Xperience Fiction – Tough Times

Xperience Fiction – Tough Times – by Liam Sweeny.

A Phoenix Tale

Red, white and blue neon streaked across the bar from the sign in the front window of the Phoenix Hotel lounge. Sam Morrow slumped over his fourth vodka, drowning the din of the joint. He set his weary eyes on Walter, the leathery bartender, who was chatting up a pouty julep at the opposite end.

Sam scoped the lounge, eyeing the pool-table in the center of the checkerboard floor. Breaking pool balls collided under the unforgiving pulse of overhead fluorescents, catching the room’s thick hazy smoke as it hung over the pock-marked green felt. C’mon, Walter, he thought, C’mon, C’mon, C’MON! He backwashed the vodka, mindful not to kill it too fast.

Glass already half-empty; he’d need a refill soon. He pulled the billfold out of his back pocket, thumbing a fifty to square up and re-up. Maybe the flash of cash would pull Walter out of the dame’s orbit.

As he waited, he pulled a 2×3 full-color glossy from the picture-flap; Janice and the kids. He remembered arguing with her over the pics the day they had them done. E.G Laurel’s, the most expensive photographer in town, booked to a three month waiting list. Sam heard Laurel had to close shop last month.

He cocked his head to the left, stared at Janice’s face as the light shimmered off it. She was flushed with vitality back then, punch-drunk on the comfortable life they’d led. Tommy, Aaron and Chrissie were just kids, overjoyed that Laurel had a doll that made fart sounds. All teenagers now; he and Janice could see retirement in the horizon.

Life was funny.

In easier times, he had a nice house, two cars in the garage and a small racing boat, none paid for. Over the past year he watched as, one by one, everything he had was repossessed, down to his vows. Two weeks before, Janice asked for divorce.

Sam tucked the picture back in his billfold. He was raised to be an honorable man, and he couldn’t help but feel nauseated at where he was, what he was about to do.  But honor was a rocky road.

Liquid gurgles snapped him back to attention. He looked up to see Walter refreshing his vodka. The fifty lay untouched.

“On the house, Sammy,” Walter pushed it back. He tapped on the bar, making the shape of a gun with his fingers, subtly pointing them to the back booths. Sam’s gaze followed his index finger.

“That’s him,” Walter said. “Better get over there; he don’t stay long.”

Sam patted him on the shoulder as he got up.

“Thanks, bud,” he said. “And thanks for the hook-up.” Walter nodded.

He walked past the pool table and the jukebox; The Final Countdown, by Europe. Sam laughed to himself, the sights and sounds of pool-sharking ricocheted through his vodka-rattled mind.

The back booths were shady, single overhead bulbs encased in dusty fixtures; he’d heard they were real Tiffany glass. Sam could only make out shadows beneath the brim of the man’s Panama hat.

Without looking up, the man pointed a walking stick to the other side of the booth. As Sam slid over the red naugahyde padding, he could see the man’s white cashmere blazer, powder-blue satin handkerchief tucked in a three-point fold in his breast pocket. A fat cigar smoldered in the ashtray, its acrid smoke further enshrining the man’s face in anonymity.

Maybe it was better that way.

“Our friend says you have a problem.”

“Yeah,” Sam eyed the room as he scratched at his collar. He reached into his pocket and felt the tip of the walking stick pinning his hand to his chest.

“It’s O.K.,” said Sam, “It’s just–”

“I know what it is,” The man had a calm, road-kill voice that reminded Sam of Johnny Cash. “And when we’re done with our little chat, you’ll leave it under the table. Are we clear?”

“Y-yes sir,” Sam quickly took his hand out of his coat, “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” the man said, “These types of arrangements aren’t ever easy.”

“No, they’re not.” The man picked up the cigar, puffing deeply. The smoke hung on him like fog on the morning grass.

“You love her?”

“She’s my heart and soul…” Sam looked away.

“Do you want it to look like an accident?”

“It can’t look like a suicide.”

“I see.” The man swirled his drink slowly. “You do know this kind of thing will be investigated, don’t you?”

“Look, if you can make it look like an accident, do it.” Sam said. “But it’s gotta be soon. Things are going south real fast.”

“It can be done tonight,” He waved his hand about to dispel smoke, “It’s up to you.”

Sam gazed around the bar at all the drunks, personalities soaked in alcohol, laughing and carrying on in a place that could hide the scars of tough times like cheap makeup. It was a sanctuary, rising at dusk from the ashes of the dawn.

“Tonight’ll be fine.” Sam’s gaze returned to the shadow of the man’s face. The man smiled. Sam couldn’t see his face, but he just knew.

“How much did you bring?” He said. “Don’t take it out. Just tell me how much is in there.”

“Five, five thousand,”

“Good.” He picked up his cigar, and his drink. “Finish your drink, and let the envelope fall between your legs.” He said. “Kick it to the back of the booth, and go upstairs. Room 27 will be reserved for you.”

“Okay,” Sam replied.  “Thanks, Mr.-“

“That’ll do,” the man said. “Mr.” Then he walked to the bar.

Sam finished his drink with trembling fingers, his nostrils filled with the lingering odor of the man’s cigar. He felt the urge to talk some more, but every word had been said. Now all Sam needed to do was to let the envelope drop between his legs. He tilted his glass one last time and let it fall. It felt as if his soul was freed, all-in on a half-million life insurance pot. He left the booth, depositing the empty glass on the edge of the bar. Then he staggered to the elevator.

***

The red and blue pulses of cruisers and fire trucks spiked the pre-dawn. Officer Todd Davis was called to the scene of a hotel fire. He arrived to see a black body-bag being toted out the front door. The dark streak of soot showed the intensity of the fire that had by then been put out.

“He had a cigar,” the bartender told him, “He was pretty drunk when he went up,”

“Did you know the guy?”

The bartender shrugged. “He came in once in a while. We didn’t talk much.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Yeah, Sam,” he said, “Sam…Morrow, I think.”

“Does he have a family?” Behind them the City Coroner loaded the body in the meat-wagon.

“Yeah,” the bartender said, “He said something about a wife once.”

The cop and the bartender stood outside the Phoenix as the ambulance sped off.

“Strange,” the cop said, “Third time we’ve had to pull a stiff outta’ here this month…”

The bartender scratched his chin.

“Tough times,” he said, “tough times.”

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