Fabulous Freddy and The Bluesmen are halfway through their set when I arrive. The drums and bass are whispering to each other as Freddy\u2019s chords wrap around me and pull me into The Sportsmen. The first time I saw him perform was at The Hotel Lafayette when the Lafayette was still a fleabag. I wasn\u2019t working that night or any of the other nights I\u2019ve heard him play. I had always been there just to hear his guitar. Tonight is different.<\/p>\n
The bouncer won\u2019t give me trouble. He\u2019s older than me and walks with a hitch like he\u2019s laid his Harley down too many times. He\u2019s just an ID checker, a hand stamper, a cover charge collector. His hair is pipe metal gray, pulled back into a scraggly ponytail. Tattoos cover his arms, and that\u2019s okay. Bikers, ex-cons, and servicemen have earned their ink. It\u2019s the accountants with barbed wire encircling non-existent biceps who piss me off. \u00a0Store-bought tough guys. Makes me want to put a bullet in their eye for free.<\/p>\n
I like this bar, The Sportsmen. Exposed brick walls are covered with posters of bands that have played here in the past\u2014The Ron Davis Combo, The Skiffle Minstrals, Lil\u2019 Ed and the Imperials. I\u2019ve seen all those guys perform at least once. The floors are wide planked and stained with decades of musician sweat, spilled drinks and maybe blood. The door to the alley where Freddy will smoke between sets, where I will follow, is just past the bathrooms.<\/p>\n
Freddy looks the same. Maybe a little heavier. He doesn\u2019t move around stage as he once did, but I don\u2019t move like I did thirty years ago either. He plays with the same passion, making his guitar wail and grieve. His eyes are shut, letting the music take him places I can only imagine. When he opens them, he gazes into a white crowd. What does he think when he sees all us Caucasians staring back? What the hell do we know about the blues? Maybe that\u2019s why he plays with his eyes closed, pretending we\u2019re not there.<\/p>\n
He still dresses like a star–a red silky shirt partially buttoned revealing a large gold cross, a black kufi on his head, Beatle boots. His bass player is a mess. Three hundred pounds if he\u2019s an ounce, not even able to stand. He plays half-sitting, half-leaning on a barstool. I can guess his ailments\u2014diabetes, hypertension, circulation problems. He might die tonight before Freddy. But he keeps a tight bass line, I\u2019ll give him that, the fat fuck.<\/p>\n
There\u2019s only one waitress, a young blonde, covering both the floor tables as well as the ones in the mezzanine. She\u2019s not happy about it, scowling as she hustles up the stairs with a full tray of drinks and still scowling when she comes down a few minutes later with her tray heavy with dirty dishes and empty glasses. Her lips are pressed into a bloodless line, and she hardly talks when she stops to scribble orders, pissed off at the waitress who didn\u2019t show or the manager who screwed up the scheduling. She\u2019s just a kid, probably a college student with a jerk boyfriend, but she\u2019s working hard, humping back and forth to the kitchen, to the bar, checking tables along the way.<\/p>\n
She drops off the bill at the table next to me without stopping. I overhear the bald guy tell his wife he didn\u2019t think his burger was that expensive. She takes the bill from his hand and says she only ordered two glasses of Cab not three. But maybe she\u2019s wrong. Maybe it was three. He shrugs, leaves money on the table, and they leave, the blues not their thing, I guess.<\/p>\n
I shake my head.<\/p>\n
The little waitress is probably padding everyone\u2019s bill, charging for an extra drink here, jacking the price up there, banking on the fact that people are too drunk or too lazy or too mesmerized by Freddy\u2019s slide guitar to notice. The extra dollars add up and go straight in her pocket and there\u2019s no need for that. She must make good tip money on nights Fabulous Freddy plays. Money is what got Freddy in trouble\u2014or owing it did\u2014and stealing money is going to get her ass fired. But maybe she isn\u2019t padding. Maybe there\u2019s too many tables to cover and she made an honest mistake. Maybe she\u2019s just a lousy waitress. Definitely, it\u2019s none of my business.<\/p>\n
I walk to the bar, scanning the crowd for off-duty cops and ex-soldiers, trying to spot thick necks, short hair, dick eyes. No one looks like they\u2019d get involved. There\u2019s no heroes in this audience. I\u2019m the only one wearing a sport coat, but that\u2019s okay. It\u2019s not an Armani or Calvin Klein, something people might notice, just a cheap jacket I bought off the rack at AMVETS for a couple bucks. The fabric is shiny in places, the cuffs frayed, but it\u2019s comfortable and keeps everything covered when I\u2019m strapped. It\u2019s perfect for a night like this.<\/p>\n
The bartender nods to me when I approach, and I check his beer selection, the bottles lined on a shelf like a firing squad. In an old place like this, with Freddy playing songs of sorrow and loss, they should be serving the old-time brews\u2014Simon Pure Ale, Iroquois, Beck\u2019s\u2014but those breweries are a thing of the past, like Freddy, maybe like me. I order a bottle of Bud so I have something to hold. I\u2019ll drink later after it\u2019s done, like I always do.<\/p>\n
