reading

Maybe he should just give up. He’d broken promises to himself before. But this particular promise held him with an almost supernatural power. He’d stopped attending to his usual tasks, let his business fall by the wayside, and given up on his other writing. It was even hurting his family relationships. He had to get this story written.

And yet the only story ideas he could think of containing a contract all involved that beaten-to-death idea of a deal with the Devil. Probably two-thirds of the submissions would fall into that category, and he did not want his to be one of them.

Still, all that came to mind was: the Devil, the Devil, the Devil…He’d even started imagining the odor of burning sulfur on occasion. He’d developed a fixation. Maybe it was time to see a psychiatrist.

He groaned and buried his face in his hands—and there it was again. Burning sulfur. Brimstone. He jerked his head up, determined to sniff out the source, but his attention was caught by the computer screen. The blank page was now full of words. What…?

Before he had a chance to start reading, the page faded and was replaced by the leering, behorned face of the Devil.

That’s it. I’ve totally lost it. He reached out and slammed the lid on his laptop.

It popped back open.

“Now, now,” Satan said. “That’s no way to treat a fellow who’s trying to do you a favor.”

Right. Even if it was only a hallucination, he was not going to make any deals with that…that…Well, with that.

“Don’t decide so quickly,” Satan went on, apparently reading his mind. “You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”

“Don’t have to. Don’t want to.”

“Tut-tut. No need for petulance.” With a poof! accompanied by the smell of fried electronics, Satan stood next to him.

“Aah!” Fisher jumped away so hard he and his chair fell over backwards. He rolled off carefully—he wasn’t as young as he used to be—stood, and backed against the wall. His laptop, still on the desk, smoked. Huh. Yeah, some favor. “Just beat it, will you?”

Satan grasped the overturned chair with one red hand. “Allow me.” He set the chair on its feet, leaving a charred handprint in the wood. “Have a seat.” He snapped his fingers and another chair appeared, already on fire. Satan took that seat for himself.

Fisher hesitated but finally sat. He wasn’t going to get out of this by closing his eyes and clapping his hands over his ears. Satan clearly wouldn’t leave until he’d had his say. Best listen and get it over with. “Go on, then.”

Satan grinned. “That’s better. Now, we both know the problem you’re having. I can solve it for you.”

“At what price?”

Satan shrugged. “The usual. But payback’s a long way off—”

“Like hell—uh, I mean…I’m over sixty already.”

“But think of how miserable you are!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Fisher closed his eyes. “Go on.” No point arguing. Let Satan make his pitch and then refuse.

“I can give you a thousand great story ideas you could use for this anthology. Pick one, write the story, and submit it. And then, even if it turns out your anxiety over the issue really has nothing to do with this story but is just because…well, you know…because you’re a little crazy—”

“Ha!” Of course he was crazy! Talking to the Devil. He didn’t even believe in the Devil. Which didn’t make him any more inclined to bargain. No point taking chances.

“Don’t interrupt. Even if that’s the problem, I can fix it. Well…” Satan waggled his hand. “I can fix it like you were before you found out about this anthology. No crazier than that. I’m not all powerful, you know.” He cast a nervous glance in the direction of the ceiling.

Fisher shook his head. “Not interested. I can’t write stories based on other people’s ideas. They’ve got to come from inside me—”

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do!” Satan beamed. “The ideas will well up from your subconscious, bringing all the excitement your own ideas generate. You won’t be able to tell your ideas from the ones I supply.”

“But…if I can’t tell, how will I even know I’ve picked one of yours? I might have my own idea and write that—” He caught himself. Why was he arguing? Just say, No!

“Not to worry!” Satan waved his hand carelessly, nearly setting fire to some papers on the desk. “If you get your own idea, why should I care? If you write a story and submit it and feel better about the whole thing, then I’ve done my part, right?”

The barest glimmering of a way out tickled the back of Fisher’s mind. “You mean it doesn’t matter what story I write? If I submit it, you’ll still guarantee that I’ll feel better? And you guarantee that I will be able to write something?”

“You got it, bud.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“Hey, don’t I always? And, uh,”—Satan glanced at the ceiling again—“if I ever, even once, go back on my word, all the souls I’ve harvested get set free. That would be a disaster. I’d lose the respect of all my subordinates, you know?”

Fisher shook his head. “Listen, Satan—”

“That’s Mr. Satan, to you.”

“Whatever. I just don’t know—”

“What’s not to know?”

“Well, there’s my computer—”

“A trifle.” Satan snapped his fingers. The laptop stopped smoking, the screen flickered, and the blank page reappeared.

“O-o-o-o-kay.” That was easier than he’d expected. Might as well try for the kicker. “One more thing. The story I submit has to be accepted.”

Satan narrowed his eyes. “You trying to trick me?”

“Yeah, you. You’re smarter than you look. Of course, you look rather stupid.” Satan thought a moment. “Okay, we’ll do it this way—yeah, if the story isn’t accepted, the contract is void. But you have to submit a story that meets the requirements. So no submitting a story that doesn’t have a contract in it or that’s over seventy-five hundred words. And you have to write it as well as you can—no deliberate grammar or stylistic errors. If you fail in any of those regards, I win.”

