe. He looked around and met the
curious eyes of the bartender who’d been glancing in his direction
now and then.

Storm made his way back to
the other end of the bar and handed the phone over. The bartender
took it out of his hand and looked Storm over. Again.

“Not good news, huh?”

Storm shook his head and looked around to
see if anyone was watching. “I need to ask you something. You’re
going to think it’s real strange, but maybe you can think of it as
a dare or a practical joke or something like that?”

The bartender put both
hands flat on the bar and leaned in looking thoughtful. “Sure. It’s
been slow tonight. I could use a good joke.”

Storm took his wallet out
of his pocket, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, and put it down on
the bar face up. “Does that look like real money or play money to
you?”

Looking from the bill up
to Storm’s face, the man eyes narrowed. “If that’s a joke, I’ve got
to admit I’ve heard better.”

Storm blinked. “Play money?”

“It would be a pretty good
copy except that, so far as I know, hundred dollar bills come with
Thomas Jefferson’s face on the front. That’s why they’re called Tom
J’s? You know?”

“Tom J’s.”

“Listen, friend, you seem a little
lost.”

Storm barked out a laugh
that was so sudden and out of place, the bartender recoiled a
little reflexively.

“Lost. Yeah. Understatement of the…
millennium.”

“You want a drink?”

Storm shook his head and
smiled. thinking he might have landed in hell. Is that the way
Elora felt? So completely alone? Everything familiar, but not? He
chuckled again at his own misfortune. “No money.”
The bartender looked Storm over. Again. “Excuse me for saying so,
but I wouldn’t take you for down and out.”

“No?”

“No. Take your clothes,
for instance. Threads are top shelf. Close shave. Nice cologne.
Healthy. Clean. Clear eyes. What am I missing?”

Storm shook his head
again, knocked two knuckles on the wood bar and said, “Thank you
for letting me use your phone.”

He started to turn away when the bartender
stopped him.

“Hold on.” The man set a
shot glass down and started pouring Jack. “On the
house.”

Storm was the sort of
person who was way too generous to turn down generosity when it was
pointed at him. He knew that a gracious acceptance is a kind of
return gift. So he didn’t hesitate to pick up the glass, throw his
head back, and let the contents drain down his throat. He savored
the after burn.

If ever I needed a
drink…

When he set the glass
down, the bartender grabbed up the bottle and made a question of
motioning toward the empty glass with it. In answer, Storm looked
in the guy’s eyes and silently slid the glass closer to the
bottle.

“So. I’m guessing you don’t
have any
real
money in that wallet.” Storm said nothing. “I’m also guessing
there’s a story that goes along with that.”

Storm scrubbed a hand down his face and
offered a “fuck me” smile. “You have no idea.”

“Just so happens I collect stories.” He
poured again. “You don’t have any money. And you don’t have any
place to go, do you?”

Storm gave his host an appraising look.

“Who wants to know?”

Bartender took the towel off his shoulder,
wiped his hands, and stuck a palm out.

“Name’s Hal. Hal
Cyon.”

Storm’s mind flew through
a catalog of things to say, rejecting each one as fast as it came
to mind. He finally decided on keeping his features as even as if
Hal’s name was unremarkable. He clasped the hand offered to
him.

“Engel Storm. So this is
your place.”

Hal smiled in response and glanced around as
if to reaffirm to himself that, yes, indeed he was the owner and
also to try and see the bar, as if it was for the first time,
through someone else’s eyes.

“Angel Storm? Well, there’s one thing we
have in common, Mr. Storm. Names that are conversation starters.
Now, about my question…”

“No. I don’t have any
money. And I don’t have any place to go. When you close this fine
establishment, I’m going to be looking for a park bench and hoping
it doesn’t rain.” Storm reached up and scratched his chin. “You
don’t happen to have a big cardboard box back there, do you? And
one of those plastic rain poncho things?”

“Look. Since you’re not in
any hurry, why don’t you sit down there?” He pointed to the stool
in front of him. “Let me check on my customers. When I get back,
we’ll talk about that box.”

Storm watched Hal stop at
each of the four occupied tables. Twice he returned to the bar with
a tray full of empties, filled orders from memory, and delivered
fresh rounds. There was a little digital clock behind the bar that
caught his eye. It read thirteen minutes after eleven. He looked at
his analog watch, which also read thirteen minutes after eleven –
an exact twelve hour difference between where he sat and where he
should be sitting having lunch with Glen.

Watching Hal take trays
back and forth, he wondered if the bar had been busier earlier and,
if it had, how Hal had managed to handle things without help. When
he realized where his thoughts had taken him, he almost laughed out
loud at himself. He was in an alien dimension with no money, where
he knew no one, which probably went without saying, and he was
pretty sure that his ID would come off just as fake as the money he
had on him. The sane response to that predicament would be
hysteria.

When Hal returned to his
station behind the bar, he gave his hands a quick pass under the
bar sink faucet, dried them on the towel he wore over his shoulder,
and, just for good measure, wiped them on the white waist apron he
wore. Luckily, Hal didn’t serve food. Just drinks.

“You probably noticed I’m
here by myself. Had a girl working for me up until this
afternoon.”

“That’s too
bad.”

“At least she called,
which was a refreshing change.” Storm nodded. “Thing is, I’m
semi-retired. Or trying to be. I work during times when we need two
people. When I find somebody who can handle it alone, I enjoy my
golden years doing other things.” Somebody from one of the tables
shouted something and Hal looked away. “’Scuse me a
minute.”

