The most dangerous gas station in the world is the Shell on the Coast Highway just outside San Clemente. It might not be a hazard for most folk, but it was for me. I pulled in with the Range Rover running on fumes, my hands shaking, body trembling, head buzzing. I’m pretty certain I’d cried for at least part of the drive out of San Diego, but I can’t be sure whether I dreamed those memories later. I have the image of me smacking the steering wheel as I went north up the coast, angry at myself and what I’d done, but again I can’t be sure I didn’t imagine it to make myself feel better with the idea of murder. I was still human if I expressed remorse and regret. I wasn’t a monster.
Farah’s death had messed me up, that’s about all I can be certain of. I wish I could get rid of the memory of the event itself, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget Farah Younis and her one-eyed face looking blankly at a blood- and brain-spattered window.
I’ll always be with you, her ghost said as I pulled up to one of the pumps.
I ignored her and noticed the gun and ski mask were still on the passenger seat beside me. Acid flooded my stomach as I shoved them inside the glove compartment. I was shaking so much it took me a full two minutes to get the cap off the gas tank.
As the pungent gas infused my lungs, I gradually came back to reality and took in the world around me. I was on a four-lane road that followed the curve of the coast north into San Clemente. Cars lined up at the Jack in the Box drive-thru next to the gas station, and across the street was a laundromat with a large mural of a merman painted on its side wall. Next to it was a single-story red building with a black roof. Blooms Irish Pub.
I didn’t even pretend to try to resist. A quick drink would settle my nerves.
I topped off the tank, paid cash, and parked the Range Rover outside the pub.
When I walked in, I saw I wasn’t the only one who’d be enjoying a prelunch drink. It was 11:15, and I’d pretty much blanked what I’d done between killing Farah Younis and pulling into the gas station, because I was only about fifty minutes north of San Diego. Had I driven around aimlessly? Had I parked up and shed tears?
Did you kill someone else? Walter’s ghost asked. Have you got a taste for it?
I wanted these spirits gone, but I knew there was no way to exorcise them. I’d tried to get rid of Freya Persico’s with drink and drugs, but she was still in me, near my heart, turning it rotten, silently judging everything I did. I’d bound her deep within me, and even though she was silent, I knew she was still there.
These dead were part of me now.
There were five men in the place and a woman behind the bar. The men were all in sneakers, socks, knee-length shorts, polo shorts, and baseball caps. It was like a uniform for sad, red-cheeked, overweight souls who’d once hoped life would give them so much more. The bartender had long brown permed hair, a lined face, and dead eyes. No one smiled when I entered. A couple of guys didn’t even bother looking up from their pool game. The others sat solo on stools by high tables around the bar. There was a dining area, but no one was eating yet. There were tiny windows in the side walls, but the place was mainly lit by artificial light, and, with sunshine more or less banished, it was the kind of trough where a body could lose track of time.
“Hey, fella,” the bartender said. “What can I do you for?”
“Can I get a table?” I replied, nodding at the dining section.
“Sure,” she said. “Follow me.”
She grabbed a menu and stepped out from behind the long bar. The pub carried a wide selection of whiskeys and beers from the old country, each colorful bottle and pump handle promising me relief.
I ordered a beer and Jägermeister and finished them both quickly so I could order refills when the stack of pancakes was delivered. I picked at my food but kept drinking steadily until I was well and truly relaxed. The tremors had stopped, and if I concentrated hard, I could pretend to forget why I was there.
But flashes of Farah One-Eye and Walter the Startled kept reminding me why I was day drinking. If you want to know how ordinary folk feel about murder, let me tell you: terrible. There’s no glamor in death. No action-movie heroism. Guilt chews you up until there’s nothing left of your soul, just a mangled mess that might have once been something divine.
Everything that happened after midday is a blur. The place filled up with lunchtime trade, that much I remember. There were people at the tables around me, eating, drinking, talking, and laughing. Families, friends. Faces come back to me sometimes, but nothing distinct. I was far gone by that point.
I was on my way back from the restroom when I made my catastrophic error. I stumbled and reached out a hand to steady myself. My fingers caught the back of someone’s head. A tiny, rat-faced man whirled around, an angry, drunk glint in his eyes. His T-shirt was now soaked with beer he’d spilled on himself. “You fucking clown.”
It wasn’t the friendliest of introductions, but even wasted, I didn’t rise to his hostile bait and tried to voice an apology, but all that came was a mumble.
“What the fuck did you just say?” he asked, getting to his feet.
I tried to tell him I didn’t want any trouble and patted him reassuringly, but my words were indistinct, and my pat came across as a shove.
He swung and caught me with a left hook that sent me flying into his table, knocking over his two friends’ drinks.
As I clattered to the floor in a shower of beer to the tune of smashing glasses, his friends rose with the same furious looks.
We soon got into it immediately and were rolling around the place, crashing into tables, smashing things, and brawling up mayhem. There I was, swinging one against three. I think I was holding my own, although it’s hard to tally the winners and losers in a drunken ruckus like this.
The cops had a different take, and when they arrested me, they made remarks about having saved me from an ass whooping. I got put into the back of a cop car, under arrest on all kinds of charges I was too wasted to comprehend. While I was driven off to jail, my Range Rover stayed in the parking lot of Blooms Irish Pub with a red-hot murder weapon nestled in the glove compartment.