emphasis on Dad and borrowing car keys , to finish him off.
Bob finally gave a hearty laugh and admitted defeat. He dug into his pocket and handed over the keys. “You are one piece of work, my boy,” he said. “Just promise me no more singing.”
“Yup—you’re definitely Amy’s father.”
Both men laughed then stood from their stools. Bob knocked his over and started laughing harder. Patrick picked up the stool, thanked the bartender, and guided his swaying father-in-law out of Gilley’s.
*
John Brooks sat alone at a corner table. He’d heard the entire conversation between Bob Corcoran and Patrick Lambert: Earlier he had planted a bugging device beneath the bar ledge where the two men had hunkered down. He had planted the device when Patrick had gotten up to use the toilet and when Bob was busy shouting at the television, just after the Admirals had scored their one and only goal.
The conversation was minimal at first. And even if it had been substantial, little could be articulated in John’s invisible earpiece. The roar of the patrons was as good as a scrambler. But that was okay. It gave him time to study the pair; watch their body-language; observe their habits. Spot faults. Weaknesses.
When the game ended and the crowd began to filter out, John heard more. He heard and watched it all: the Santa-looking fucker salivating with pride while Patrick told him how his cunt-of-a-daughter had jammed a nail file into his dead son’s balls. How Patrick had then bitten his son’s nose off before shooting him to death. How he had stabbed Arthur repeatedly.
John sensed apprehension from Patrick when he had relayed the events of that night. If it wasn’t in his voice, it was in the way he shifted on his stool as he spoke. Truly he did not derive any pleasure from reliving the tragedy, contain any sense of pride for what he’d done. And that was good. It was a chink in the man’s armor. It showed a conscience. John Brooks’ only brush with conscience was when he had to spell it.
“You want anything else?” his waitress asked.
John shook his head and handed her two twenties. More than enough. “Keep it.”
“Thanks, hon.”
He waited for the waitress to disappear into the back before he stood and approached Bob’s stool. The bartender was wiping down the counter.
“Never misses a game does he?”
The bartender glanced up. “Who Bob? Not a chance. Rain, sleet, or snow.”
John gave a smile. The bartender turned and started wiping the opposite end of the counter. John reached under the bar, removed the bug, and stared at it with bottled rage as though the tiny device in his palm was more culprit than transmitter for the atrocities he’d heard tonight.
He ignored the bartender’s goodbye as he left.
*
John Brooks sat parked in Gilley’s lot, engine idling on a battered Dodge Dakota, bought and paid for in cash upon arrival in Harrisburg. He was playing back the conversation between Patrick and Bob on the hand-held device he had used to record the give and take. When it came to the part about Amy sticking a nail file into his dead son’s balls, John hit rewind, and played it again. He listened, immediately hit rewind, and played it again. During an attempted fourth run, John Brooks had a momentary lapse in restraint and squeezed until the device splintered in his hand, setting free a slice of plastic that pierced deep into his palm. He tossed the broken device to the floor, but did not pull the plastic shard out. He pushed it deeper into his flesh, swirling it, teasing his nerve-endings. The pain was good; it gave him a sense of control again. He pushed harder on the plastic, blood streaming down his arm, warm and sticky, pulling his sleeve to his skin like cling wrap.
Better now, John Brooks pulled the plastic shard from his hand, wiped his bloodied palm on his jeans, and flicked the shard out his window like a cigarette butt. He pulled away from the bar humming “Cats in the
Bob finally gave a hearty laugh and admitted defeat. He dug into his pocket and handed over the keys. “You are one piece of work, my boy,” he said. “Just promise me no more singing.”
“Yup—you’re definitely Amy’s father.”
Both men laughed then stood from their stools. Bob knocked his over and started laughing harder. Patrick picked up the stool, thanked the bartender, and guided his swaying father-in-law out of Gilley’s.
*
John Brooks sat alone at a corner table. He’d heard the entire conversation between Bob Corcoran and Patrick Lambert: Earlier he had planted a bugging device beneath the bar ledge where the two men had hunkered down. He had planted the device when Patrick had gotten up to use the toilet and when Bob was busy shouting at the television, just after the Admirals had scored their one and only goal.
The conversation was minimal at first. And even if it had been substantial, little could be articulated in John’s invisible earpiece. The roar of the patrons was as good as a scrambler. But that was okay. It gave him time to study the pair; watch their body-language; observe their habits. Spot faults. Weaknesses.
When the game ended and the crowd began to filter out, John heard more. He heard and watched it all: the Santa-looking fucker salivating with pride while Patrick told him how his cunt-of-a-daughter had jammed a nail file into his dead son’s balls. How Patrick had then bitten his son’s nose off before shooting him to death. How he had stabbed Arthur repeatedly.
John sensed apprehension from Patrick when he had relayed the events of that night. If it wasn’t in his voice, it was in the way he shifted on his stool as he spoke. Truly he did not derive any pleasure from reliving the tragedy, contain any sense of pride for what he’d done. And that was good. It was a chink in the man’s armor. It showed a conscience. John Brooks’ only brush with conscience was when he had to spell it.
“You want anything else?” his waitress asked.
John shook his head and handed her two twenties. More than enough. “Keep it.”
“Thanks, hon.”
He waited for the waitress to disappear into the back before he stood and approached Bob’s stool. The bartender was wiping down the counter.
“Never misses a game does he?”
The bartender glanced up. “Who Bob? Not a chance. Rain, sleet, or snow.”
John gave a smile. The bartender turned and started wiping the opposite end of the counter. John reached under the bar, removed the bug, and stared at it with bottled rage as though the tiny device in his palm was more culprit than transmitter for the atrocities he’d heard tonight.
He ignored the bartender’s goodbye as he left.
*
John Brooks sat parked in Gilley’s lot, engine idling on a battered Dodge Dakota, bought and paid for in cash upon arrival in Harrisburg. He was playing back the conversation between Patrick and Bob on the hand-held device he had used to record the give and take. When it came to the part about Amy sticking a nail file into his dead son’s balls, John hit rewind, and played it again. He listened, immediately hit rewind, and played it again. During an attempted fourth run, John Brooks had a momentary lapse in restraint and squeezed until the device splintered in his hand, setting free a slice of plastic that pierced deep into his palm. He tossed the broken device to the floor, but did not pull the plastic shard out. He pushed it deeper into his flesh, swirling it, teasing his nerve-endings. The pain was good; it gave him a sense of control again. He pushed harder on the plastic, blood streaming down his arm, warm and sticky, pulling his sleeve to his skin like cling wrap.
Better now, John Brooks pulled the plastic shard from his hand, wiped his bloodied palm on his jeans, and flicked the shard out his window like a cigarette butt. He pulled away from the bar humming “Cats in the
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