EIGHTEEN

Spend too long in a bar like Vegas, and it started to mess with your head. A man could be forgiven for flipping out, thinking he was in 1959. Or 1759 for that matter.

Maybe it was the beer; its suspiciously tart bite, or the ever-present smell of ganja and piss, mixing like some cheap, out-of-date cologne. But this was a place – whether by design or destiny – that looked (and smelled and sounded) like a scene from some classic Box movie.

Retro wasn’t the word for it.

Take the clientele, for example: a curious mix of ages and styles; a cross section of eras and fashions that all but captured the very essence of Lark City. Do what ye will, Ms Liberty proclaimed. In Vegas, you could go one further; be anyone from any place or time, do whatever they wanted.

In Vegas, each Quarter mixed with surprising indifference towards one another; businessmen, looking for quick kicks; throwbacks with their slick hair and pressed strides, toe-tapping to the beat; yahoos under hoods, hungry eyes peeking out from long narrow faces; wireheads in blue and yellow neon, wiretaps and coils glowing in the musky light. Vegas served them all.

But then there was Kitty, sitting in her corner. A constant reminder that beyond zoning, there was a more potent addiction. A destructive vice that ripped the very soul from a person, leaving them nowhere, doing nothing, a shell without style or substance.

Tonight, Kitty had stacked the cushions by her side as always. She sat on the sofa, half in the world, half out – no wiretap attached – both hands clinging to her glass of water like it were made of gold.

Her dad, Paul McBride, sat at the bar, beer in hand.

The Bar Man stood opposite, looking how he always looked with his crisp white shirt, thin black tie and leather apron.

‘Hear about Geordie Mac?’ McBride asked.

The Bar Man nodded, glass and towel in hand.

‘Real shame,’ McBride said. He lifted his beer, sipped then sat it back down. ‘And I’ll tell you what’s even more of a shame,’ he added, ‘fuckers who did it were messing with my little girl.’

The Bar Man’s eyes rose quickly, found Kitty, then the glass again.

‘That a fact?’ he said.

‘That’s a fact alright,’ McBride said. He leaned in closer. ‘They took Geordie’s gear, brought it to my little girl then sold it to her. Can you believe that?’

The Bar Man lifted his glass to the light. Examined it, twisting it round and round. He shook his head at McBride’s question, began polishing the glass again with his cloth.

‘And here’s me thinking you were doing your job and keeping your eye on her,’ McBride added.

The Bar Man’s hand slipped, the glass tumbling to the floor, breaking.

There was a short round of applause from those in the bar not zoning. But the Bar Man wasn’t smiling.

McBride wasn’t smiling, either.

‘Best clean that up,’ he seethed. ‘Before someone gets hurt.’

The Bar Man didn’t blink. He held McBride’s stare.

‘I do my best,’ he said, and his voice didn’t waver, ‘along with everything else you have me doing, everyone else you have me watching. But she’s your little girl, Paul. Ever think of it that way?’

McBride lifted his drink, sipped again, set it down. He didn’t turn the comment.

He said: ‘One of them’s Janice’s boy. I’ve seen him around here. Nice kid, got himself in with a bad crowd. Pity, really.’ He seemed to think on that for a second. ‘The other I don’t know. Word has it he’s loud, talks like a redneck. I want them both. Can you do that for me?’

The Bar Man reached under the bar for a dustpan and brush, bent down to clean the broken glass. Once done, he emptied the pan in the nearby trash, brushed his hands, lifted his towel and another glass then began polishing again.

He looked up at McBride, almost as an afterthought.

‘Sure thing,’ he said.