I looked up at the incoming clouds and realized that the umbrella I was sitting under was wiping wildly above me in the wind and the dark gray skies were drizzling rain down. I packed up my computer and walked inside.
The place had seemingly become a ghost town. I had always assumed hipsters didn’t like the rain, something about ruining their greasy hair-dos, and it looked like the majority of them had elected to head home: their blog forced to wait another day for an update that all their friends would ignore.
I sat down inside and began combing through local news and police bulletins trying to see if there was any information about Philips or my accident in the last couple of days. Luckily in a city this size there isn’t a lot of time for local authorities to talk about menial cases. I did find a report of a solo motorcycle collision reported the night of my accident. It looked like no one had seen the mysterious cars who caused it, only a mangled body. My bike was impounded somewhere in the north city; it would be more trouble than not to get it out. The plates were falsified, as was the registration. They probably hadn’t gotten that far looking into it with how mangled it had been. Even if they had, they would only have found Adam Smith. One of five thousand Adam Smiths who happen to have missing social security records.
It was time to get real. My conversation with Franchesca hadn’t gotten me anywhere and going through my normal channels was bringing me up empty handed. I packed up my computer and walked out into the rain.
It was only a short block away. A place I called home away from base. Andy’s was a bar and grill on the road in Coronado right in the middle of the town, a mile away from base. It was one of a couple SEAL hang outs and after BUDs it had become a place to go where locals would buy you drinks to hear you spout bull shit about what you did as a SEAL. I remember making all kinds of shit up. I’d told a kid once that they made us raise kittens at the start, only to savagely murder them before our graduation. Just so the instructors knew you would do anything for the Team. Mostly, though, we would get drunk and get into fights.
It had been nearly ten years since I had been back to Andy’s. Some things never change. I knew I could still get some intel from these guys. I also knew it would be nice to be in a familiar place for a change.
I approached the front and I was struck by nostalgia. So many drunken nights. It was a badge of honor to show up to morning P.T. hung over. I’m not sure why, but we all felt like a hangover somehow gave you super running endurance. I remember running at the front of the pack, sick as a dog but not even losing my breath. We had gotten into plenty of drunken brawls here, but always taken it outside out of respect for the establishment. The old chalkboard marquee out front had their old Slamburger listed and suddenly hit me: I was starving.
I walked into the cramped little bar. It was definitely a military establishment. The SEAL flag hung on the railings of the banister at the back. It was still early in the afternoon so it was relatively quiet. The short bar was directly to the left and a young Polynesian guy in his mid-twenties was drying a mug behind it. Tables occupied the back of the room near the enterence to the kitchen where a few patrons quietly sat and ate. With the rain, it would likely be a quiet night aside from the locals who braved the weather. I walked down to the end of the bar and took a seat at the bar facing the door.
“What can I get you?” the bartender said.
I took a minute, examining the taps behind the bar as though I didn’t know exactly what I wanted. “Arrogant Bastard.”
He smiled as if expecting that and turned to pour my drink. The TVs were all on Sports Center still going on about yesterday’s happenings. If the Padres were in town, they’d probably be rained out, I thought absently, somehow reverting to a previous life. The kid returned with my beer, setting it on a coaster in front of me.
It was a beautiful sight and a smell to match. There’s something about a freshly poured beer, the first one in a long time. It smelled earthy. I took a long pull from it before setting it down with a sigh of contentment. The bartender was looking at me, approvingly. “Ready for your burger?”
I looked at him questioningly
“I don’t do names very well, but faces I never forget. It’s been about ten years since I’ve seen you around,” he said.
“You must be mistaken, kid.” I said. “Ten years ago, you would have been in grade school.”
He scoffed, shrugging it off. “I’ve been here since I was fourteen, busing tables and what not,” he said. “Burger. Dry. No tomato. Extra pickles.”
I eyed him critically from behind my beer glass before nodding.
He smiled and turned around, entering the order into the register.
“You’re a vet.” He said as he was typing. It wasn’t a question.
“I think you’ve got me confused for someone else.”
“You have to realize that’s our thing.” He said looking about, his arms directing me to the rest of the room. “You guys are family. We take care of family.”
I grunted non-committally. The last thing I needed was this guy to drop his bartender psychiatry on me. I gulped down the rest of my beer and pushed it back toward the bar lip. The kid took it and refilled it without so much as a word. I nodded my thanks to him.
A minute later and a guy came and sat the most blessed item in the world in front of me: a Slamburger and fries. My mouth watered. My eyes welled. My stomach pined. I grabbed the ketchup from a basket at the corner of the bar and began to poor it over everything. The first bite was amazing.
This was my comfort food, mind you. I’m not comparing this to a gourmet porter house – it was better. It was the first thing I’d eaten off base after Hell Week, it seemed fitting somehow that it was my first meal after being dead for three days.
“Just the way you remember it?” he asked.
I took another drink of my beer to wash the food from my mouth. “If you take care of family, then maybe you can help me out. I’m looking for someone. Goes by Philips.”
“Like I said, I’m not so good with names. Describe him?”
“Five-ten. Athletic. Graying hair. Shoots the golf course here once a week or so.” I said.
“You’d have to be more specific.”
I thought for a minute. I could pick Philips out of a crowd, but I hadn’t been up close and personal with him. “Cold blue eyes. Statuesque. Walks around like he owns everything.”
“Have you checked the Hotel del? Guys usually hang out at the bar there if they don’t stick to the club house. There’s also the marina.”
“Not a bad place to start,” I said. I tossed some money down on the bar and stood up.
“You seem like a guy with a lot on your shoulders,” he said. “The Teams can chew guys up. Everybody needs somebody.”
“Thanks for the advice, kid. I feel much better. I think I’ll call my shrink and cancel for this week.” I said turning back to the door.
The door closed behind a man who had just entered. The cold, gray light shining in from behind him made his features hard to see but as the door swung closed and he pulled off his sunglasses I knew I recognized him. Tan. Sandy blond hair. His cleft-chin and set jaw were clenched around a near ever present toothpick.
“I always said if I ever saw you again, I’d kill you,” he said. Seeing him, I was too stunned to do anything. He swung at me with a right hook. He connected.
I was out.
No comments:
Post a Comment