Rats! Those were exactly the things he’d been planning.

“So, then. Here’s the contract.”

Fisher read it. Not that he was going to sign, not with Satan having figured out his dodge. But how often does one get a chance to read an actual contract with the Devil? To his surprise, it wasn’t full of legalese. It was, in fact, very clear and easy to understand and had exactly the conditions they’d arrived at.

And then Fisher had another thought, one that Satan couldn’t possibly have read in his mind and guarded against in the contract, because he hadn’t had the thought till after the contract was prepared. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll sign this. Uh, what with?” He hated getting his finger pricked and didn’t think doing so would supply enough blood anyway.

“Try your pen,” Satan said. “Maybe you aren’t so smart after all.”

Fisher signed the contract.

Satan ran his finger underneath Fisher’s signature, burning the name Lucifer Satan into the paper. Then he snatched the contract and said, “See you in a few years, sucker,” and disappeared.

Fisher smiled. His spirits weren’t dampened, not even by Satan having left his burning chair behind. The ideas were popping up in his head already, and wow! they were good.

But he didn’t plan to use any of them. Not for this anthology. He was going to write what actually happened.

It met all the requirements, after all. But it was one of those make-a-deal-with-the-Devil stories. It would never get into the anthology. No way would a story like that be accepted.

The course of F.A. Fisher’s life was determined in utero, when he was introduced to science fiction and fantasy by way of his mother reading The Chronicle of Narnia to his older sister. Though he grew up among the first generation where television was commonplace, he was of a contrary nature and spent most of his time reading. That contrariness continued in college, where he ignored his adviser and chose an area major, which allowed him to take whatever he wanted, with the result that his degree didn’t prepare him for any job whatsoever—except perhaps writing.

He was raised in an era without computers or even hand calculators, so naturally he got a master’s degree in computer science. And though he loved learning, he always hated school, so of course he got his second master’s in education. He’d wanted to become a writer from an early age, so it followed that he went through a number of other jobs, including two self-start companies, before putting out his first book.

Somewhere along the way he developed a deep and abiding hatred for typos. Fortunately, by now his contrariness has abated, so if you find a typo in any of his books, let him know, and he’ll fix it.

Pandir Decloaked, the sequel to Cloaks, is his second novel. His third Cloaks novel is due out in May 2018.

Jack panicked and flailed his arms, trying to grab hold of any part of Billy, the man pressing Jack’s face into the puddle in the middle of the street. The water’s surface engulfed Jack’s forehead and eyes; his nose and mouth scrunched into the mud at the bottom. He knew he had only a few more moments before his lights went out.

Jack sprawled out his arms, like a bird in flight, in a final effort to grip anything as a potential weapon to smash his assailant’s head before he lost all consciousness. The clock wound down. The end was nigh.

And why weren’t any of the onlooking pedestrians helping a man obviously being drowned in a shallow puddle? What kind of blind-eye town had his home become?

Jack felt the leather of the man’s chaps and danced his fingertips toward the man’s knee—the epicenter of the force keeping Jack trapped underwater in a four-inch puddle.

Maybe he should open his mouth and take a breath of water, like a reverse fish out of water. Just stop fighting and let the fluid fill his lungs, and he could drift into a peaceful slumber. That would teach them all—a selfish martyr inflicting psychological retribution, even if he wasn’t alive to reap the satisfaction.

A fist closed around his mangled and knotted long blond hair to lift Jack’s submersed face from the puddle of rainwater.

Jack gasped, inhaling as much clean air as possible, blinking to suppress the black dots that had invaded the back of his eyelids while underwater.

Billy’s lips and scratchy facial hair grazed Jack’s earlobe. “It’s over now.”

Jack nodded, swallowing forcefully to purge the stench of Billy’s alcohol-laden breath from his nostrils.

“Get on your feet,” Billy whispered.

Jack and Billy rose, and Billy released his grasp on Jack’s cowhide vest.

Jack adjusted his gun belt and quickly touched the handle of his revolver to confirm it had not been swiped during the fray.

Billy stepped onto the sidewalk to get out of the pathway of an oncoming horse-drawn carriage.

Jack scanned the onlooking crowd that had congregated to watch the tiff.

“And none of you had the decency to intervene?” Jack yelled at the slowly dispersing and disappointed crowd. “I could’ve died!”

The swinging doors of the Golden Rose Saloon opened, and Jericho stepped outside, clapping slowly, mocking both Billy’s benevolent mercy and Jack’s near-death experience. Jericho stopped and laid a hand atop one of the doors and removed a matchstick from his mouth.

“That’s what they wanted. A show. The whole bloodthirsty lot of ’em.” He stepped closer. “You should’ve run him through, Billy. This town’d be a little…cleaner without that dirty rodent hanging ’round.”

Jack brushed the dust and sand off his pants and glared at Jericho. Jack’s horse, tethered to the hitching post next to the Golden Rose’s entrance, snorted and shook his mane.

