John knew better than to go to the bar. He knew if he did he’d end up getting shitfaced. He’d lose track of time and the bartender would end up pushing him out the door when they closed at two A.M. But like all the other nights he’d ended up at the Avalon Bar and Grill, it was better than drinking alone.
The place was a dive. The bartender was a rude asshole. The glasses weren’t quite clean. The management watered down the booze. But the burgers were decent. And even drunk out of his mind, John could always find his way home. He’d learned to appreciate the little things in life.
He ordered a double shot of Chivas and a dark beer, then played a game of eight ball. One game led to six. One double led to too many to count. John Tomasetti, drunk again. What was the world coming to?
Standing at the bar, he watched the bartender pour another shot. He downed it in a single gulp. The alcohol scalded his esophagus and landed like a fireball in his belly. He’d never developed a taste for even the top-shelf whiskies, but this wasn’t about pleasure. It was about getting through another day without blowing his brains out.
At some point he’d lost track of the man he’d been playing pool with. A couple of college kids had taken over the pool table. Time to kick it up a notch, John thought, and headed toward the men’s room. Locking himself in a stall, he fished a Xanax from his pocket, chewed it and swallowed. He savored the bitter chalkiness of the pill, then washed the taste from his mouth with beer.
He knew mixing prescription drugs with alcohol was stupid and pathetic and that some day Fate would make him pay. Sooner or later, she always got her due. But he didn’t think that cruel bitch could do anything worse than what she’d already done. In some sick way, it was a comforting thought.
Two years ago, he would have laughed his ass off if someone had predicted this future for him. That his family would be taken from him and he would be left alone to mourn them. That he would kill a man in cold blood and feel nothing more than a fleeting sense of satisfaction. That he would use his law enforcement know-how to frame another man for the crime. That he would have to rely on booze and a cocktail of pills just to make it through the day.
For the thousandth time John wished it had been him instead of his family. He would have given his own life a thousand times over to save them. But that was another quirky thing about Fate; she never bargained, and she never gave second chances.
Back at the bar, he ordered another double and watched some weird game show he didn’t understand on the TV above the bar. He drank the beer and tried not to think about anything but the alcohol running like nitro through his veins. The Xanax just starting to kick in . . .
“John.”
The familiarity of the voice yanked him from his mental fog. Turning, he was surprised to see Denny McNinch beside him, looking like he’d just come from a funeral.
“Nice suit.”
“Nordstrom’s,” Denny said. “Had ’em on sale.”
Around him, the room dipped and curved, but John maintained eye contact, hoping he didn’t look as fucked up as he felt. “I’d ask if this is a social call, but judging from the look on your face, it isn’t.”
“It’s not.” The bartender set a beer on the bar and Denny took a long drink.
“You here to fire me or what?”
“Worse.”
John couldn’t help it; he laughed.
Denny reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and laid the RFA on the bar. “Rummel wants you on it.”
“You’re kidding?” John slid the RFA closer and skimmed the particulars.
DESCRIPTION OF CRIME: Possible serial murder. Local law enforcement overwhelmed.
LOCATION:
Painters Mill, Ohio.
CONTACT:
Janine Fourman, town councilwoman. Norm Johnston. Mayor Auggie Brock.
“Not exactly my area of expertise,” John said.
“Like you have an area of expertise these days.”
“I’m pretty good at fucking up.”
Denny raised his glass. “That doesn’t count.”
John squinted at the form, unable to believe they were assigning him a case. He wasn’t exactly in the running for agent of the year. “Why me?”
“Maybe you drew the short straw.”
They both knew Rummel never did anything without a reason. He was a man with an agenda, and that agenda never served anyone but himself.
Denny shrugged. “Maybe he thinks it’s time you got off your ass and earned your keep.”
“Or maybe that sneaky little fucker wants to watch me unravel.”
“So prove him wrong. You were a cop. You’ve got the mojo.”
Even through the lavender haze of inebriation, John noticed the other man’s misery, and he thought he knew why. Denny might be just another figurehead in an ocean of figureheads. But he was a straight shooter. Something wasn’t right about this, and they both knew it.
“You could retire,” Denny offered.
John folded the RFA and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.