Beer Money: A Burr Ashland Mystery
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His legs, cracked and broken, folded beneath him. He knew something was wrong. That his body didn't work. And that it would never work again.
He thought then of his ex-wife, snapshots from the honeymoon in Jamaica. The first house on Huron Street. A few good years and then the beginning of the end of the marriage.
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A slow dissolve to black. A door banged open in the distance. Footsteps approached. Crunched on the pieces of glass. He heard moaning and realized it was coming from somewhere deep in his chest, bubbling in his throat. He ran his tongue over his cracked lips. Tasted the salt from the sidewalk.
The visions of his ex-wife left him and now he thought of Julie. Her green eyes. Her smile.
Her laugh. She was his new lease on life. In the dim recess of his mind where logical thought hadn't yet been extinguished, he understood the current irony of that thought. A small cluster of agony rose within him. He just wished he could say good-bye to Julie. A low fog began to drift over the image in his mind, and through it, he saw a figure standing before him. The dying man heard something metallic.
Tried to place the sound. Something to do with a gun. I watched the bartender pour me another beer. How many had I had? Who said that? Her name was Kimmie. The bartender. Not the beer.
Kimmie smiled and I thought she was awfully cute. Which was strange, because I seemed to recall only yesterday that she sort of looked like a cross between Fidel Castro and an alpaca. Kimmie nodded and moved off to take the orders of a couple of newly arrived customers. I tried to remember if I had any appointments the next morning. No, I did not. And then I tried to remember if I had any appointments at all the next day. I looked at my glass. How could it be half gone already? Damn beer thieves, they were the worst. I quickly drank the rest before the thieves returned and ordered another.
This would be my last. As I was signing the bill and appreciating the beauty of the new beer, so much sexier than the old beer, my cell phone buzzed. I had been a defensive back and my coach had liked the way I attached myself to the opponent's wide receivers. If you didn't have something to worry about, you couldn't survive. It'd be like Mother Theresa suddenly deciding she needed to pamper herself for a change. And worried. Fred was a sweet guy; there was no getting around it. I read once that altruism is the highest form of human development.