Jericho tossed his matchstick into the road and gestured for both men to cross the street. “Come. Two drinks. On the house. Let’s settle your squabble like gents,…like civilized businessmen.”

Jericho turned and disappeared into his saloon—the swinging doors came to rest, one door slightly misaligned with its mate.

Jack shoved Billy in retaliation before they headed into the Golden Rose.

The doors swung shut behind them, and Jericho stood behind the bar, pouring three gills of whiskey.

“Sit. Both of you.”

Jericho turned his back to his only two patrons and replaced the whiskey bottle in the trough behind him.

Jack glanced at his drink and then eyed the barkeep suspiciously.

“Drink!” Jericho instructed when he turned around and noticed both glasses remained untouched.

Billy lifted his glass off the counter. He tilted his head ever so slightly to bring Jack into his peripheral vision.

“Truce?” Billy asked, not committing to full-blown eye contact yet with the man he had just tried to drown in a muddy puddle on Main Street.

Jack raised his glass to agree, swallowing his pride and his manhood.

Jericho slammed both hands onto the bar. “No!”

The move startled Billy and Jack, a small wave of brown liquid capsizing over the rim of Billy’s glass.

“Did you guys see how many gawking lookie-loos couldn’t help but stop and watch?”

Jack brought his glass to his lips; Jericho’s perspective of the situation intrigued him. He tilted the glass so the alcohol rushed toward his open mouth.

Jericho slapped the drink from Jack’s grasp with the back of his hand, sending the cup and the liquor across the empty saloon.

“Not…for…you,” Jericho said, leaning on his elbows to level his gaze with Jack’s. “You already owe me too much.”

Billy slowly removed his glass from his lips and cautiously set his drink on the bar without taking a sip. He cleared his throat and rubbed his sweaty palms on his chaps.

“Not you, partner,” Jericho said, shifting his gaze to Billy. “You drink up. It’s this one here who has an unpaid tab.”

Jack swallowed hard and leaned backward on the stool.

Jericho stood upright and downed his gill of whiskey in one gulp. He slammed the empty glass on the counter and clapped once loudly.

“How much do you owe me now, Mr. Jack?”

Jack shook his head. The tab had been increasing, running for years now—first with just the occasional drink, then the occasional lady, then the frequent gambling, then the even more frequent—

Jack met his gaze. “I’ve lost count.”

Jericho wiped the bar with a dingy yellowed dish towel. “It’s more than the worth of your life at this point, I can tell you that much.”

Jack picked at a cuticle on his index finger and nervously adjusted the weight of his holster.

“And you, Mr. William,” Jericho said, facing Billy. “I don’t suppose you have that post letter about your wife.”

Billy’s eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pursed. “What the hell do you know about that?”

The barkeep leaned across the counter. “I’m the one who mailed it. I know where Mary Jane is.”

Billy grabbed Jericho’s lapel. “And what’s it to you?”

Jericho looked at Billy’s hand and grabbed his wrist. He pulled the fistful of fabric from Billy’s grip and calmly stepped backward.

“The facts are simple. Your wife is missing, and I know where she is. And this whoremongering yack”—he tilted his chin in Jack’s direction—“owes me a pretty penny.”

“What’s the play?” Billy asked, wringing his hands, afraid to take a sip of his whiskey.

Jericho topped his own glass again and scratched his scruffy chin. “A situation where we all come out winners.”

The Golden Rose’s double doors swung open, and a couple men entered, their spurs clack-clack-clacking on the uneven wooden floor.

“Closed right now, gents,” Jericho called out. “Be open in a jiffy, depending on what these two decide and how quickly they decide it.”

The newcomers nodded, respectfully dipping their broad-brimmed hats between their thumb and index fingers, and exited the saloon.

“Go on,” Jack said.

Jericho circled the rim of his glass with his fingertip and cocked his head. “A duel.”

“A good ol’-fashion gunfight. Right out front them doors. A showdown at high noon. This weekend.”

Billy cleared his throat and shifted on his bar stool. “Usually people don’t tell me what I’m to do or where. That’s for me to decide.”

Jericho slapped his dish towel over his shoulder. “Not this time, partner. I’ll get your wife back to you, if you prevail. And, Jack,”—Jericho turned to face the man sitting next to Billy—“if you prevail, your debt with me is settled.”

Jack scratched his nose and unholstered his revolver. “I smell something mighty fishy.” He placed the weapon on the bar.

“If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not working. Let me take care of the details. You two just make sure you’re out front, high noon, on Saturday.”

Billy tossed back his drink. “Sounds all right with me.” He turned to Jack. “Come wearing your big-boy britches. You’re gonna need them. Don’t want to be staining your pants before I run you through.”

Jack holstered his revolver as Billy slid off the bar stool and headed for the door.

“Not so fast, partner,” Jericho advised. “I need this in writing. Can’t have you two welching on me.”

The barkeep slid a piece of parchment across the counter for the pair of gunslingers to sign.

Within minutes, Jericho’s saloon was cramped with men and women throwing money at him, placing bets on who would win the duel. Within hours, he had recouped enough money to satisfy Jack’s debt and then some, no matter which gunslinger won.

