Deadly Games. Steve Frech

hours drag on.

      Alex’s little admonishment worked for a time, but the simmering frustration is building into a flame and it’s fanned every time I look over and see Genevieve watching me. She’s been here for six hours. It feels like twelve. Every drink order is tedious. Every special instruction for a martini or a Manhattan is a chore. Every question is inane.

      “What do you have on tap?” a customer asks while looking directly at the beer taps.

      “What can you make?” a girl asks, which is like asking an accountant what they can “math”.

      Business picks up steam. Katie and Tommy are pulling my dead weight. I botch one drink order after another. People are simply yelling their orders at me before I acknowledge them.

      “Can I get a beer?”

      “Yeah. Hold on.”

      “Can I get a Jack and Coke?”

      I grit my teeth. “One sec.”

      “Hey, man! We want to do a round of shots!”

      “I’ll get to you in a minute,” I mutter through a clenched jaw.

      “Buddy, we’ve been waiting here forever.”

      Okay. To hell with this. To hell with Alex. To hell with Katie. To hell with The Gryphon.

      “Can I get one of those margaritas you were telling me about?” someone asks behind me.

      And to hell with whoever this clown is.

      I turn from the beer I’m pouring and look back over my shoulder. “Yeah. Can you hold on for one damn sec—”

      Detective Mendez sticks out from the crowd like a sore thumb. He’s short, stocky, alone, and smiling at me like we’re long-time friends.

      My heart takes the stairs to my throat.

      “S-sure …” I manage to sputter. “Be right there.”

      I finish the beer, drop it off, take a breath, and then start his margarita while keeping a side-eye on him as he surveys bar and the crowd.

      I take my time. This will be—no, this has to be—the greatest margarita I’ve ever made.

      I salt the rim of a glass, then fill it and a shaker with ice. Using the most expensive tequila we’ve got, I pour a shot into the shaker … better make it a double. This would normally be a sixty-dollar drink, but it’s on the house. Alex and the inventory will have to suffer. I add the Cointreau and our own special margarita mix, squeeze a few lime wedges in there, give it a vigorous couple of shakes, and strain it over the ice in the salted glass. After popping a lime wedge on the rim, I set it on the bar in front of him.

      “There you have it,” I say. “The Clay Special.”

      He regards it with that infuriating neutral expression, but thanks to Genevieve, I know that he knows or at least suspects that Emily was having an affair.

      “You weren’t kidding,” he says with a gesture to the crowd. “This place is great.”

      “Wait until you try the margarita.” I smile. It’s unnerving how quickly I’ve slipped back into my bartender persona.

      He brings the straw to his lips and takes a sip. He leans back and his eyes light up.

      “Whoa! That packs a punch.” He takes a second sip. “But it’s really smooth,” he adds before going in for a third sip.

      “The trick is to really shake it. It makes it ice-cold and knocks down the heat of the alcohol but not the flavor of the tequila.”

      He raises the glass. “Mr. Davis, you are an artist.”

      I execute a humble bow as he takes another healthy pull on the straw, and sets the drink on the bar.

      “This is the perfect end to the work day,” he says.

      “How’s that going?” It’s not the most subtle transition I’ve ever made, but I need to get him talking, and fast. At any moment, I’m expecting Genevieve to come crashing over.

      He considers the straw sticking out of the margarita. “I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

      Yeah, he probably shouldn’t, but I can tell he really wants to. If he didn’t, he would have looked me in the eye. That’s something you notice on this side of the bar. As I’ve said before; you know more about what someone wants from their body language rather than the words they use.

      “I completely understand.” I nod, sympathetically. “A lot of people here have been talking about it, though.”

      “Really? What are they saying?”

      I shrug, trying to play it cool.

      “Just rumors about her … personal life.”

      He leans in. “What kind of rumors?”

      I slyly look to the left and right, making sure no one will hear our conversation. “You know, like maybe she was having some fun with someone on the side.”

      He’s enjoying this. We’re conspirators, again, just like back at the station.

      “Well … that might be true,” he says.

      “Yeah? What makes you say that?”

      He takes another long sip of his margarita, which is now almost finished. “Well, we were looking at her accounts yesterday for anything suspicious and found out that she was renting an apartment, just outside of Avalon.”

      An apartment? She never told me about … Oh, shit … Shit … SHIT!

      “We were at the apartment this afternoon,” he continues. “We found her fingerprints and the fingerprints of one other person. Looks like they were using it as a little bootypad.” His eyes go wide and he covers his mouth in embarrassment, but can’t resist a short laugh. “Okay, I definitely shouldn’t have said that.” He laughs, again. “Whoa! Clay! What did you put in this margarita?”

      I’m laughing with him but I want to scream.

      I know the apartment. Of course I do. I was there, yesterday, putting my fingerprints all over everything. Through my nervous laughter, all I see is that damn winky-face emoji.

      Detective Mendez catches his breath and wipes his eyes. “That’s our little secret, okay?”

      “Of course.”

      He polishes off the margarita and sets the glass down on the bar. “Mmmmmm. That is delicious. You do know your trade, Mr. Davis.”

      “Thank you,” I say and want to add, “but if it’s all the same, I want to curl up in a ball and die”.

      They’re not closer to catching the psycho who killed Emily. They’re closer to catching me.

      He stands up and steps away from the bar. “Well, I should go. Wouldn’t be a good look for a detective to get pulled over for a DUI, but thank you for the drink.” He extends his hand.

      “My pleasure,” I say, shaking it, because of course, Detective Mendez is the kind of guy who thinks I pay my rent in handshakes.

      Someone moves behind me.

      Detective Mendez glances past me to my left. “Ah, Ms. Watson.”

      I turn in time to see Katie stop dead in her tracks, almost dropping the drinks she’s carrying.

      “Oh … hi, Detective Mendez.”

      “We’re still on for another discussion at the station tomorrow, right?”

      “… of course,” she says, trying not to look at me.

      “Great. You two have a good night,” Detective Mendez says, turns and walks out the door.

      I stare at the door, unable