Darby's Bar & Grill

By Michael Bridges

Through the doors of this aging bar and grill pass Harry Kell, arch-intellect; ace pizza driver Kirby Dzerzhinsky and Melody Harel, his biker-chick girlfriend; enchanting southern belle Kathryn Vosjoli and affable oddball Beans Donovan. The lives of this kaleidoscopic crew intertwine as they deal with families, romances, finding jobs and losing them, giant bugs and miniature mice, vigilantes and mysterious poets, and the world's angriest short-order cook. A mirthful, and ultimately touching, year in the lives of motley friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bridges
• Release date: Sep 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466145375

Book preview

BEANS DONOVAN SHOOK THE SNOW off his gray trench coat and stomped his feet on the mat just inside the door of Darby’s Bar & Grill. He tossed his textbooks down on a table and collapsed into a chair across from a gorgeous black-haired woman. The rest of the tables were deserted. The air smelled of beer, grease, and burned meat. The jukebox was playing Christmas music even though it was the beginning of February.

I’ve got to kill somebody, he said. Nothing personal, but it’s got to be done.

Kathryn Vosjoli polished off the last of her onion rings, pulled a dollar bill out of the pocket of her brown leather coat, and laid it on the table.

This dollar says I can guess who it is, within three tries, she said, with a gentle Louisiana accent. She tilted her chair back on two legs, smiled, and put her hands behind her head.

Done, wench, Beans said, pulling off his green toboggan. From inside it he pulled out a small wad of money. He extracted a dollar bill from the crumpled mass and laid it next to Kathryn’s. Fire when ready.

Kathryn looked up at the ceiling and thought for a few seconds. Beans ran a hand through his tousled brown hair.

That guy teaching History of English Literature, what’s-his-name.

Beans held up a finger. Strike one. Kirkland’s not on top of my list anymore.

He’s not?

Lo, I’ve cursed him unto the seventh generation, and I shall hate him until hell freezes over and the sun turns to dust, but at the moment I have a higher priority target.

Kathryn took off her steel-rimmed glasses and cleaned them on the edge of her black turtleneck while she pondered her second guess. Her eyes were gray, so pale they were almost white.

Nothing personal, huh? Lewis over in Financial Aid.

I’m sorry, that answer is incorrect. Thanks for playing, we have some wonderful parting gifts for you, including a lifetime supply of Turtle Wax. The disheveled young man leaned his chair back and put his feet up on the table. His brown boots were scuffed and torn, with the soles beginning to come free.

Kathryn put her glasses back on and leaned forward.

Then how about this? Doug Byron, over at the radio station, because he canceled your show, and announced it in the staff meeting today before letting you know. The man who killed Carruthers and Stone, Philosophical Detectives. Do I win?

Beans blew a raspberry and pushed the money toward her. Congratulations, Ms. Vosjoli. Can you believe that? No warning, nothing. Just, ‘By the way, I’ve decided to drop that comedy show on Sundays. Sorry, Beans. Not enough listeners. On to other business…’ How many people are listening to WBSR at four in the morning on Sundays? No matter what we play? Does he think that if we change format hordes of people are going to say, ‘Hey, let’s start getting up at this ungodly hour to listen to the radio’? They’re replacing my show with Muzak, for crying out loud! His blue eyes glowered at the thought.

I guess those insomniacs finally get what they need, Kathryn said, pocketing the money. And by the way, it seems to me that your reason for murder is personal.

Anyway, I’m not going along with this, Beans groused. I’m turning in my notice. Let somebody else play that stuff. I’m claustrophobic enough in that little booth. With that noise playing, I’d feel like I was taking a three-hour elevator ride.

How much is a lifetime supply of Turtle Wax, anyway? What, about three jars? I don’t think I’ve used up even half the jar that I got when I bought my Jeep.

I’m not sure, Beans said, putting his feet down. But right now I’ve got a bigger concern. I need a part-time job. Maybe Dr. Grewder can use some help over in the greenhouse at the Agricultural Center.

Beans picked up a newspaper off a nearby table. He opened it to the classified ads. Kathryn pulled out the local news section and started skimming it.

The Vigilante is still on the loose. Have you heard about him?

Beans looked up from his ads. That nut case? I give him about six weeks before he’s arrested or blown away. Some people shouldn’t read so many comic books. He looked back down at the ads. Office help, accountant, lawn-care specialist, computer operator—I hate all this stuff, he muttered, stroking his goatee. A waitress in a green and white uniform walked over and handed Beans a menu. Out of her apron pocket she took an order pad and a pen.

Hi, welcome to Darby’s! I’m Sherry. Can I get you anything to drink?

She was pretty, in a harried and frazzled sort of way. Her long brown hair was tied in a ponytail. Her eyes were a beautiful amber color and didn’t track in the same direction.

Coffee, lemon pie, clam chowder, a bowl of grits, and a toasted English muffin. You’re new, aren’t you? Beans said.