He walked over, talked,
nodded, came back long enough to grab a Texas long neck, delivered
it and dumped empties into an already full sink. Turning back to
Storm he said, “And that’s what it’s all about. So. You ever done
any bartending?”

Storm sat up a little
straighter as the conversation suddenly came into crystal clear
focus. He was being interviewed for a job that, well, it meant he
might not have to live in a box and steal for the bare necessities.
Hal was treated to the full weight of Storm’s intensity.

“I’ve never done
bartending, but I have worked as a bouncer and I helped my friend
study the mixed drinks manual when he was learning to
bartend.”

Hal lifted his chin. “I’d
bet the farm that you’re a quick study.”

“You have a farm?”

Hal chuckled. “No, but
I’ve got a studio apartment in the back. I put it in a few years
ago when the wife and I were in a bad patch. It’s got a fridge and
a nuke. Not much, but guys don’t need much. Right? It’s a sight
better than a box.”

He leaned on the bar. “A
year later she left town with a thirty-year-old. I reclaimed the
house and moved back in. Now I got a girlfriend who rooms with me.”
He winked.

“Anyway, it’s just sitting
back there not bein’ used. You know?”

Of all the times to feel
like a damn lucky son-of-a-bitch, being stranded wouldn’t be the
most likely candidate. But there he stood agreeing with Hal that,
indeed, a modest room and a job in a place where he had no
resources and no way to prove he should exist, was feeling like a
mighty big blessing.

“You could finish studying
up on drinks. We don’t get a lot of call for Pink Poodle Saharas
and shit. Most of my customers want just what you’d expect.
Straight and easy. We get an occasional request for a
somethin’-tini or a cosmo. That’s about it.

“I’m thinking that, if you help me work the
late shift and watch the place after hours, you can have the job
with the room thrown in. Package deal.”

Storm looked into Hal’s face for a couple
more seconds. He started to say thank you, but his voice caught
just a little and he had to try again. “Thank you.”

Hal grinned. “Nah. You’re
the one doing me a favor, kid.” Hal opened the cash register and
produced two keys on a generic chain, which he laid on the
bar.

Storm looked down at the
old-fashioned polished wood then reached out to finger the
keys.

“This might sound
ungrateful. I don’t mean it that way and I hope you don’t take it
that way.” He raised his eyes to meet Hal’s. “Why?”

“Guy wanders in off the
street looking lost, asks me if funny money is real, and then says
he’s homeless. Who wouldn’t give that guy a key to his business?”
Storm just stared, unsure what to think or say about that. Finally,
Hal laughed. “Just pumping you. Truth is, night in, night out,
bartenders serve drinks to people so wounded they’ve forgot how to
keep their shields up. Enough years go by, a sixth sense of a thing
starts to come on. Know what I mean?”

“You a mind reader?”

“Like the Dear Dora
Psychic Line?” He shook his head, clearly amused. “It’s not
mindreading. More like sensing the core of a person. Their real
stuff. You know?”

Storm’s brows had come
together. In an off-the-beaten-path sort of way, he did think he
understood what Hal was saying. Maybe. The guy probably was part
clairvoyant, part philosopher. “And your sense told you to trust
me?”

“’
Bout sums it
up.”

“Okay.” Storm picked the
keys up and put them in his pocket. “I’m much obliged. Just one
thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I, ah, might have to
leave in a hurry and I might not be able to get the keys back to
you. I wouldn’t want to leave you in a bad, um…”

Hal grew serious. “Don’t worry about it,
kid. If you have to leave in a hurry, I won’t be any worse off than
the way you found me. Right?”

Storm wanted to give Hal a smile in return,
but was suddenly afraid that, if he tried to smile, he might mist
up instead. So he nodded and looked away.

“Then it’s settled. Here’s
the plan. We open at four and close at two. You’ll be on from six
to two. I’ll come in and get things started at four and stay until
one person can handle it. Like now. You’ll close up.”

Storm looked around. It
wasn’t yet midnight and the place had cleared out except for one
guy sitting by himself in a corner booth nursing a long neck like
he was in an ice house. Of course, it was a week night. Weekends
might be different. Probably were.

“Alright.”

Hal turned toward the cash
register, opened it again, pulled out a small stack of cash and
laid it on the bar where the keys had been.

“Consider this an advance.
You’re going to need some stuff that play money of yours won’t buy.
Hope you’re not hungry ‘cause there’s nothing open.”

“I saw a donut shop down
the block.”

Hal’s eyes flicked over
Storm’s upper body. “Guy your size needs real food. Not puffy fried
cardboard dusted with sugar. There’s some frozen stuff in the
apartment, but it’s probably not much better for you.” He waved his
hand at the bar. “Obviously something to drink is not a
problem.

“There’s a little pocket
grocery two blocks east opens at seven. I think. Run by Chinese,
but they carry regular stuff. Nice people.

“So I’ll close up tonight.
You go on and get settled. Tomorrow I’ll show you the ropes.” He
motioned toward a door behind the bar. “That way. Have a good
night.”

Storm looked toward the door and back at
Hal. “Thank you. I…”

“Okay, look. If you really
want to thank me proper, then one of these days when you think the
time is right, I’d like to hear your story. Got a feeling it’s a
collectable.” He nodded toward the back. “Go on now.”

Storm wandered through the
swinging door behind the bar. There was only one locked door, so he
figured he was at the right place. Hal was right. It wasn’t
much.