Jack turned toward her. “I signed a deal, honeybee. Jericho has been selling tickets all week. It’s become more of a spectacle than anything at this point. But that’s what he wanted. He’s a surefire ringleader. He might be crazier than a run-over coon, but I’m not a coward.”

“I know you aren’t,” she said and stroked his arm.

Jack lifted his gun belt and fastened his holster to his side. “Plus, if I win, years of debt and regret die outside that bloody fool’s saloon.”

“But if you lose…”

“Then I wasn’t the best man today. And Billy gets his wife back. Don’t you see? No matter who wins, there is a happy ending.”

Mary Jane removed her hand from his arm and looked at the floor. “I know we’ve only known each other a short time, but please don’t leave me alone.”

Jack pressed his lips to hers so forcefully she stumbled backward. “No matter what happens today, at least my debt will be paid.”

“To that bugger who dreamed up this mess!” Mary Jane said and stormed from the room.

Jack took a deep breath and inspected himself in the bedroom mirror. He tugged on his gun belt and drew his revolver with lightning speed, pointing it at his reflection.

“You still got it, old hoss.”

“Ladies and gents. Today’s the day we’ve all been waiting for, the day you’ve all paid for. Today I give you two of the county’s more…interesting vermin.”

Jack peered through the saloon’s window at the growing crowd. He glanced at Billy, who looked through the slits next to the other side of the swinging doors. The saloon was empty. A low-hanging haze of stale tobacco enveloped the two gunslingers. Jack clicked his tongue to get Billy’s attention.

Billy shook his head and looked at his boots.

Jericho worked the crowd. “Some of you have placed your hard-earned money on the womanizing and gambling Jack Campbell.”

A cheer rose up from some of the crowd.

Jack noticed a few children clap and jump up and down at the mention of his name.

“Who brings their young’ns to a gunfight?” Jack whispered.

Billy glanced at him. “The whole town is out there. And everyone has picked a winner. They’ve placed bets on us. Some of those young’ns will go hungry for the next week because of this fight.”

Jericho continued to address the townsfolk. “And some of you have placed your worth on the deceitful and betraying Billy Tench.”

Another cheer rose from the remainder of the crowd.

“If the Golden Rose Saloon can promise you one thing, it’s a show worthy of the money you spent betting on your favorite gunslinger.”

Jack watched Billy tighten his gun belt.

“You want a drink before we do this?” Jack asked.

Billy finished adjusting his belt and confirmed a single round was in his revolver’s chamber.

“I think that’s fitting,” he answered.

They approached the empty bar and heard Jericho spewing clichés like some circus barker to the assembled crowd outside, spurring them on and sustaining their enthusiasm for the upcoming duel.

Billy reached behind the bar and placed a bottle of scotch on the counter.

“Now you’re talking,” Jack said.

Billy poured two glasses and raised his. “To keeping our promises.”

Jack nodded and clinked his glass to his adversary’s.

Billy swallowed his scotch in one gulp, growled, and slammed down the glass. “Let’s do this.”

Jack shielded his eyes from the sunlight with his forearm as the crowd erupted in a ruckus.

“No matter who you have placed your bets on, today’s show, ladies and gents, is sure to be one for the ages!”

Jack and Billy approached Jericho, who stood in the middle of the intersection, acting like a deranged conductor of the townsfolk’s emotions and monetary stability.

“Don’t you dare come out here acting like friends,” Jericho hissed. “These people have bet on a gruesome bloodbath, and I shall deliver. You’re both fighting for your lives. Remember that. Your signatures say so.”

Billy nodded and turned his back to Jack.

“There you have it, ladies and gents!” Jericho announced. “The showdown is about to begin.”

The crowd applauded, and a few conscientious mothers tucked their wee ones behind their legs. Jericho bowed and trotted toward the curb in front of his saloon. He shook the sheriff’s hand, slipping a hefty note into it, and turned to see the two gunslingers place their backs against each other.

The crowd’s roar consumed any conspiring words the men spoke among themselves just before the duelists took their predetermined number of steps. The crowd’s frenzied excitement also masked the gunslingers’ understanding nods after they turned to face each other…their weapons still holstered.

Then the two gunslingers shook hands, mounted their horses, and rode off together down Main Street.

A man in the crowd angrily waved a handwritten blue ticket containing one of the duelists’ names. He turned to his wife in disgust at the gunslingers’ anticlimactic exit. “That’s the last one of these gunfights you’re ever gonna drag me to.”

He dropped the ticket in the empty roadway. The man pushed through the crowd toward the saloon. “Jericho! You owe my family and many of these fine people a refund!”

The barkeep made his way to the back of the Golden Rose and manhandled his shotgun.

“C’mon in and get it!”

The sheriff pushed through the swinging doors and raised a hand. “Whoa, now. Put that away. Just refund these people what they bet, and business here can continue as usual.”

Jericho quickly eyed the angry mob entering the Golden Rose—people demanding refunds on the botched duel, money he didn’t have anymore. He scurried through a side door behind the bar, and the scorned and angry townsfolk followed suit.