The waitress wasn’t even fazed.

I just started three days ago. Would you like the pie heated? she asked.

Beans considered for a moment. Sure, why not? he decided, looking back down at his paper. How come even simple stuff requires two years’ experience? How’s anybody supposed to get started in anything?

I don’t know, Kathryn said, standing up. I’ll be back in a minute.

She brushed off a few crumbs and walked toward the restrooms. Her gray leather boots made a squeak with every step. Beans continued his search until the waitress came back with the coffee. If you’re looking for work, maybe you could fill out an application here, she said. One of the cooks just quit this morning.

Beans looked up in surprise. Pete or Jenny? It couldn’t be Lorenzo, he lives for this place.

Pete. He said that he couldn’t take any more of college, so he bought camping gear, a motorcycle, and a laptop computer, and hit the open road. The next Jack Kerouac or something, maybe.

Beans nodded slowly. He’ll do it, too. Nothing stands in the way of Pete MacGinty, Boy Wonder.

He looked around the room. The tables, booths, and chairs were all dark wood, blocky and functional; all had some degree of graffiti carved into them. The ceiling was low and criss-crossed with heavy wooden beams. The wall across from the bar was lined with large panes of glass; more than one had cracks in it. The fluorescent lights popped and crackled. Behind the counter were an ancient coffee machine and a dinged-up white refrigerator that emitted an occasional high-pitched whirr. Seen through a serving window was the kitchen, dimly lit by a red bulb. The floor was grimy black and white tiles. Man, this place won’t seem the same without Pete, Beans said.

Kathryn returned and sat down. Find your career yet? Remember, nothing easy. Hard work builds character.

That’s your strict Calvinist upbringing showing through. I thought you’d managed to get away from that.

Most of it, true. Traces remain. The good parts, I think. By the way, I talked to Mom this morning. She says to tell you hello.

Hello right back. How’s life in the Big Easy?

Same as ever.

Beans mumbled something and continued to scan the ads. After a few minutes, Sherry brought his food and a check.

Do you want me to get that application? she asked.

Hmm? Oh, that, sure, why not? I can at least put it on my list. He put down the newspaper and stared out the window as he ate. Kathryn took the newspaper and started to read the editorial page. Beans wolfed down his food and took up the want ads again.

Hey, this looks good! Check this out! He pointed to the ad. Kathryn took the paper and started reading aloud.

‘Do what no one else will do! Sell what no one else will sell! Newbright, Incorporated, is looking for people who want to earn up to $700 a week for providing a needed service to the community! Free training, excellent medical benefits and retirement plans, recession-proof’—hey, this is cemetery sales!

Beans grinned.

They sound fairly desperate, he said. And they’re close to campus. The seven hundred a week is bogus, I’m sure, but I don’t need all that much to get by. Why not? He jammed his toboggan back on his head and gathered up his books. Beans Donovan can make money off the dying, I know it! The job is bizarre and more than a little morbid, but no experience is required and I have nothing to lose. He rushed out the door and vanished into the snow.

Kathryn stood up and headed toward the register. Beans had managed once again to leave her with both checks.

Do you think your friend wants to work here? Sherry asked.

He’s plotting something, Kathryn said, smiling. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he wound up back here— soon. And then she, too, vanished out into the snow.

2

Sharkey vs. Doggy

LET’S GO HIT Blacktop’s tonight, Melody Harel said.

Hmm. Let’s see, Kirby Dzerzhinsky replied. It’s Tuesday. I don’t normally go and get my ass kicked on Tuesdays. That’s more of a Thursday thing.

It was the fourth of February. The afternoon sky was thick with thunderclouds, and there was an occasional low rumble of thunder. Except for Sherry, Lorenzo, Melody, and Kirby, Darby’s was deserted.

Lorenzo was outside, on a rickety stepladder, with a blowtorch, trying to fix the flickering neon ampersand in Darby’s Bar & Grill. He was muttering and cursing. The street, lined with classic but decaying 19th Century buildings, led away toward the towers of downtown Whitledge. Next to Darby’s were a pawn shop, two ethnic restaurants, and a church; across the street, a once-majestic theater (named the Majestic) loomed dark and boarded.

Across the alley from the theater, an old man in a green cloak was staring intently into a liquor-store window. In the window of Darby’s, a yellowed sign announced, Free Beer Tomorrow.

Inside the bar, Melody pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her denim jacket, shook one out, and lit it off the end of the cigarette she was finishing. She was wearing a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words DOES ANYONE HERE KNOW WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? in big white letters.

Crushing out the butt of the first cigarette, she repeated, Let’s go to Blacktop’s. I’ll protect you. You can stand behind me.

I don’t think my male pride could take that, Kirby said, spearing a piece of sausage and popping it in his mouth. He wore blue jeans, a black-and-white-checked shirt, and a nylon jacket with the Tamada’s Pizza logo on the sleeve.