I find a good spot against the wall with a clear view of the stage. Freddy crouches to bend notes, his body twisting as much as the sound. The gold cross around his neck dangles and catches light. Isn\u2019t the kufi Muslim? Does he believe in both Islam and Christianity, hedging his spiritual bets like he obviously never hedged his money wagers? Or is the kufi and cross just part of his stage costume, carrying as much weight as his Beatle boots and belt buckle? I hope he believes in something. I hope seventy virgins, or seventy saints and angels, wait for him tonight. Anyone who plays the slide guitar like Freddy deserves an afterlife, one without fire and brimstone, one without an accounting. I\u2019m going to miss hearing him play.<\/p>\n
I wonder if he\u2019ll see an explosion of light at the end. I bet they all did, an explosion that propels them from this world to the next, their energy never dying but transforming into something else. All bets off. All debts forgiven. Either way, he won\u2019t feel anything. I\u2019ll send him swiftly. I have nothing against Freddy. I have all his cd\u2019s.<\/p>\n
The blonde waitress stops in front of me with eyes dead as stones and asks if I want to see a menu.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s good here?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
\u201cWings.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow much?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEleven dollars for a single,\u201d she says, pointing to the menu.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, but how much do you charge for the wings?\u201d<\/p>\n
I shouldn\u2019t have said anything. I shouldn\u2019t have engaged her. Christ, I\u2019m not a kid on my first job, but I opened my mouth anyway. She doesn\u2019t blink.<\/p>\n
\u201cEleven dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n
I lean close to her ear. \u201cHow much did you grift that bald man for his burger? And did his wife have two drinks or three?\u201d<\/p>\n
The corner of her colorless lips twitch. Freddy\u2019s guitar solo builds to a lamentation. She glances at him then back to me, her face as expressionless as her eyes. \u201cYou a cop?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m as far away from a cop as you\u2019ll get.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen why do you care what I charge?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust curious.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou going to tell my manager?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI hate snitches.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen what do you want? I\u2019m not going in the alley with you.\u201d<\/p>\n
This startles me for a heartbeat until I realize she\u2019s talking about a blackmail fuck or blowjob. Christ, she\u2019s just a kid. Freddy\u2019s guitar sounds like it\u2019s crying for all of us now and maybe it is. I can\u2019t stop myself and ask, \u201cDo you ever feel bad about ripping these people off?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy do you care? You judging me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou some Jesus nut? You going to tell me only God judges now?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI hope he doesn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI was just wondering if you feel remorse.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRemorse?\u201d Her face breaks into an honest smile. Life comes into her eyes, which is far better than watching it leave. \u201cWho are you? My conscience?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLike I said, I\u2019m just curious.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cListen,\u201d she says, and glances around to make sure no one overhears, \u201cI only nip people who dress like they can afford it or who are throwing money around like assholes. And drunks. The drunks never check their bill. They just see what they owe and pay it. Half the time I don\u2019t even bring back their change. The ones who give me the biggest kick are the stupid, sober ones who give me a fat tip on top of it all. They\u2019re just clueless. Happy now?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat else?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJesus, what\u2019s with you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Freddy\u2019s guitar sounds as if it\u2019s in pain, as if it knows it will all end soon. The smile and light have left the waitress\u2019 eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cFine,\u201d she says. \u201cI memorize faces. I pick them out early and try to remember what they look like, so I don\u2019t rip them off the next time they come in. They might catch on. They might be looking for it. Except the drunks. They don\u2019t remember shit. I steal from them all the time. Can I go now?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou memorize faces?\u201d I ask, and swear she\u2019s studying the dark moons under my eyes, the lines fissuring from my mouth, like she could give a description if the cops asked. Something blankets me, weariness or sadness, and I can\u2019t shake it off. It settles on me deep to my marrow. She\u2019s a loose end now, something to be addressed. I should\u2019ve kept my mouth shut.<\/p>\n