“Want some?” Billy asked.

Jack nodded and took the flask. “I didn’t want to fight either.”

“I think you’ve settled your debt with Jericho,” Billy said. “And I don’t think it has anything to do with profit.”

Jack spit out his mouthful of alcohol in laughter. “Yeah, I guess he really got his this time, huh? I hope they looted his joint when he couldn’t pay up.”

“Yessiree, you got him good there. Jericho used your debt to manipulate you and then tried to make money off your death. Despicable.”

Jack handed the flask back to Billy. The sun cast elongated horse shadows on the desert sand.

“That idiot,” Billy said as he wiped a dribble of whiskey from the corner of his mouth, “never realized I knew he was shacking up with that wench I call a wife. That’s why my end of the contract was such a farce. He had my whoring wife all along.”

Jack rode in silence for a moment. The galloping muscles of the steed under his legs gave him the courage he didn’t usually have.

“I guess I should thank you,” Jack said.

“We both won today,” Billy replied. “If we had dueled, one of us would have lost, and, no matter who lost, Jericho would have won his money. It was the only way to beat that rodent. Plus, he can have and do whatever he wants with Mary Jane…that floozy. Here he was, trying to fool me into believing he knows where my wife is when he was the one plugging her the whole time.”

Jack’s eyes widened as he swallowed hard and subconsciously patted the butt of his revolver. “I’ll take another swig, if you don’t mind, friend.”

Billy handed Jack the last of the drink in the flask as the two gunslingers rode into the sprawling, barren landscape ahead.

Brian Paone was born and raised in the Salem, Massachusetts area. Brian has, thus far, published four novels: a memoir about being friends with a drug-addicted rock star, Dreams Are Unfinished Thoughts; a macabre cerebral-horror novel, Welcome to Parkview; a time-travel romance novel, Yours Truly, 2095, (which was nominated for a Hugo Award, though it did not make the finalists); and a supernatural, crime-noir detective novel, Moonlight City Drive.

Along with his four novels, Brian has published three short stories: “Outside of Heaven,” which is featured in the anthology, A Matter of Words; “The Whaler’s Dues,” which is featured in the anthology, A Journey of Words; and “Anesthetize (or A Dream Played in Reverse on Piano Keys),” which is featured in the anthology, A Haunting of Words.

Brian is also a vocalist and has released seven albums with his four bands: Yellow #1, Drop Kick Jesus, The Grave Machine, and Transpose.

Brian is married to a US Naval Officer, and they have four children. He is a retired police officer and worked in law enforcement for sixteen years from 2002 - 2018. He is a self-proclaimed roller coaster junkie, a New England Patriots fanatic, and his favorite color is burnt orange. For more information on all his books and music, visit www.BrianPaone.com.

On the brick wall behind him, someone had crudely spray-painted: Graffiti is a crime.

“I don’t know,” Mike said. “What?”

“A drunk doesn’t have to go to all those damn meetings.”

Mike studied the man. He was about the right age—seventy or so. Although, these hard drinkers were often lots younger than they looked. His shoulders were wide and his facial bones sharp. Thinning gray hair, complexion of a redhead. Yellowish teeth, but all there. He looked a lot like Buster. He could be Buster’s brother.

“So, which are you?” Mike asked.

“Take a wild guess.”

A drunk was Mike’s guess, but he didn’t say this aloud. He moved a step closer to the man and took a discreet sniff. The body odor wasn’t as bad as he expected.

“How do you bathe?”

“How do I bathe?” the guy said, his mouth twisted in disgust. “How do you bathe? With water and a goddamn bar of soap! What a question. How do I bathe.”

“I mean, how do you bathe, living on the streets?”

The man dropped his jaw in incredulity. “On the streets? Why in the name of Christ would you assume I live on the streets?”

Mike glanced at the tarp, the trash strewn about, and said, “I don’t know. Sorry. Where do you live, then?”

The man stood, stumbling a little. He turned around (a flask poked out of his back pocket) and pointed up at the shabby brick building he now faced. “Up there on the third floor. I have a room. On the streets. Christ Almighty.”

“Sorry,” Mike said again. “My mistake.”

So, the guy had a home. Good. And broad shoulders and a bony face and an easily offended personality. All good.

“What’s your name?” Wouldn’t it be freaky if the guy’s name was Buster?

“My name’s Mackie. Who wants to know?” His chin jutted forward. He reached behind him and pulled the flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap and took a swallow.

Mike extended his hand. “Good to meet you. I’m Mike.”

After a moment of hesitation, the man tucked his flask back into his pocket and grasped Mike’s hand. His handshake was firm. Mike’s father had drilled the importance of a firm handshake into him from the time he was a toddler. To hear his dad tell it, the firmness of a handshake was the truest measure of a man.

“Do you have a criminal record, Mackie?” Mike cringed at the reaction he knew was coming.

“A criminal record? Do I have a criminal record? Jesus, what a question for a complete stranger to ask!” He looked around as though wanting backup for his outrage.

