drove down Chinden Boulevard, his purpose clear. He must find a bar with rear parking. One with no more than two cars in the lot, a place seedy enough to attract hard-core, daytime drinkers. One customer must be a woman who met his criteria.
The Western-style Bannock Bar caught his eye. Weeds grew up around its sagging front porch. The place looked almost as abandoned as the boarded-up gas station next to it. A neon Coors sign flickered in the bar’s left front window, proof it was open.
He pulled into the side lot, noting two vehicles: a battered Toyota truck and a pink Chevy Caprice—a woman’s car with mismatched tires. All four were tread bare. He pictured the car’s owner as a down-on-her-luck lush, lonely, and amenable to anything he might propose.
He switched off the engine, checked his image in the rear view mirror. Phony black hair trailed out the back of a John Deere baseball cap. He pulled the brim low on his forehead; then put on his father’s old reading glasses. The affect of his disguise gave him a power buzz. Invisible men played by their own rules—at this moment, he didn’t exist, couldn’t be held responsible for act, word, or deed.
Entering the bar through a side door, he was struck by the heady odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke. It brought back memories of college binge-drinking days. He’d never enjoyed liquor, or beer, but on several occasions, he’d drunk himself blind to keep up with the others. They had assumed he was one of them, but no one really knew him , then or now, except perhaps Joanna. At least he thought she had.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light as he searched for the owner of the Chevy Caprice, the woman. The only customer at the bar was a gray-haired male in torn overalls, a drunk slobbering over a beer.
But there must be a woman .
Then he heard her.
“Hi, ya,” she called, turning the corner at end of the bar. She was young, barely legal drinking age and plump and sexy in a wholesome way. She wore her brown hair parted in the middle with a thick braid slung over the shoulder. Farm fed, his dad would’ve said. Not what he’d envisioned as a target, yet her hair was long. He liked that.
He took a barstool at the opposite end from the drunk.
The girl held a thick, oversized paperback book entitled: Microsoft Word for Dummies . She cradled it against her full breasts.
“So what can I do you for, Mister?”
“Coffee,” he said.
She gave him an understanding nod, placed her book beside the cash register. Then poured the last of the coffee from a glass carafe into a mug and set it down in front of him. “Hung over, huh?”
“Yeah.” He wanted her sympathy and rubbed his forehead as though it hurt. “You’re awful pretty to be stuck in here on a sunny day.”
She smiled and cocked her head.
He liked her reaction. “Someone with your looks ought to be at the Hard Rock Cafe. Say in London.”
“Like you know a lot about London.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I’m not here, usually. My gramps runs the place. He’s gettin’ over a heart attack. A little one, you know? I’m pouring beer till’s he’s back on his feet. But he’d better hurry up. I’m moving to Seattle as soon as I can. Gonna get a job.”
“No kidding,” he said. My niece lives there. Works at Nordstrom’s in personnel.” He pointed to the book. “She says they’re always needing someone good on computers.”
The girl leaned forward, elbows on the bar, her expression hopeful. “Yeah, I bought this book. I’m just brushing up.”
And so was he .
“I’ve got her direct extension at home,” he said. “You want, I could drop it by later.”
“You’d really do that? Get out.”
“I’m serious. How long is your shift?”
“Got a two hour dinner break, four to six. Then I’m on again till two. So any time.” She clasped her hands and grinned. “That’s really nice, Mister.”
His palms pressed against the hot coffee mug. He eyed her over
The Western-style Bannock Bar caught his eye. Weeds grew up around its sagging front porch. The place looked almost as abandoned as the boarded-up gas station next to it. A neon Coors sign flickered in the bar’s left front window, proof it was open.
He pulled into the side lot, noting two vehicles: a battered Toyota truck and a pink Chevy Caprice—a woman’s car with mismatched tires. All four were tread bare. He pictured the car’s owner as a down-on-her-luck lush, lonely, and amenable to anything he might propose.
He switched off the engine, checked his image in the rear view mirror. Phony black hair trailed out the back of a John Deere baseball cap. He pulled the brim low on his forehead; then put on his father’s old reading glasses. The affect of his disguise gave him a power buzz. Invisible men played by their own rules—at this moment, he didn’t exist, couldn’t be held responsible for act, word, or deed.
Entering the bar through a side door, he was struck by the heady odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke. It brought back memories of college binge-drinking days. He’d never enjoyed liquor, or beer, but on several occasions, he’d drunk himself blind to keep up with the others. They had assumed he was one of them, but no one really knew him , then or now, except perhaps Joanna. At least he thought she had.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light as he searched for the owner of the Chevy Caprice, the woman. The only customer at the bar was a gray-haired male in torn overalls, a drunk slobbering over a beer.
But there must be a woman .
Then he heard her.
“Hi, ya,” she called, turning the corner at end of the bar. She was young, barely legal drinking age and plump and sexy in a wholesome way. She wore her brown hair parted in the middle with a thick braid slung over the shoulder. Farm fed, his dad would’ve said. Not what he’d envisioned as a target, yet her hair was long. He liked that.
He took a barstool at the opposite end from the drunk.
The girl held a thick, oversized paperback book entitled: Microsoft Word for Dummies . She cradled it against her full breasts.
“So what can I do you for, Mister?”
“Coffee,” he said.
She gave him an understanding nod, placed her book beside the cash register. Then poured the last of the coffee from a glass carafe into a mug and set it down in front of him. “Hung over, huh?”
“Yeah.” He wanted her sympathy and rubbed his forehead as though it hurt. “You’re awful pretty to be stuck in here on a sunny day.”
She smiled and cocked her head.
He liked her reaction. “Someone with your looks ought to be at the Hard Rock Cafe. Say in London.”
“Like you know a lot about London.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I’m not here, usually. My gramps runs the place. He’s gettin’ over a heart attack. A little one, you know? I’m pouring beer till’s he’s back on his feet. But he’d better hurry up. I’m moving to Seattle as soon as I can. Gonna get a job.”
“No kidding,” he said. My niece lives there. Works at Nordstrom’s in personnel.” He pointed to the book. “She says they’re always needing someone good on computers.”
The girl leaned forward, elbows on the bar, her expression hopeful. “Yeah, I bought this book. I’m just brushing up.”
And so was he .
“I’ve got her direct extension at home,” he said. “You want, I could drop it by later.”
“You’d really do that? Get out.”
“I’m serious. How long is your shift?”
“Got a two hour dinner break, four to six. Then I’m on again till two. So any time.” She clasped her hands and grinned. “That’s really nice, Mister.”
His palms pressed against the hot coffee mug. He eyed her over
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