Last Call
by Matt D'Agostino
The Cove was a seedy bar on the Pacific Coast Highway in Encinitas, California. You had to wonder what earthly force kept it from tumbling backwards down the bluffs to a salty sea grave. Its regulars were beach-bums, drunks, hookers, illegal Mexican immigrants. But at 1:30 one morning, the thick sun-bleached-door swung open and what might have passed for a gentleman entered.
The gentleman seemed not to have shaved for at least three days. Dark half-circles underlined eyes bloodshot with lack of sleep. But he seemed alert.
The gentleman removed his hat, nodded at the bartender, and took a rickety stool at the end of the bar.
A cold one was placed in front of him.
***
These were not good days, Michael thought, as he downed a large swig of Budweiser. He was more than pleased to see that, tonight, The Cove was nearly empty.
The last three evenings, Michael had frequented the bar pool to wash away his fears with a few late-night drinks. The broken-English of field workers and the occasional sexual advance from a prostitute interrupted his solitude. Still, he knew this dive would be the last place John Madison would ever come looking for him.
That is, if John Madison were even looking. Maybe Mr. Madison now resided farther south, in the Land of Mexico, living drunk on tequila, sprawled on a beach with some brown seniorita. From there, Mr. Madison could pass the time contemplating the fact that he escaped punishment for his brutal crime. From there, Mr. Madison could contemplate further vengeance. On the other guilty party.
Michael downed another gulp of brew.
She was gone.
And he was next.
Michael had spent seventy-two sleepless hours roaming the coast from San Elijo to Carlsbad since he had witnessed the news report on Channel 16 four days ago. He hadn't dared return to his apartment. He'd left behind his sunny San Diego existence to wander aimlessly, filled with the nagging fear that any one of the smiling faces he passed could mean his death. That tan, muscular lifeguard could be John Madison. That overweight man with the embarrassingly small bathing suit could John Madison. It might be that man... or that one... any of them.
And as if the men weren't bad enough, every woman he would pass trigger some memory of her.
Tina had been one of the Alley Cats down at Gutters, an 'adult bowling alley'. It combined nudity with the fun of rolling heavy colored balls while drunk at funky white pins.
Her shiny brass dance cage had hovered alluringly above lane twelve, the lane that Michael had been assigned on his first pilgrimage to 'tail alley'. The whole night had been an intoxicating fusion of thunderous pin explosions, flat tasteless beer, and gyrating oiled bodies.
Still, Michael could remember the way her eyes had drifted to him all evening, almost as if they were the only two souls in the building.
At first, he's dismissed the attention as a normal part of her nightly duties. He'd been to strip clubs before. The women on the runways were always dissecting the crowd for men who needed companionship the most. Once that man was found, and fondled a bit, the money he had with him was as good as theirs.
It had been the manner she was looking at him, though. A gaze that whispered, "Save me from this fleshy prison and I will fulfill all your fantasies and more." At least that's what Michael, after about four pitchers, thought her gaze was whispering.
Then closing time arrived. And Michael found he'd been correct.
He had been sitting there, heavy into the buzz, trying to decide if the shoes he had worn to the alley were more comfortable than the bowling shoes he had on, and if not, would he get caught wearing the alley shoes home. In the middle of this perplexing dilemma, she had tapped him on the shoulder and introduced herself. Michael couldn't help but smile, recalling his reaction to her. He'd been stunned. The tan, oiled brunette he'd been drooling over for the last three hours was actually talking to him.
"You got a name? Or should I just call you Gutter Ball?" He'd snapped himself out of his trance and mumbled some introduction. She laughed and invited him to the private lounge in back for a few late-night cocktails. Michael felt that at any moment he'd be shaken awake by the fat proprietor of the establishment, having passed out on one of the lanes.
But it was no dream.
They shared each other's company in the privacy of the inner sanctum till four in the morning. Michael had been amazed. Tina was intelligent and funny, and, best of all, found Michael to be the same. He'd imagined strippers to be hollow shells.. .all body, no brains. She was different. Her personality tapped something within him. It may have been the thrill of finding someone new or the many cocktails ingested that night, but either way, the two ended up having passionate sex on a table in the back.
And as Michael was slipping the bowling shoes back onto his feet, she asked him if they could get together again. He had said yes.
The two had started meeting on a regular basis. Before long, he had fallen in love with her. But looking back now, he couldn't help but see the warning signs he'd been blind to. He figured that the late-night meetings had been due to her schedule. She said she didn't make much money at her chosen profession and figured she was embarrassed to show him what run-down neighborhood she called home.
Michael looked at the the beer from the brown bottle in front of him. Five days ago, she was supposed to meet him at his apartment for dinner. He remembered staring at the two plates of chicken parmesan he had prepared, watching the cheese harden as the sauce grew cold. Finally the phone rang. She had been frantic, crying and babbling incoherently.
"He knows, Mike. John knows about us. He's crazy. Mike. He's crazy. My husband's going to fucking kill me..."
That was the last call he ever got from Tina Madison. Michael glanced up at the neon clock that hung on the cheap, wood-paneled wall. Its blurred hands appeared to be pointing at ten-to-two. They'd found Tina washed up on shore, the next day. The news report had stated that the stripper's system had tested positive for PCP. Authorities marked it up as another tragic overdose.
Michael knew what really happened, though. John Madison, the faceless man that haunted his days. A lunatic who had exacted a husband's brutal justice on his cheating wife. A lunatic capable of going after the man who banging his wife. The man who knew his reason for killing her, and could tell the cops.
That decided it. Michael would just disappear. His job at the beach lodge was of no importance. Hell, he hadn't shown up in days.
"Last call, buddy. This one is on the house."
The bartender placed a shot glass in front of Michael.
Michael raised it. To Tina, he thought. May her soul find peace. And mine, escape. Michael tossed back the shot, and slammed the glass down onto the bar. He'd catch a cab to the airport and book a ticket on the first flight out of town. By daybreak, he'd be flying far from this mess. He could just picture it...
An unbelievable burning struck the pit of his stomach. He wanted to cry out, in agony, but couldn't seem to muster the ability to speak. His arms and legs locked as his chest went into a series of heaving convulsions. Michael looked to the bartender, who quietly cleaned a shot glass, not caring about Michael's physical state. Michael blinked once or twice and fell to the floor dead.
A few patrons looked over. But no one moved. Another drunk had had one too many. Nothing new about that.
The gentleman stood up from his rickety stool at the end of the bar. He took one final sip from his beer and placed his hat back on top of his head. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a thick envelope filled with one-hundred-dollar bills and placed it on the bar, nodding once at the bartender, and walked out the door into the warm West Coast evening.
He was going to Mexico to find a golden beach to lie on. Who knows? Maybe some fine brown seniorita would lie with him.