You have pride?

Tons of it. Bought it at the dollar store. I also have common sense, which tells me not to go to the biker bar closest to the state prison and drink with felons who just got released fifteen minutes before I showed up.

They aren’t that tough. She took a french fry off Kirby’s plate. Not when they’re sober, anyway.

Tough enough, Kirby said. The people hanging out there start brawls in the middle of Burger King because they think you cut in line at the drink machine, then kick your ass all over the parking lot without even putting down their Whoppers.

Sharkey eats there. She took another fry.

That’s because Sharkey is one of the Whopper-holders, not one of the non-Whopper-holding regular guys like me. Quit stealing from me.

Even Gilbert eats there! If a hillbilly slob like him can eat there ...

Once. He tried once. What happened to him?

Well ...

Drops of rain started to fall.

Got the crap kicked out of him, Kirby said. He paused. Actually, from the description he gave, I still think Sharkey may have been the guy who did it.

You could just ask him.

Nah. Sharkey doesn’t like people prying into his personal life. How the hell can you chew a french fry while a cigarette is hanging out of your mouth?

Ah, let’s go! You can handle it! Melody reached over and punched him lightly on the arm. You’re a tough guy.

Once again, your reach exceeds my grasp. No. No, no, no. Not only no, but hell no. No.

I’ll take that as a yes.

Take it however you want, but if you take it to Blacktop’s, you’ll take it without me. Get your own fries, dammit! Speaking of Sharkey, though, check this out: it’s about ten o’clock last night, things are just calming down from a second pizza rush—the Falcons game had just finished and we had a post-game hunger blitz—when we get this call from a house over on Oliver Street. Some guy was sitting in his living room, looks out of his big bay window, and sees the company truck blow right by his house ...

Outside, the man in the cloak had left the liquor store and now was leaning against Darby’s window, peering inquisitively at those inside. He had a short white beard and a face that looked more like beef jerky than skin. His blue eyes had a disturbing intensity. After a moment, he wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and stalked off.

Way creepy, Melody said. I wish Smelly Green-Cloak Man wouldn’t keep doing that.

Don’t worry, it’s not just you; he does that to everybody.

Anyway, Melody said, some guy sees a speeder, so what?

No, no, the truck wasn’t speeding down the street. It was speeding through his yard! Like, less than a foot from the side of his house! Tore out bushes, ripped up flower beds, and mauled one of those creepy little ceramic lawn gnomes.

No way!

"No shit, no lie. Sharkey comes storming back into the store, covered in blood and seriously pissed off. It turns out that he’d delivered a pizza three houses down from the guy who called, people moving into a new house. They had a dog, a mean one, some sort of Rottweiler-husky thing—actually, I picture it as the dog version of Sharkey, though I didn’t mention it at the time—and they didn’t have it chained up. Sharkey was getting back into the truck, and it bit him, sunk its teeth in real deep.

"Being who and what he is, Sharkey was instantly pitched into kill mode, and they went at it right there on the lawn. Apparently the dog was getting the upper hand, so Sharkey fought his way back into the truck, and tried to commit vehicular dog-icide.

"Chased him through four lawns before the dog got through a hole under a fence and Sharkey lost him. Cricket called the guy back and explained everything.

The store’s gonna pay for getting his landscaping fixed. Probably run us about five hundred bucks, but he’s not gonna sue us. Fortunately the damage to other lawns was pretty minor, and nobody else actually saw who did it, so no big harm done there, so long as the guy doesn’t roll over on us. The people who own the dog don’t want to say anything because they’d be in serious trouble for having their psycho-dog loose and attacking people. Pogues.

Seems pretty extreme, even for Sharkey.

He doesn’t like to lose fights.

He in trouble?

Kirby shrugged. Not really. Everybody just sort of wants the thing to go away, so they’re letting it lie. He got doughnut punishment for three days, and that’s it. MY FRIES, GET YOUR OWN!

Doughnut punishment?

He has to bring in doughnuts for the shift. Standard punishment for inconveniencing the store. Last time I got it was when I set the dough out to rise and forgot about it for three hours. It rose, all right, and kept on rising. Looked like a 1950s horror movie monster by the time I remembered to check on it. Right before a rush, too.

The drops of rain were becoming a downpour. A shingle tore loose and plopped to the ground outside the booth where they were sitting. Melody wrinkled her nose.

What’s that smell? Every time it rains, this place gets a really weird smell. Anyway, Blacktop’s, seven o’clock?

Listen to me: they have a contest where they grab electrodes attached to car batteries. They see who can electrocute themselves the longest. That’s insane!

That’s fun! Well, funny, anyway. It’s not like they’ll force you to play. Blacktop’s, seven o’clock?

Coroner on speed dial.

Blacktop’s, seven o’clock?

"Serial killers ordering