whether Coco came here sometimes, sat alone at the bar and thought about Gabrielle. And then he wondered why the man had not been present at her funeral.
Max went down. As he passed the half landing, the sound of subdued conversation, the clink of glasses, and soft laughter rose to meet him. He hoped none of that would stop when he entered.
It was a small bar with brick walls, a vaulted ceiling, and a flagstone floor. The bar itself was brick-fronted, and the furniture scattered around the place was all dark, old wood, well used and comfortable. A candle on each table gave an intimate lighting level. There were maybe thirty people sitting around in small groups or couples, men and women, black and white and every hue in between. A skinny guy working the bar might have been Native American, or some perfect mélange of heritage that gave him skin with the color and gleam of bronze.
Max walked directly to the bar as though he belonged,
smiling and nodding at the barman and receiving a smile in return.
“What'll it be?”
“You do crustas?”
The barman's grin widened, and he uttered a deep, slow laugh. “Do we do crustas?” He went about mixing the cocktail, his movements smooth and fluid without verging on cocky, the product of experience rather than practice.
Max put the book on the bar, leaned sideways, and looked around. He caught a couple of patrons’ eyes, and swapped polite nods and smiles. Most of the people here seemed upbeat, but there were enough sad faces to remind the still air of the place that a storm had passed them by. The laughter was low but honest, and to Max it felt like an easy place.
He wondered whether Coco was down here right now, but he thought not. He wasn't quite sure
why
he thought that—he had no idea what the guy looked like—but he'd have a
feeling
if Gabrielle's other love were in the same room with him. A hint. Maybe he'd see a similar loss in that other man's eyes.
“Here you go,” the bartender said, sliding a glass across to Max.
Max nodded his thanks and handed over a ten, then took one of the bar stools and sat down.
“Nice place,” he said. “You the owner?”
“Been in my family fifty years,” the barman said. He swilled the cocktail shaker and dried it, repositioned clean glasses, wiped the bar, always on the move, always working.His smile looked painted on, but the paint was contentment, not fakery.
“I've only just come back,” Max said, then decided not to elaborate. If he admitted to being an outsider, maybe the barman would feel less inclined to help him.
“Yeah, well…” He poured a glass of soda, dropped in a slice of lime, and took a drink. “Lotsa people still away. Lotsa people not gonna make it back.”
“Plenty.” Max drank and sighed, feeling the alcohol hit instantly. Maybe whatever shit had been in that clay bottle had lowered his tolerance. “Actually, I'm looking for a guy called Coco. You seen him around?”
Something changed. The bartender's smile remained, but the muscles used to keep it there altered, strained rather than flexed. He took another drink of his soda, perhaps so that he could look away from Max and up at the ceiling.
Max glanced around the bar again, as if looking for the man himself. He was pretty sure no one else had heard the question, and he wished he'd asked louder.
“What you want him for?” the bartender asked.
Max turned back, and the man was mopping the bar top again. It was clean and dry, but obviously it needed to be cleaner, and drier.
“Just to chat,” Max said.
“Don't know any Coco,” the bartender said, shrugging.
Max frowned. What was this? The guy was obviously lying. He'd just asked what Max wanted with him.
“What about Gabrielle Doucette?”
“Who?” This time the man's shrug seemed genuine.
“Guess not,” Max said.
“Refill?” the bartender said, taking the empty glass. Even his smile had slipped now, and it was clear that he really didn't want to serve Max
Max went down. As he passed the half landing, the sound of subdued conversation, the clink of glasses, and soft laughter rose to meet him. He hoped none of that would stop when he entered.
It was a small bar with brick walls, a vaulted ceiling, and a flagstone floor. The bar itself was brick-fronted, and the furniture scattered around the place was all dark, old wood, well used and comfortable. A candle on each table gave an intimate lighting level. There were maybe thirty people sitting around in small groups or couples, men and women, black and white and every hue in between. A skinny guy working the bar might have been Native American, or some perfect mélange of heritage that gave him skin with the color and gleam of bronze.
Max walked directly to the bar as though he belonged,
smiling and nodding at the barman and receiving a smile in return.
“What'll it be?”
“You do crustas?”
The barman's grin widened, and he uttered a deep, slow laugh. “Do we do crustas?” He went about mixing the cocktail, his movements smooth and fluid without verging on cocky, the product of experience rather than practice.
Max put the book on the bar, leaned sideways, and looked around. He caught a couple of patrons’ eyes, and swapped polite nods and smiles. Most of the people here seemed upbeat, but there were enough sad faces to remind the still air of the place that a storm had passed them by. The laughter was low but honest, and to Max it felt like an easy place.
He wondered whether Coco was down here right now, but he thought not. He wasn't quite sure
why
he thought that—he had no idea what the guy looked like—but he'd have a
feeling
if Gabrielle's other love were in the same room with him. A hint. Maybe he'd see a similar loss in that other man's eyes.
“Here you go,” the bartender said, sliding a glass across to Max.
Max nodded his thanks and handed over a ten, then took one of the bar stools and sat down.
“Nice place,” he said. “You the owner?”
“Been in my family fifty years,” the barman said. He swilled the cocktail shaker and dried it, repositioned clean glasses, wiped the bar, always on the move, always working.His smile looked painted on, but the paint was contentment, not fakery.
“I've only just come back,” Max said, then decided not to elaborate. If he admitted to being an outsider, maybe the barman would feel less inclined to help him.
“Yeah, well…” He poured a glass of soda, dropped in a slice of lime, and took a drink. “Lotsa people still away. Lotsa people not gonna make it back.”
“Plenty.” Max drank and sighed, feeling the alcohol hit instantly. Maybe whatever shit had been in that clay bottle had lowered his tolerance. “Actually, I'm looking for a guy called Coco. You seen him around?”
Something changed. The bartender's smile remained, but the muscles used to keep it there altered, strained rather than flexed. He took another drink of his soda, perhaps so that he could look away from Max and up at the ceiling.
Max glanced around the bar again, as if looking for the man himself. He was pretty sure no one else had heard the question, and he wished he'd asked louder.
“What you want him for?” the bartender asked.
Max turned back, and the man was mopping the bar top again. It was clean and dry, but obviously it needed to be cleaner, and drier.
“Just to chat,” Max said.
“Don't know any Coco,” the bartender said, shrugging.
Max frowned. What was this? The guy was obviously lying. He'd just asked what Max wanted with him.
“What about Gabrielle Doucette?”
“Who?” This time the man's shrug seemed genuine.
“Guess not,” Max said.
“Refill?” the bartender said, taking the empty glass. Even his smile had slipped now, and it was clear that he really didn't want to serve Max
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