arrive.”
The memory of the witch woman with her spinning crystal crept into Bruce’s mind. He recalled Mme. Layla standing close to the wall, the once-ago bar marked by the lighter wood at her feet. “Did you say Og always sat at the end? Always the same place?”
“Yes. You know, as the bar curves.” Cecil made a gesture indicating the curve. “The very last stool by the wall. He only left to use the can. Nobody else took his stool, even after he died.”
“That’s some devotion,” Bruce joked.
“I’ll say. He even died there,” Cecil announced with glee.
“Did he really?” This was getting very interesting.
Cecil nodded. “I was there that night too. You could say I spent a lot of time at the Blue Parrot. Og was slumped over the counter, and we all thought he was napping. By the time we realized he was sleeping the big sleep—as the saying goes—he’d been dead for an hour at least.”
“It must’ve been a shock to you.”
“Well, a surprise, I admit, but not exactly a bombshell, considering the amount of hooch Og put away. And nothing could’ve been more fitting than him passing away right there where he spent most of his time. Even after he died…”
“Yes?”
Cecil hesitated and rubbed his ear again. “Well, I don’t want you to think I’m superstitious, but it was like he hadn’t quite left. I would sit there drinking, having a conversation, and see Og at his spot and think nothing of it at first, but then I’d remember that Og was dead. So I’d look again, and I’d see nothing out of the ordinary. And I wasn’t the only one to whom this happened either. Strangest thing—you could see Og only when you weren’t looking.”
“A ghost?”
“Damn if I know. Some of the regulars thought so. One guy insisted it was all in our heads. Our memories projecting Og’s image, and it would go away with time. We never got to find out, though, who was right, because a few months after Og’s death, the Blue Parrot met its end too.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows. One night I showed up after work, and the door was locked and shuttered. I ran into other regulars in the Frolic Room and other places later, and they didn’t know a thing either. It was an end to an era, I tell you.”
“This is the most fascinating story I’ve heard in a long time,” Bruce admitted truthfully.
Cecil gave a wheezy chuckle. “If you live to my age and haven’t a bucketful of screwy stories to tell, you’ve lived your life wrong.”
The old guy’s spirit made Bruce chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He knew his next question was a long shot, but he had nothing to lose. “Were there ever any rumors about something hidden in the bar?”
“Hm.” The wrinkles making up Cecil’s face deepened—a feat Bruce hadn’t thought possible. “I don’t recall… Unless… But of course!” Cecil beamed and held up a triumphant, albeit trembling finger.
“Yes?” Bruce leaned forward so as not to miss a single word.
Cecil pointed his finger at Bruce. “The story about Quinn being a hired killer, well, I think I know how it started. There was an article in the paper about a man in Texas. This man—I can’t recall his name for the life of me—he was digging a well in his backyard and struck oil. And got rich overnight. As you might expect, we all joked about it—you know, how nice it would be, but we’d be more likely to find dead cats in our own yards, those who had yards. Og made a comment that you never know what’s under your feet, or some such thing. Which is just idle talk, right? But Quinn got cross like we’d never seen him and told Og to shut his mouth.”
“Hah.” As intriguing as this tidbit was, it didn’t shed much light on anything.
“It was queer, that’s what it was, but none of us dared to say a word, and Og clammed up, like…well, a clam, I guess. But soon after, Ronny started to speculate Quinn had killed a fellow and stashed him under the floorboards. I
The memory of the witch woman with her spinning crystal crept into Bruce’s mind. He recalled Mme. Layla standing close to the wall, the once-ago bar marked by the lighter wood at her feet. “Did you say Og always sat at the end? Always the same place?”
“Yes. You know, as the bar curves.” Cecil made a gesture indicating the curve. “The very last stool by the wall. He only left to use the can. Nobody else took his stool, even after he died.”
“That’s some devotion,” Bruce joked.
“I’ll say. He even died there,” Cecil announced with glee.
“Did he really?” This was getting very interesting.
Cecil nodded. “I was there that night too. You could say I spent a lot of time at the Blue Parrot. Og was slumped over the counter, and we all thought he was napping. By the time we realized he was sleeping the big sleep—as the saying goes—he’d been dead for an hour at least.”
“It must’ve been a shock to you.”
“Well, a surprise, I admit, but not exactly a bombshell, considering the amount of hooch Og put away. And nothing could’ve been more fitting than him passing away right there where he spent most of his time. Even after he died…”
“Yes?”
Cecil hesitated and rubbed his ear again. “Well, I don’t want you to think I’m superstitious, but it was like he hadn’t quite left. I would sit there drinking, having a conversation, and see Og at his spot and think nothing of it at first, but then I’d remember that Og was dead. So I’d look again, and I’d see nothing out of the ordinary. And I wasn’t the only one to whom this happened either. Strangest thing—you could see Og only when you weren’t looking.”
“A ghost?”
“Damn if I know. Some of the regulars thought so. One guy insisted it was all in our heads. Our memories projecting Og’s image, and it would go away with time. We never got to find out, though, who was right, because a few months after Og’s death, the Blue Parrot met its end too.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows. One night I showed up after work, and the door was locked and shuttered. I ran into other regulars in the Frolic Room and other places later, and they didn’t know a thing either. It was an end to an era, I tell you.”
“This is the most fascinating story I’ve heard in a long time,” Bruce admitted truthfully.
Cecil gave a wheezy chuckle. “If you live to my age and haven’t a bucketful of screwy stories to tell, you’ve lived your life wrong.”
The old guy’s spirit made Bruce chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He knew his next question was a long shot, but he had nothing to lose. “Were there ever any rumors about something hidden in the bar?”
“Hm.” The wrinkles making up Cecil’s face deepened—a feat Bruce hadn’t thought possible. “I don’t recall… Unless… But of course!” Cecil beamed and held up a triumphant, albeit trembling finger.
“Yes?” Bruce leaned forward so as not to miss a single word.
Cecil pointed his finger at Bruce. “The story about Quinn being a hired killer, well, I think I know how it started. There was an article in the paper about a man in Texas. This man—I can’t recall his name for the life of me—he was digging a well in his backyard and struck oil. And got rich overnight. As you might expect, we all joked about it—you know, how nice it would be, but we’d be more likely to find dead cats in our own yards, those who had yards. Og made a comment that you never know what’s under your feet, or some such thing. Which is just idle talk, right? But Quinn got cross like we’d never seen him and told Og to shut his mouth.”
“Hah.” As intriguing as this tidbit was, it didn’t shed much light on anything.
“It was queer, that’s what it was, but none of us dared to say a word, and Og clammed up, like…well, a clam, I guess. But soon after, Ronny started to speculate Quinn had killed a fellow and stashed him under the floorboards. I
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