Rick’s Bar is a single-story former Blockbuster video store on the corner of Long Beach Boulevard and Pine. The windows that had once been packed with display boards of rifle-toting action heroes or invading aliens had been covered by drapes that now concealed what went on inside. The old glass-and-steel doors had been replaced by solid wooden ones, and when I walked through them, I got a comfortingly familiar lungful of beer and sweat.
Rick had put the bar where the old counter had been, and the racks that had once housed videos and DVDs had been replaced by cheap benches and tables that were bolted to the floor. The place felt bigger than it really was because it was always quiet. Rick focused on cultivating high dependency in his customers rather than trying to appeal to a larger, but more fair-weather, crowd of social drinkers.
“Peyton Collard!”
The slurred words came from a familiar mouth. Jim Steadman, the only friend I’d made since my release, was sitting on his usual stool at the bar. We’d bonded over military service. At forty-seven, Jim was ten years older than me, and he’d seen a ton of frontline action in the Marine Corps. Unlike me, he had added beef since discharge and was probably carrying three hundred pounds on his five-ten frame. Until he got to know a person, he was cold, bordering on hostile, and when I’d first stopped in at Rick’s I’d been a little intimidated by the huge guy who would often be found in khaki shorts, camo T-shirt, and combat-green LA Lakers baseball cap.
“Jim,” I said, hauling myself onto the stool beside him.
“Fix my young bud whatever he wants,” Jim said to Rick, who sauntered over with one eye on the college basketball game showing on the giant wall-hung TV.
“I’ll have a draught,” I said.
“Put it on his tab,” Jim added, and I couldn’t help but scoff. “We ain’t socialists here, Collard. Man pays his way.”
“Tab’s getting pretty heavy for both of you.”
Rick was a quiet guy who usually minded his business, except when there was money due.
“What do we owe?” I asked.
Rick checked the ledger below the counter. “Ninety-six fifty for Mr. Peyton Collard and an even forty for Mr. James Steadman.”
“Let me take care of it,” I said, peeling four fifties off my fold.
I have to admit I enjoyed not being a deadbeat for once.
“What were you saying about socialism?” I asked Jim.
“I ain’t gonna fight a man who wants to buy me a drink,” he slurred.
“There’s two hundred.” I handed Rick the money. “Put whatever’s left on my account.”
Jim laughed. “Your account? You the fucking king of England now?”
Rick grinned and pocketed the cash.
“And forget the draught,” I said. “Set me and my friend up with a couple of depth charges.”
I’d conned myself into thinking I’d come here for advice, but my inner demons and I knew I intended to get hammered.
“I appreciate it.” Jim raised his glass before draining the dregs of his beer.
Rick took a few moments to pull a couple of fresh beers and pour two shots of bourbon. He put the drinks on the counter in front of us, and Jim handed him his empty glass.
“You lose family?” Jim nodded at my pocket.
I was suddenly conscious of the $600. Way too much walking-around money for a joint like this.
“There was a pension charge I shouldn’t have paid,” I replied. No one, not even vets, could figure out the maze of military retirement benefits. “I got a rebate.”
“I see.” Jim nodded, but his eyes narrowed farther than usual. “Whatever, man.”
We dropped our shots into our beer glasses, and the dark bourbon diffused into the amber ale. I took a sip, and suddenly life tasted a lot sweeter. The cold beer came with an oaky bourbon aftertaste.
“You do what you got to do, man,” Jim remarked.
“Is that your motto?” I asked before taking another drink.
“How do you mean?” He eyed me with the suspicion he usually kept for strangers. How many drinks had he had?
“I didn’t mean anything, Jimbo. I was just shooting the breeze.”
A heavy beat passed, and the sound of the basketball game filled the time between words.
“I was just wondering, you know, if ‘do what you gotta do’ was a general rule. That’s all.”
“You know I killed people,” Jim snarled. He was real drunk. Mean drunk. The death stories usually came only later. “Ain’t nothing to it. Counselor wanted to PTS-fucking-D me, man, but I said if my commanding officer points at someone and says this is our enemy, kill them, life gets pretty simple. Ain’t no drama in dropping bad guys.”
Another heavy beat.
“So, yeah, you do whatever the fuck you’ve got to do,” Jim said, “is a general rule for life.”
“And if you had to kill someone now?” I asked. “Someone bad.”
“Drop ’em before they can blink.” He snapped his fingers. “Why?” He leaned over conspiratorially. “You got someone in mind?”
I laughed, but it was hollow and off-key. “What? No. I was just—we were just talking, man.”
He eyed me for a moment before breaking into a broad grin. “Well, that’s all right, then.” He raised his drink. “Salut.”
We tapped glasses and got to business.