“The reason I ask,” Mike said, taking a step back, “is, I have a proposition for you, kind of a job offer, and I need to make sure you’re not a criminal before I hire you. If you’re interested. And if you’re free from four ’til seven every day.”

Mackie replaced his flask, and in a caricature of Man Thinking, rested an elbow in one hand and stroked his stubble with the other. “A job? You for real?”

“I’m not a criminal. Unless you call drunkenness a crime, and if you do, you’re an asshole. I’ve had a few DUIs—why do you think I live in a room instead of a house, for God’s sake? But that’s not criminal, it’s just stupidity. Drunks are stupid, idiotic, friggin’ morons—but not criminals.” He raised his eyes to the heavens. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “It does. So, you’ve lost your license?”

“My license, my car, my wife, my goddamn kids, my humanity…but I’m no criminal.”

He really should be doing background checks on all these guys, but this project was costing enough as it was. His wife, Sara, would freak if she knew the extent of it. He told her he’d gotten the bar (an intricately carved oak beauty, complete with beer tap and back mirror and shelves and brass foot rest) for $100 from the friend of a friend who was closing down a pub due to lack of business, but the true story was he bought it from a salvage shop in the trendy part of the city for $2,700, and he’d dipped into the money market account to do so. But it was so perfect, so authentic.

“For this job, you won’t have to have a car. It’s only a few blocks from here, so you can walk. It’s kind of an acting gig.”

Mackie stood a little straighter when he heard those words. He probably always figured that someday he’d be discovered.

A man in khakis walked past Mackie’s tarp, and without so much as a glance at him, tossed a dollar to the ground.

“What the goddamn hell!” Mackie shouted after the man. “I’m not homeless! Christ Almighty!”

But he picked up the bill and stuffed it in his pocket.

“The thing is,” Mike said, “I can’t pay you in cash. I can only pay you in beer. Four beers a day. Maybe five if another actor doesn’t show up that day. And one or two shots of hard liquor. The hours are four o’clock until seven. You’ll be drinking your pay in a bar.” He looked at Mackie. “You still interested?”

He looked interested. Mackie again stroked his stubble. “Is this a movie?”

“No. It’s…kind of hard to explain. Easy gig, though. You’d be going by the name of Buster. Really important. Your name would be Buster, and you’d be in Chicago. You ever been to Chicago?”

Mackie snorted. “Have I ever been to Chicago? How far away do you think Milwaukee is from Chicago?” He threw his arms out dramatically and muttered, “Have I ever been to Chicago. Damn. Who hasn’t been to Chicago?”

Mackie could not be more perfect for the part of Buster if Mike had used a casting service.

“Okay, okay, you’ve been to Chicago.” Mike paused as a garbage truck rumbled by. “So, you’re Buster, you’re in Chicago, and you’re a regular at Sully’s. Got that? Sully’s is the name of the bar. Sully is actually dead now, and the bar is run by new people, but that isn’t important.”

“I might be a drunk, but I’m not stupid.”

“I see that. Okay, now, here’s the most important part. In Sully’s, there’s a regular, like you’d be. His name’s Charlie. He’s a really important regular in this gig, so part of your job would be to engage with Charlie, to interact with and talk to Charlie, to act like you’ve known him for years and years and you’re old drinking buddies. Kind of like that show Cheers—you know that show?”

“Christ,” Mackie answered with a snort. “Everybody knows Cheers. I have a TV in my goddamn room. Do I know Cheers. Do you know Cheers?”

Mackie was the king of dripping sarcasm—but then, so was Buster.

“Name’s Buster, four ’til seven at Sully’s, four beers, maybe five, two shots, from goddamn Chicago, friends with my old buddy, Charlie.” Mackie thrust his hand towards Mike for another firm shake.

His dad would have liked this guy whose grip crushed Mike’s bones.

“Okay, then.” Mike pulled a folded sheet of paper from his front pants pocket. “I’ve got a contract here.” At Mackie’s raised eyebrows, he said, “I’m not asking your social security number or anything. This is just an agreement that you’ll follow the terms I’ve laid out. No stealing, no fighting with any of the other bar patrons, stuff like that.”

“Do you employ a bouncer?” Mackie asked.

“No. But I’m the bartender—one with the authority to kick patrons out on their asses. Violating the contract means you’re booted out the door.”

Mike had always been a runner, but in preparation had been hitting the gym daily in case any bouncing duties actually presented themselves. He hoped that just the sight of his impressive biceps would be enough. He flexed them now, thinking about it. He felt them strain at the sleeves of his button-down shirt.

“One more thing,” Mike added. “Maybe tone down the whole taking-the-Lord’s-name-in-vain thing. It doesn’t bother me, but our important bar patron Charlie’s not a fan.”

Mackie’s reddish eyebrows shot up. “You think I’m an idiot? I can do that. Christ.”

Mackie took the paper from his hand and, to Mike’s surprise, pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He rested them on his nose and studied the contract.

“It says here I get all the popcorn and peanuts I want.”

“Yes! Popcorn, peanuts, and if you like pickled eggs, there’ll be a jar of them on the bar top, too.”

