From outside, the Fireside Tap actually looks inviting. The windows are fogged by heat and condensation; the sign and surrounding lights are covered with a friendly layer of snow.
Inside, it’s evident that the coziest thing about the place is its name. There is no fireplace. There is definitely no warmth. The cold air I bring with me when I walk in is met by cold stares from the regulars. A truck driver couldn’t get comfortable here.
“A guy named Burdsell been in here tonight?” I ask the blond bartender, trying to sound like I know whom I’m talking about. She looks like she’d just as soon serve me a fist as a drink if she didn’t run the risk of falling out of her low-cut shirt. Maybe it’s because she knows I’m full of it, or maybe she doesn’t like women in general, but she doesn’t look happy to see me.
“Don’t know anybody by that name,” she says. I catch a young stocky barback sneak her a look, and I know she’s full of it.
“Must not be here yet.” I look around the place like an eager customer. “What do you have on tap?” I grab a stool and light a cigarette.
“I already called for last call,” she says, as she pours one shot of everything in the well into a Collins glass for a Long Island. It’s maybe ten after ten and from what I can tell, everyone else is just getting started. A couple of guys in the corner are sharing a pitcher, in the middle of a game of darts. Two serious drinkers have a record of empty Scotch glasses on the bar, and money to refill them. There’s a full pitcher of MGD on the spill mat.
“You sure I can’t sneak one in? While I wait?”
She points to a sign above the top shelf liquor that says, WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE. I get that I’m anyone.
“I’ll just wait, then,” I say very nicely.
She is clearly miffed by my decision. She takes my cigarette from the ashtray I set it in and puts it out.
“We’re closing,” she says. “Early.”
“What about that Long Island?” I ask, testing her claim.
She puts a straw in the glass and sucks up almost everything but the ice in one try.
“Gotcha.” I slide off the stool. There’s no point in starting a fight with the wrong asshole. I bite my lip to keep from thanking her for her courteous and helpful service, and decide to let her think she’s scared me away.
On my way to the front door, I can see in the reflection of a painted Heineken mirror that she’s watching me leave.
I can also see someone poke his head out from underneath a booth at the back end of the bar, and I wonder if that’s his pitcher of MGD on the spill mat.
I keep walking, but I’m sure as hell not leaving. I think I just found the snitch.
Once I get outside and down the block, I turn the corner to the alley and light a smoke. It quit snowing but it’s still really cold, and it bugs me that I have to play this game. That bartender hated me. I can’t believe the last woman who didn’t was my boyfriend’s wife.
I lean against a wall outside the rear of the bar. I’m in the shadows, so the snitch can’t see me when he opens the back door.
“Thanks,” he calls behind him.
“Dumb ass,” the bartender says and pulls him back into the doorway for a kiss. I can’t imagine the sloppy details, let alone what I’m sure is the torrid history of this affair. I’m not done smoking and I don’t feel like a foot chase, so I let them finish and wait for him to come to me.
The bartender closes the door and the snitch makes for the street. He walks right by, with that funny walk, and I can’t believe he doesn’t see me. I could put my foot out and trip him. I’m betting he’s not too bright.
“Hey, dumb ass,” I say and grab him by the jacket. He’s only half-resisting, so it’s easy to drag him across the alley.
“Ow! What the fuck?” he whines.
“Your name Burdsell?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me,” I say. I slam him against a chain-link fence to let him know I’m not whistling Dixie.
“The police, that’s who.”
“I know who you are, and I’m not talking.”
“You should be. You already talked your way into getting a cop killed.”
“No, I didn’t,” he says. He’s not fighting me anymore, so I let go of him.
“You sent Fred Maloney and me to get Marko Trovic. Fred’s dead. Marko’s nowhere to be found. You’re gonna tell me you pissed off an entire police force to snitch on a child molester? There’s more to this, and you’d better spill it.”
“Why should I?”
“Because everybody knows you sent us, including Trovic. So tell me what’s smarter: to talk to me, or to take it up with Trovic, who thinks you set him up?”
“I don’t care what you fuckin’ cops think you know. You don’t scare me,” he says, and starts to edge away from me to see if I’m gonna let him walk away.
“Who are you hiding from, then?” I ask. “You think Marko Trovic will want to hear what you have to say if he finds you?”
“Marko won’t find me and I’m not talking,” he says, and starts down the alley like I can’t stop him. I pull my gun from my ankle and get behind him, pushing the barrel into the back of his neck hard enough to make him change his mind about walking. And talking. He turns around. I’m aimed at his face.
“Marko Trovic isn’t gonna come after me. I work for him,” he suddenly feels like telling me. The .22 always works.
“So why’d you send us after him?” I ask.
“He told me to.”
“We were set up?” I lower my gun just a little as I absorb this news, so I’m not ready when the blond bartender comes barreling down the back steps and knocks me to the ground. Before I can get into a defensive position, Birdie snatches the gun out of my hand, slams me into the pavement, and aims the gun at my head.
“Thanks,” he says to the bartender. Then to me he says, “You think you’re some smart chick now, running with the big boys. You’re gumming up the works, and you’d better watch it or Maloney’s not going to be the only one who ends up dead.”
I’m looking down the barrel of my own gun, and all I can say is, “I want to know what happened to Fred.”
“Like you don’t know,” he says.
“Fuck you,” I say. I don’t care what he’s pointing at me, I want to get up and beat the shit out of him, but he raises his arm and cracks me, in the eye, with the blunt end of the gun.
Everything goes black when my head hits the pavement. It takes a second before I register how badly it hurts, and then I grab at my face and try to breathe through the pain. It takes all my strength to keep from screaming.
I hear the bartender’s laugh echo through the alley as I roll away from where I think Birdie is standing. I hit the fence, pull myself up, and get ready to kick, blindly if I have to, at anyone within range.
I shield my torso with my free hand and open my one good eye. Birdie’s gone. So is the bartender. So is my gun. Guess the snitch isn’t as dumb as I thought.
I sit in the alley and give myself some time to adjust. I’m not bleeding, so I put some snow on my eye. I close my other eye to stop a tear from falling. All I needed was another knock in the head. Damn it, I’m not gonna cry because of my own stupidity. Countless hours of kung fu lessons and I just got my ass kicked by a guy named Birdie.
Once I can see straight, I let go of the fence, stumble out of the alley, and walk toward the bar. The front door to the Fireside Tap is locked. Just when I really wanted a drink.
I can’t believe we were set up. I knew Fred was hot to get Trovic; I didn’t know the feeling was mutual. And I don’t know if what I just did will make Trovic hot to get me.
I try to think of my next move, but I’m not sure what to do. I’m digging myself a pretty deep hole to get to the bottom of this, and now I’m afraid someone is planning to bury me in it.