\u201cSometimes I dream about them. The faces, I mean. Look, it\u2019s busy. I got to go. We good here? You going to say anything to my boss?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re good,\u201d I say, although I know we\u2019re both far from it. I hold out a ten.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re weird.\u201d She snatches the bill from me and heads up the mezzanine stairs. I watch her go, but I\u2019ll be seeing her again.<\/p>\n
Freddy is nearing the end of his solo.\u00a0 The volume is increasing, the drums and bass starting to kick in. The crowd is yelling, encouraging him to reach deeper into his soul and have it flow from fingers to frets, like he hasn\u2019t given them enough already. There are whistles and people calling out, bearing witness. Freddy is lost in the music, and I\u2019m lost, too.<\/p>\n
Faces have never haunted me. They have never visited me in dreams or floated in mirrors or appeared as fleeting glimpses in crowds. I\u2019ve never memorized my marks like the waitress memorizes hers. There was no need. I knew I would never see them again, at least not in this world. Once a job is done, it\u2019s forgotten. But as I watch Freddy\u2019s face twist and contort reflecting the sound he\u2019s squeezing from his Gibson, I wonder if his features will haunt me. I\u2019ve watched that face on stage for years. It has stared back at me from album covers and cd cases, from posters and handbills, even the occasional t-shirt. It\u2019s the face of a man I have admired and paid to watch long before I took this job. His face, I\u2019m certain, will stay with me.<\/p>\n
The audience is on their feet now, clapping and yelling as Freddy finishes his set. My stomach twists a little as he announces a short break and reminds them to tip the bartender and waitress. He\u2019s off the stage now, moving through the crowd towards the alley door. He stops to shake hands and pose for pictures. I check if anyone is following him, but the fat bass player is leaning against the stool, mopping his face with a towel. The drummer is already at the bar ordering a drink.<\/p>\n
I shoulder my way through the crowd, trying not to bump or jostle anyone who might remember. There\u2019s no rush. My pace matches Freddy\u2019s. He slips into the alley alone. My sport coat is already unbuttoned as I reach the door. One hand turns the knob, the other slides inside my jacket. I step outside. Freddy is facing me, bent forward, shielding the lighter from the wind with his body. He squints through the smoke as I move away from the door. No one else is in the alley, no kids passing a bowl, no bums scrounging for empties, no lovers against the wall. It\u2019s clear to Amherst Street. I pull the P22 from my shoulder holster, the suppressor already attached.\u00a0 Freddy straightens, drops his lighter, realizing there will be no second set tonight.<\/p>\n
The alley door opens and, goddamn it, the blonde waitress steps through. I should be relieved. She\u2019s made it easy on me. I don\u2019t have to come back looking for her now. But she doesn\u2019t belong in this alley, at this moment, stumbling into something she doesn\u2019t understand. Maybe I don\u2019t belong here either anymore. Why isn\u2019t she inside hustling drinks or nickel-and-diming drunks? Did she follow Freddy out here to share a cig or did she follow me?<\/p>\n
God damn it.<\/p>\n
She gapes at the gun. Our eyes lock and hers grow wide. She realizes what I am. Not a cop. Not a Jesus nut. Not her conscious. I\u2019m something much worse. Her mouth opens to say something or perhaps scream, but no sound comes out except the exhale of her final breath, but only I know that. I swallow hard and steady my hand, certain these two faces will haunt me not only in half-fogged mirrors and restless dreams, but also each time I hear a blues guitar weep as if it\u2019s mourning the presence of lost and remorseful souls.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I walk to the bar, scanning the crowd for off-duty cops and ex-soldiers, trying to spot thick necks, short hair, dick eyes. No one looks like they\u2019d get involved. There\u2019s no heroes in this audience. I\u2019m the only one wearing a sport coat, but that\u2019s okay. It\u2019s not an Armani or Calvin Klein, something people might notice, just a cheap jacket I bought off the rack at AMVETS for a couple bucks. The fabric is shiny in places, the cuffs frayed, but it\u2019s comfortable and keeps everything covered when I\u2019m strapped.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":17911,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17858","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-stephen-g-eoannou-2"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17858","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17858"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17858\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17912,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17858\/revisions\/17912"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/17911"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17858"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17858"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17858"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}