“Should I drop you right fucking now and save the run up?” asked Gene Sasso, the stocky and now bald owner and bartender of the Trough.
Sasso was not happy to see him. In case Behr missed the scowl on his face, Sasso reached under the bar and came up with a sawed-off baseball bat to make the point doubly clear.
Behr hadn’t been to the bar, in fact hadn’t seen Sasso, in close to seven years. He’d last been there in the middle of a period of heavy drinking, self-disgust, and all-around antisocial behavior. Behr had gone from rowdy-patron status, beyond old-friend-in-a-bad-way dispensation, and had even careened past oh-no-it’s-him-again standing.
“Not here for any trouble, Gene,” Behr assured him. He didn’t think Sasso really meant to hit him, but he wasn’t completely sure. Somewhere in the no-man’s-land of his mid-fifties, Sasso was still strong-looking and had a beard going that helped cover the ravages of countless late nights, first as a cop, then as a tavern owner.
“You never come for any, but the shit manages to show up just the same when you’re around,” Sasso said. “All six of my pool cues ended up broken last time you were in. Same for a bunch of my customers.”
“That was a long time ago. And I didn’t break ’em all,” Behr said.
“I’m counting the last three that got busted over your back. And then there’s that …” Sasso pointed at a badly patched piece of drywall between the doors to the men’s and ladies’ rooms.
“Some of your clientele are real assholes, what can I tell you. Didn’t I pay for the damage?” Behr wondered.
Sasso just looked at him, and Behr supposed the answer was no. Not that anyone would notice. At the time the Trough had opened, it looked like the interior wasn’t quite finished, and it hadn’t made any progress since, although that had been nearly ten years ago. The place currently sported a thin crowd of day drinkers seated along the dozen mismatched stools that lined the bar. The assortment of battered tables and chairs was unoccupied, as was a pool table that almost shined because the felt was worn to the slate.
After a moment, Sasso stowed the bat and reached into his shirt pocket for a flash drive, which he held up.
“How you got a world-beater like Breslau to give you this, I’ll never know,” Sasso said.
“My charm is underrated,” Behr answered.
“Charm? Fuckin’ please,” Sasso said, and almost smiled despite himself. He’d always had a soft spot for Behr, even back when Behr was a complete newbie and they’d first been paired up. They’d spent countless nights cruising the streets of what used to be referred to as the “Spaghetti Bowl”—the place where a bunch of interstates and main thoroughfares twisted together. They mopped up blood and hauled in DWIs, barroom brawlers, and wannabe gangsters. And while they rode, Sasso kept up that steady patter of “rules to live by.” Like “The faster you finish the fight, the less shot you will get,” and “Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”
“What do you want with it anyway?” Sasso asked, putting the drive on the bar top. “Shouldn’t you stick to the neck brace and rusty zipper cases?”
“Probably.”
“Department wouldn’t give you the files directly?”
Behr shook his head.
“So you figured ‘use your old T.O.’?”
“Yeah,” Behr said, “I know you keep good ties.”
“Yes, I do. Because people—regular people—keep up friendships, relationships, warm human contact.”
“Uh-huh,” Behr said.
“Like I tried to do with you, long after you gave it up.”
“I didn’t give it up,” Behr said. “It just … went.”
Back after his first son had just died, Behr seemed to systematically burn down everything around him. He hoped that time was past.
“I wouldn’t wish what happened to you on my worst enemy. But it’s been a while now, Frank. I gave you all the space you asked for, and then some. And you had plenty of chances to come find me, buy me a drink, and make things right. Instead you did what you did, you let a quarter of a lifetime go by, and now you show up for this.” Sasso put a finger on the flash drive and slid it across the bar.
“Thank you,” Behr said, taking it. “And I get it, Gene. I’ll come buy you that drink one day.”
Sasso nodded, and Behr, not knowing what else to say, left.