The Detective [Part II]

PART II – Home

The Bar was the only place he felt comfortable. He took to his stool at the far end of the bar near the register. The spot allowed a complete view of the whole place and especially of the entrance to his right. It also allowed him to talk to the bartender Kris, who was the only person he cared to talk to. She was easy on the eyes too, which helped.

Of course this was the worst of his habits. He fell for female bartenders the way other people fell for pop stars or actors. He wasn’t entirely positive, but he was pretty sure it had to do with the fact that they were nice to him and unattainable. It was a simple arrangement that required no commitment and allowed him to always interact with them with a drink in his hand. It was easier this way, on him at least.

Kris saw him from across the bar and smiled. She finished the pour she was working on then walked his way. “Yeah”, she said smiling and clapped her hands together as though it mattered. “Black and Tan?” She said, as a formality that bordered on ritual.

“That’ll do,” he said and smiled back. They were like two Cold War agents giving the sign/cosign, which they had done almost every day for the last two years. It always fucked up his schedule when she was out sick or on vacation. When her absence coincided with a bad case, it was worse.

She centered him and he could never quite figure out why. That was his own doing, because he simply refused to investigate it. Everything he investigated eventually revealed to him its truth, and he didn’t want to know the truth about this. It was too dangerous. His interactions with Kris were too important. He liked to feel like they had a special bond. He needed to.

The next day was consumed by paperwork. The Detective was pretty sure that if each primary had a secretary that could do the paperwork the world required of the there would be a higher close rate. It was for the best today though. He could smell the “Black and Tans” coming from his pores.

The case was confusing the hell out of him so he’d taken it out on his liver. Well, his liver and his brain. But, no matter how much he drank, his brain always remembered. He’d tried years ago to erase it but had learned it was impossible. From that point on he’d simply focused on his liver. He was pretty sure he could forget everything once he died. He wasn’t sure of that, but it was worth a shot.

[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]