by Brandon Barrows
It was after midnight. On a weeknight, most of the drinkers in Ron’s Place wandered out on their own long before Ron had to ask them to. He rarely even had to announce last call. It was mostly an after-work bar during the week—stop in for a fast one, or maybe two if the day had been hard, before going home to the family. If not for the movie theater down the block, Ron could have closed up by nine o’clock during the week. But the business from those getting out of late-night shows, not yet ready to call it a night, was worth staying open, and late-night drinkers didn’t linger long.
Eddie Zeitman was the sole exception, but he was more of a fixture than a customer. Ron never saw him on the weekends, but for the past several years, Eddie walked into the bar at six on the dot every weeknight and stayed ‘til closing.
Classic rock played on the radio. Ron lowered the volume to a whisper then drifted down the bar toward Eddie’s customary stool, washrag moving quickly, wiping the dark, gleaming wood as he went. Stifling a yawn, he said, “I could really use some sleep, Eddie. Why don’t you call it a night and head on home?”
Eddie put the paperback novel he’d been reading facedown on the bar, marking his place. “What’s a home, Ron? A place you feel comfortable and understood?” He grinned. “Where else am I gonna find that outside of here? All I got waitin’ for me is two rooms crammed full of books.” The exchange was practically a ritual between the two of them. Eddie’s phrasing varied, but the answer was always the same.
“Doesn’t have to be that way.” Ron leaned on the bar. “You oughta get married while you’re still young enough to enjoy it, Eddie. Minnie was the best thing ever happened to me, God rest her soul. Which reminds me: Whatever happened to that redhead you brought around for a while?”
“Nora?” Eddie’s expression clouded and his gaze dropped. “It didn’t work out.”
Their conversations were mostly topical, and Ron knew his friend well enough not to push, but if Eddie wanted to talk, he knew where to find the older man. A taint of awkwardness hung for a moment and then the door opened, letting in a blast of cold air, and giving them both a natural out.
A man bundled up against the weather came inside, stamping snow from his boots. In addition to a bulky parka, he wore a wool hat pulled low, and a skull-patterned medical mask. Despite the rest of the heavy winter wear, his hands were bare.
“Evening,” Ron called. “Fifteen minutes ‘til closing. What can I get you?”
“Bourbon,” the newcomer responded, voice slightly muffled by the mask. He approached the bar, but didn’t remove his hat or mask.
Ron and Eddie shared a look. A loner who comes into a bar the last few minutes before closing has usually already been drinking heavily. Often, he’s been put out of another bar, or a restaurant, and is looking for a way to keep the party going, but the stranger seemed dead sober.
“Join me?” the man asked Eddie.
“I’m good,” Eddie answered, lifting his glass, still half full of beer. “But thanks. Appreciate it.”
Ron splashed bourbon into a shot glass, placed it in front of the man, and said, “Cold one, huh?”
“Mm,” the stranger agreed. He pulled at his mask, tilting it up and away from his mouth without actually removing it, and downed the liquor in a gulp. He made a sound in his throat then said, “Don’t mind me. I’ve got a bit of the flu.” He gestured to the glass. “Better sterilize that good.”
“Sure,” Ron said, wondering why a man with the flu would be wandering around so late, in such weather. But it wasn’t his business—liquor was. “Another one?”
Instead of answering, the stranger pointed at Eddie’s paperback on the bar, forgotten until that moment. A vintage pocket book from Eddie’s vast collection, the cover showed a lurid scene of a wild-eyed gunman bursting through a door, surprising a well-endowed, scantily dressed blonde reclining on a bed scattered with loose bills. “Like that crime stuff, huh?”
Eddie flicked a glance at Ron and said, “Yeah.” He flashed a small grin. “Fast guns, fast cash, fast women. What’s not to like?”
The stranger tapped the bar near his glass. “Guess I’ll go one more.” As Ron poured a second shot, the man asked, “Speaking of crime, you guys hear about the liquor store a couple blocks from here that almost got robbed last night?”
Ron said, “Old lady shot the punk who tried to hold her up, didn’t she?”
“One of ‘em,” the man corrected. “There were two of ‘em—cousins, they said on the news. The old lady plugged one of ‘em and then the other gave himself up.”
“Don’t blame ‘im,” Eddie said, wondering where the conversation was going.
The stranger seemed to contemplate his refilled glass. “Amateurs. Strung out on meth, the both of ‘em. I get that they were desperate, but if they had any sense, they’d have taken their chances somewhere else.”
“What d’you mean?” Eddie asked.
The stranger spoke without looking at his neighbor. “I mean they should have known what was gonna happen.”
“Like crime doesn’t pay? That sort of thing?”
The man in the mask shook his head. “No, I mean that they should have seen that the old lady was the shooting kind and found somewhere else to stick up.”
“Oh, hell,” Ron said. “How were they gonna know there was even a gun in the place, much less that she would use it? I’m not sayin’ they should go around robbing anybody, you understand, but how could they know? A liquor store late at night, with just a little old lady running it, probably looks like a pretty good bet if you’re set on robbery, doesn’t it?”
