Stay of Execution by K. L. Murphy Page B

uneven light across the bar. Despite the bad lighting, Cancini noticed the rug had worn through, revealing a black, gummy vinyl underneath. The smell of old beer mixed with stale cigarette smoke rose from the mud-­colored carpet. Cancini grinned. At least some things never changed.
    Ernie’s specialized in locals only, a grizzled and loyal clientele. Because of its location in the oldest section of town, college students didn’t frequent the place. The stools were filled with solitary drinkers washing away their cares with house liquor or whatever Ernie had on tap. Grey Goose was not popular, and Cancini imagined Ernie had never made a cosmopolitan in his life. Food consisted of burgers and nachos, and if it was the special that night, a loaded chili dog. He wondered if Ernie even knew what a vegan was.
    Cancini slid onto a wooden stool, his hazel eyes downcast. The place was mostly empty. A few folks sat at the end of the bar, and a handful more occupied a ­couple of tables along the far wall. It was early though. In a ­couple of hours, the regulars would crowd the bar and fill most of the seats. Cancini had always loved Ernie’s, a true watering hole where a man could be anonymous yet surrounded by ­people he knew. The drinks were cold and reliable and, best of all, the owner was a friend. When he’d moved to Little Springs, with only a suitcase and a few references, it was Ernie who’d rented him a place to live, leasing him one of the two apartments over the bar. Ernie lived in the second one.
    Rumor had it Ernie opened the bar after his first wife ran off with a traveling salesman. Ernie loved to say, “If I’m gonna spend all my time drinking away my sorrows, I might as well own the place. Makes it a helluva lot cheaper.” Nice story, but Cancini knew better. Ernie never drank more than two beers in a day. The bar gave him purpose. Even more likely, owning the bar meant he always had friends, and he would never be alone.
    The old bartender worked from one end of the bar to the other. Cancini watched and waited. In spite of his age and a slight stoop, Ernie was still agile, drawing pitchers and wiping tables like a much younger man. His face, pale and heavily lined, was the face of a man who spent most of his days and nights holed up in a dark bar.
    Ernie ambled over, a half-­smoked cigarette bobbing between his lips. “What can I getcha?” he said, his voice low and hoarse. The man’s faded eyes wandered to a baseball game on an old TV set hanging from the ceiling.
    Cancini repressed a tiny smile. “Ernie?”
    The old man huffed and wiped his hands on the rag hanging from his waist. He squinted at Cancini. “Who wants to know?”
    Cancini chuckled. “You don’t recognize me?”
    â€œOh, for the love of Pete,” the old man said under his breath. He reached behind him for a pair of glasses. “Do I look like I have time to . . .” He stopped mid-­sentence, breaking into a grin. “Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head. “Jesus, I can’t believe it. Mike Cancini.” Reaching across the bar, they pumped hands, smiling at each other. “Goddamn. How long has it been anyway?”
    â€œA long time, Ernie. Too long.” Cancini paused. “Since the trial, I guess. I’m sorry about that.”
    Ernie nodded, his smile gone. “You had your reasons. No one blamed you for not coming back.” Cancini was quiet, lost in memories he’d tried once to forget. “Can I get you a beer?”
    â€œI thought you’d never ask. Whatever’s on tap.” He sat waiting, watching Ernie draw the beer into a heavy mug with a thick handle, an old-­style bar glass cloudy with use. Cancini drank slowly until it was half gone. A bowl of pretzels appeared before him. “How are you, Ernie?”
    â€œNever better.” Ernie had been saying the same thing for years. After a few