Mike had never seen anyone eat a pickled egg at Sully’s; those eggs might have been fifty years old for all he knew, but they were part of the Sully’s scene, so they’d be there.

“Where do I sign?” Mackie asked, already playing a part since the Sign Here line at the bottom was plain to see.

Mike handed him a pen and Mackie signed his name.

Mike looked at the spiky signature: Andrew M. McCallister. “I guess Mackie comes from McCallister.”

“We’ve got us an Einstein here.” Mackie rolled his eyes.

Mike told him exact directions to the bar, and they parted ways with the agreement that the job started tomorrow at four o’clock.

Mike headed toward the house he’d lived in for the past three years. He’d left Sara home to fix dinner and handle things. Guilt quickened his step. As he got closer to home, the gentrification of the neighborhood became more evident; stoops grew less crumbly, shutters hung straighter, flowers and grassy lawns appeared.

He felt pretty good about the find of Mackie. Perfect, perfect Buster. And at a seedy bar named Drink, he’d found skinny, bald Jimmy (real name Greg), who actually used to live in Chicago. Jimmy was giddy at the prospect of free beer and peanuts so was more than willing to play a passionate Sox fan.

Buster and Jimmy were the only regulars he could really remember with certainty. He hadn’t paid close enough attention back then. So after several days of searching, he’d picked up a couple of generic regulars. He vaguely remembered a short guy and a fat guy; so, behind the breakfast counter of Mornin’ Biscuits, he’d found Norman with his substantial belly and endless supply of bar jokes (a three-legged dog walks into a saloon demanding to see the man who shot his paw; a guy walks into a bar with a chunk of asphalt, orders a beer for himself and one for the road—nice, simple jokes, easy to follow). Norman’s nose was big and red with an abundant roadmap of capillaries, his eyes bloodshot and bleary as he ladled gravy over Mike’s biscuit, so Mike knew he’d found a drinker. And at a halfway house he found Shorty, who was probably five feet tall. He looked like he belonged on a horse at the races. Shorty’s name was actually Fredrick, but Mike changed it to Shorty because it sounded more authentically Drunk-Guy-at-Sully’s. Authenticity was key. (He’d have to tell Norman a good Shorty joke: “Sully’s likes to keep Shorty around because it makes the drinks look bigger.”)

When this was all over someday, he might need to look into getting these guys into AA. For now, though, he needed them to drink.

His brick house sat on a corner. It looked a lot like the single-story brick house he’d left behind in Chicago. Sara’s potted red geraniums flanked the front door.

Mike rounded the corner and walked down the steep street. His lower-basement level became evident, with its heavy mahogany door and the substantial leaded glass window beside it. Mike stood in front of the door, which he installed just last week, to admire his handiwork.

Not bad, not bad at all.

Mike took the day off (he worked for himself, so that was easy to do) to deal with the finishing touches: installing a blue BAR sign in the window, getting the pickled eggs, picking up a keg, sorting through glass liquor bottles at the recycling center, rinsing them and filling them with colored water, lining them up on the shelves in front of the mirror. And a few bottles with real liquor, of course, since he’d promised the occasional shot to the drunks. He’d have to see how his money held out.

He had five barstools at the beautiful, gleaming bar and two pub-type tables with captain’s chairs. The real Sully’s had probably eight or ten barstools and five or six tables, but Mike had space limitations to deal with. The floor was authentic linoleum—the real stuff, not the sheet vinyl crap—and the walls had wood on the lower half and chipped plaster on the upper, kind of a blotchy brownish yellow to simulate years of cigarette smoke. He’d had to experiment with various stains and rags to get the effect just right.

Sara leaned in the doorway one recent night past midnight, arms folded and shaking her head while watching Mike smash a crumpled rag repeatedly into the wall’s corners. She didn’t understand—and yet, she did. She knew this project was important to him, and that was one reason he loved her so.

Now it was four o’clock, and right on the money, here came his drunks. Turns out they’d been at the curb watching Norman’s wristwatch, waiting for exactly four. They didn’t want to screw up the first day on the new job.

He welcomed them in, reviewed the terms of their contracts, and poured them each a beer from the tap. They each took a seat at a barstool, but Mike told Norman and Shorty to go sit at a table. Authenticity was key. They objected, but Mike pointed out that it was a contractual obligation, and the legal speak caused them to shuffle meekly to a table, where the two strangers awkwardly began conversing.

“I’ll take that shot now,” Mackie (Buster! Mike needed to remember that) said.

Buster looked around the bar, nodding his head a little as though pleased by what he saw. He rubbed his hand along the polished wood.

Mike didn’t want to start pouring shots so soon but did anyway.

Jimmy, the sports guy, leaned toward Buster, lifted his beer, and asked, “You a Sox fan?”

Buster looked down at his argyle-clad ankles. “What do you mean by that? Am I a socks fan? What does it look like, Einstein? What a question. Am I a socks fan.”

He tossed his shot of whiskey down his throat and slammed his shot glass to the counter.

Mike gnawed at a hangnail.

Luckily, his Jimmy was an affable guy. “Naw, not socks, man. Sox! The White Sox! You a fan of them?”