The bulky parka shifted in what might have been a shrug. “If they’d taken a good look at the lady, just taken an extra minute or two to observe her, they’d have known. You can tell a lot about people just by watching.” The man’s eyes met Ron’s over the still-untouched second shot. “Like, is she the nervous type? Does she keep her eye on them all the time they’re in the store? Does she maybe keep touching something under the counter, as if to make sure she can get to it easily? That kind of thing.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Ron said, “but how the hell you gonna get the measure of someone you just met and know you’re right? Late at night they couldn’t hang around the store long or she’d probably call the cops whether they tried to rob her or not.”
“You don’t need long if you know what to look for,” the stranger told him. “A skilled observer can size up a person in just a couple of minutes.”
Eddie grinned. “Okay, smart guy. Size me up then. If you were those punks, would you hold me up?”
The stranger looked at Eddie this time. Small crinkles appeared around his eyes. His mouth was hidden, but it was plain that he was smiling. “Sure. You’re an easygoing kind of guy. You probably don’t ever have much money to worry about—no offense meant—and you like life too much to risk it over what you do have. You’d give me the money and probably consider it an interesting story to tell your friends.”
Ron laughed. “Hey, that’s pretty on the nose, isn’t it, Eddie? Do me next, buddy.”
The stranger turned back to Ron and said thoughtfully, “Let’s see now . . . a place like this is local trade mostly, folks from the neighborhood. And most of your customers pay cash, I’d bet.” He lifted a finger. “So that’s one point against you, you’re prime pickings.”
He looked Ron up and down, moving only his eyes. He raised a second finger and slowly said, “And you probably know most of your customers by name. You probably live by a well-defined routine and anything that upsets it would come as a shock to the system. So yeah, I think if I showed you a gun, you’d be off-balance enough to give me whatever I wanted.”
Ron bristled. “You sayin’ I’m some kind of pushover?”
“Oh, you can call it whatever you want, but you get the idea. Now though, instead of continuing to explain the theory, I think we should put it to the test.”
As if by magic, the stranger produced a snub-nosed revolver from somewhere in the bulky winter jacket. His hand was empty and then it wasn’t—as quickly as that. “Empty the register and your wallets, gentlemen.”
Eddie said, “Well, I’ll be damned,” and threw his hands up. “Be careful with that thing, pal. You could hurt somebody.” He smiled, but it looked sickish.
Crinkles appeared around the stranger’s eyes again. He waggled the gun in Ron’s direction. “Let’s go, big man. Register first, then your wallet.”
Ron stood behind the bar, thick shoulders slumped and his two meaty hands flat against the polished wood. He simply stared at the stranger blankly, as if neither the gun nor the words registered in his mind.
The gunman slid from his stool and backed up a pace, extending the revolver toward Ron. “Are you deaf all of a sudden? I said—”
Ron sighed deeply and started to make his way around the end of the bar.
“Hold it!” the gunman snapped. “Get back to that register!”
“Up yours,” Ron snarled. He lifted the gate in the bar and advanced on the stranger.
“Ron! Take it easy,” Eddie said, genuinely worried now. Ron ignored him.
“You’re asking for it!” the man shouted, finger tightening on the trigger.
Ron lunged, fast for such a large man, seizing the gunman by the wrist and twisting so hard that there was an audible snap. The masked man shrieked in agony, and the gun flew from suddenly limp fingers. He collapsed to the floor, hugging his broken wrist to his chest, rocking side to side, and wailing. The sound brought back a childhood memory of Eddie’s; the man was making the same noise his dog, Tigger, made when hit by a car. A shuddery feeling welled up from the pit of his stomach.
Ron kicked the gun away, sending it skittering across the room to disappear beneath a booth. “Call the cops, Eddie,” he said as he dragged the still-screaming man to his feet and plopped him onto a stool.
“God damn, Ron,” Eddie said, awed, his heart still hammering, stomach churning. “That was freakin’ awesome, but—god damn. We coulda both been killed! You didn’t have to prove anything, just because he said you’d—”
“Nuts.” Ron looked contemptuously at the whimpering gunman. “All this jackass’s big talk about observation and whatnot and the damned fool brings a revolver to a stick-up. Knew there was something wrong the second he walked in.”
Eddie’s brow furrowed. “I don’t get it.”
Ron turned. “And you’re readin’ those crime books all the time.” He grunted. “Chambers of a revolver’re open. One look’ll tell you if it’s loaded. I noticed right off the bat it wasn’t. He probably figured nobody would know the difference and that if anything went wrong, he wouldn’t get himself into any real trouble with an unloaded gun.”
“God damn,” Eddie said again, softly. “It wasn’t loaded?”
“Go see for yourself—not a single cartridge in the damned thing. But call 911 first, will you? I better keep an eye on this clown.”
Ron looked back at the masked stranger, but the other man refused to meet his gaze. “You can tell a lot about a person ‘just by watching,’ he says. Well, hell, man—what do you think bartenders do all day?”
Brandon Barrows is the author of a dozen novels, his most recent Long Before They Die from Full Speed Publishing. He has also published over one hundred short stories for which he is a three-time Mustang Award finalist and a two-time Derringer Award nominee. Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com