Last Licks

O’Dowd’s sat in the middle of a little patch of urban blight at the edge of downtown. Some people called it the source of the blight. It was a long, low, wooden building that had begun life as something other than a bar, but not even Mike remembered what it had originally been. The only hint as to its present business was a beer sign in one of the tiny windows. Mike used to joke that people didn’t find O’Dowd’s, they just sank to its level. As underage college kids, Sunny and her friends had snuck in there for an illicit beer. But Sunny had still been shocked to see how far the bar’s never-high standards had fallen when she and Will visited the place to talk with a suspect.

Warmer weather hadn’t improved the ambiance. Will drove into a weed-trimmed parking lot. Sunny saw a few pickups, some vans, a couple of cars that could only be called beaters, and of course, motorcycles. Rolling his truck to a stop, Will got out and opened the door for Mike and Sunny. They reached the plywood slab that served as the bar’s front door and heaved at it—last night’s rain had swollen the wood in place. With a good yank, Will got it open, and they went in.

A yellowish-gray cloud hung in the air. The state of Maine might have banned barroom smoking, but O’Dowd’s didn’t follow no stinkin’ ordinances. Patrons in here continued to blithely light up. The jukebox with its overamped bass still thumped away, while folks at the bar and at the tables did their best to scream over the noise.

Scanning the room, Sunny spotted a few Bridgewater Hall staff members—they must have all owed Luke favors or something, she figured. They sat in little islands, distinct among the regulars. Sunny spotted Elsa Hogue and Jack the physical therapist sitting at one table, Elsa looking very uncomfortable.

“Let’s see if we can join them,” Sunny yelled to her dad and Will.

“Do you want something to drink?” Will bellowed.

“Beer—in a bottle,” Sunny screeched.

“Me, too,” Mike bawled out.

Sunny led the way over to the therapists while Will headed for the bar. Elsa and Jack were happy for company. Mike tried to carry on a conversation while Sunny watched Will’s progress at the bar. It was like watching a silent movie—if silent movies were scored by Steppenwolf.

As Will got closer and closer to the bar, Jasmine the barmaid showed more and more interest. Jasmine had been the local sex symbol during Sunny’s college days. Now she had too much skin pushed into too little clothing, a bad dye job, and a missing tooth. Still, she did a good come-hither routine until Will was close enough for her to recognize him as a cop. Then her face shut down to a sullen mask as she sold him three bottles of beer.

He returned to the table with a wad of napkins, using them to twist the tops off and wipe the mouths of the bottles. Sunny shouted her thanks, accepted one of the bottles, and took a sip. It had been a while, but apparently some things never change. Cold beer after a warm day remained a good combination.

She saw Luke Daconto come around from the back of the bar carrying a microphone stand and a small amplifier, which he set up on the raised dais that housed the jukebox. Then he vanished, only to return again with his guitar case. Most of the bar denizens didn’t even pay attention as he tuned up. Luke looked at Jasmine and nodded. She came from behind the bar, reaching around the back of the jukebox to pull the plug. There were some raucous moans and groans while she vainly signaled for silence. Sunny could barely hear her shouting, “Live music tonight!”

After her third fruitless attempt, Jasmine shrugged, causing a ponderous jiggle to run through her extra flesh, and returned behind the bar. Luke finished arranging the mic, slung his guitar strap over one shoulder, and stood with his hands on his hips, just staring at the seething barroom. It took a few minutes, but people began to glance over in his direction . . . and shut up.

Finally, there were just a couple of drunken boobs laughing at one another’s jokes. Luke dropped the microphone down to guitar level and struck a jangling discord that boomed out through the amplifier.

“Sorry,” he said, readjusting the mic back in line with his lips. “My guitar farted.”

And with that, he launched into a jagged version of “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.”

Will leaned toward Sunny. “Got to give him one thing,” he whispered with beer-laced breath. “He’s got stones.”

12

It wasn’t four a.m. when the phone rang this time—it just felt that way to Sunny. After a couple of beers she wasn’t accustomed to anymore and a somewhat late night, even an eight a.m. call had her nerves jangling.

“H-h’lo?” Her voice was hoarse and raspy from yelling over the noise at O’Dowd’s. Luke had won the crowd over, even doing an encore. But congratulating him on his success had been a little difficult when the jukebox came on again. Sunny coughed, trying to clear away a film of cigarette smoke and beer in her throat—or was that just in her head? “Who is this?”