“Am I a White Sox fan?” Buster began, and Mike looked forward to hearing the rude answer, but at that moment, his cell phone rang.

He turned his back to answer. In the mirror, he could see Jimmy nodding and grinning at Buster, and, beyond them, Norman and Shorty starting a game of chess.

“The cops are here,” she said. “Mike, I’m sorry.”

“At the front door of our house.”

“Oh, God.” Mike glanced behind him. He needed to deal with this, but how could he leave a bunch of drunks in an untended bar?

He was probably nuts, but something about Mackie—Buster!—made Mike trust him. Maybe it was that handshake.

“Buster,” he said.

Buster turned his head at hearing the name. He’d already learned his part.

“Buster, I’ve got to run out for just a minute. I’ll be back in a jiff. You okay bartending for a few minutes?”

Buster stood. “Am I okay bartending for a few minutes? Jesus Christ, how hard is it to pull a lever? Am I okay bartending. Are you okay bartending?”

Buster came around to the other side of the bar, grabbed a rag, and began swiping at the clean bar top as though he’d been doing it all his life.

“How you doing over there, boys?” he called out to Shorty and Norman.

Mike dashed out the door, got into his car, and took a short drive to the front of his house. He could have walked but didn’t want any questions about where he’d come from. He didn’t need the police asking questions about his unlicensed bar. No money was changing hands, and he could claim he was just having drinks with friends—but it was much easier just to avoid questions altogether.

Two uniformed officers stood on the porch. A gray-haired man, his cardigan sweater misbuttoned, sat on the porch swing, staring at his lap.

Mike climbed out of his car and ran up the porch steps.

The man in the sweater looked up at Mike’s face. Light came into his eyes. “Mikey!” he said happily. “Mikey!”

“Hi, Dad,” Mike said. “Hello, officers.”

“Hey, there,” the taller of the two said. “This time he got as far as 11th and Main. That’s a long walk for an old guy. And traffic was really flying. I worry about him crossing the street.”

“Dad,” Mike said, joining his father on the swing. “Dad, that was a long walk.”

His father looked at him with his pale-blue, watery eyes. “Mike, I just want to have a beer at Sully’s. That’s all. I just want to have a beer at Sully’s.”

“That’s what he told us, too,” the cop said. “I told him, just like I did last time, there isn’t a bar called Sully’s in Milwaukee. And then he insisted, just like last time, that he’s not in Milwaukee, that he’s in Chicago. We just can’t get through to him.” The cop looked at Mike’s dad and shook his head. “My mom had dementia pretty bad, and she’d take off, too. Once she got all the way to the zoo, wearing a nightgown with her bra on the outside. Said she wanted to see the monkeys. It was tough.”

The other cop, the shorter one, asked, “How long’s your dad been living with you?”

“Almost three months now. And every day, four o’clock, he wants to head for Sully’s.”

His father had gone to Sully’s from four ’til seven every day for probably the bulk of his adult life. At 6:45 each day, it had been Mike’s job to set the kitchen table because Dad would be home soon.

“Routine’s huge with these dementia folk,” the tall cop said. “You might want to consider a nursing home. They’re used to dealing—”

“Thanks for bringing him back,” Mike interrupted. “Again. I really appreciate it. I don’t think you’ll have to do it again, I really don’t. We’re going to be so careful to watch him closely from now on.”

The short cop gave his dad’s shoulder a squeeze before he left.

Mike’s throat clenched.

His dad stood. His knees were perpetually bent. He reached out and touched Mike’s sleeve. “Are we going to Sully’s now? I need to catch up with the boys.”

Mike poked his head inside the door. Sara was right there. She’d probably been listening.

“Sorry, Mike. I know you wanted today to get things ready. He slipped out the door so fast. I thought he was snoozing in front of the game. Are the ‘regulars’ there alone?”

“Leave your dad with me. Go back. I’ll watch him really hard this time.”

“No,” Mike said. “He wants to go to Sully’s now. So, I’m taking him to Sully’s.” He gave Sara a quick kiss and turned to his father. “Come on, Dad. Let’s go to Sully’s.”

In the car, his father sat staring ahead with his hands folded in his lap.

“Buckle up for takeoff, Dad.”

It’s what his father always said to Mike and his brother when they were kids: “Buckle up for takeoff.” Then he’d rev the engine, and Mike would tingle with excitement as though the station wagon were about to make liftoff.

He pulled away from the curb and headed away from his house. Down two blocks, a right turn, another right, another…

“Is this the way to Sully’s?” his dad asked.

“Yep, sure is. You haven’t been there in a while, that’s why it seems different.”

“What?” His father looked at him, eyebrows raised. “I go there every day!”

Mike swallowed. He turned his last right and pulled the car into the gravel parking spot he’d created. “Here we are, Dad.”

His father climbed out and stood staring at the basement level of Mike’s house. The mahogany door, which was almost an exact replica of the entrance to Sully’s—Mike had driven to Chicago to photograph and sketch and measure—and the leaded glass window with its blue BAR sign. He’d even put one of those sand things for cigarette butts outside the door.