Dead In Red by L.L. Bartlett Page A

commentators,
the bar had gone silent. I lay on the floor, dripping with blood or
beer—I wasn’t sure which—for what seemed like eons. Then the
strongest arms in the world pulled me to my feet.
    “Hey, man, you okay?” The big biker leaned
me against the bar, found a cloth and was gently mopping at my
face. “Did you get glass in your eyes?”
    I shook my head—a definite mistake. “I’m
okay.”
    “What the hell?” Suddenly Tom stood behind
the biker. “What happened?”
    “I tripped.”
    “Good grief! It sounded like the end of the
world. You okay?”
    “Yeah, yeah.” The biker pressed the cloth
into my hand, and I mopped at my dripping arms and neck. “Sorry,
Tom, I—”
    “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of the
customers. Go in back and grab a T-shirt, then get the mop and
broom out, willya?”
    “Sure thing.” I gave the biker a grateful
smile. “Thanks.”
    “No problem,” he said and picked his way
through the beer and glass to head back to his seat.
    Avoiding the gazes of the other patrons, I
slunk off in back and peeled off my shirt to hose myself off in the
slop sink. I returned a few minutes later in one of the bar’s
give-away shirts, mop and broom in hand. My hands were shaking as I
cleaned up the mess. Tom had the bikers laughing once again. He,
too, was in a celebratory mood that even the mess behind the bar
hadn’t doused.
    Sheepishly, I took my place by the taps,
feeling the eyes of several customers upon me. My smile was
forced—probably a grimace. Tom was still engaged in conversation
with the bikers, who had resumed their rowdy revelry. I turned my
back to the customers and closed my eyes as waves and waves of
emotions engulfed me. Joy from the bikers; misery—a gambling
debt?—and worry; someone’s wife was dangerously ill.
    The pounding in my head intensified, leaving
me nauseous and shaky. Someone nudged my elbow. I turned. Tom.
    “Good news, Jeff. Your services are no
longer required.”
    The pounding paused for half a second, then
shifted into overdrive. Shit. I’d smashed some glassware and now he
was firing me. My shock and disappointment must’ve registered: Tom
laughed.
    “I mean looking into Walt’s death. The cops
arrested someone last night. But you’re welcome to stay on at the
bar, if you want.”
    I swallowed with relief. Then the red shoe
image slammed my mind’s eye with the force of a jackhammer. “Tell
me more about the arrest.”
    “Some homeless geek. Been hanging around
Williamsville for the past couple of months. The dumb shit still
had the murder weapon on him.”
    “A stiletto?”
    Tom nodded, smug.
    It didn’t feel right. Not only was I still
getting flashes of insight, they’d led me to the mailbox in
Ellicottville and possibly property owned by Cyn Lennox. While I
couldn’t be sure without more information, my gut told me they had
the wrong person. I pondered that thought for a second. Not man,
not woman. Person. Yeah. I definitely needed more information.
    Tom frowned. “You don’t look so good.”
    I swallowed down the bile threatening to
erupt. “Sorry, Tom. I want to keep the job here, but I don’t think
I can put in my hours today.”
    The eyes that met mine were not judgmental.
“I knew when I hired you that you had health problems. I won’t be a
prick and make you stay when obviously you’re not up to it. Can you
get home by yourself? Want me to call your family?”
    I shook my head and winced. “I can make it
home.”
    “Don’t be stupid.” Tom placed a hand on my
elbow, steered me to the back room and plunked me into a chair. It
was all I could do not to throw up on his carpet. I heard his
voice, couldn’t understand the words, then he was gone.
    I covered my eyes and bent over,
concentrated on breathing. In out, in out. I was not going to puke.
An eternity later, a tap on my shoulder alerted me to buff-colored
Dockers at my side. Richard. “Let’s go home.”
    Too sick to be angry or