Landfall - 29. He Got It All Wrong

Moved into our treehouse on the river during Labor Day weekend. Although it was Southern Decadence in New Orleans that weekend—something of a “gay pride/end of summer/let's party for the hell of it” event with seventy-five thousand gay visitors expected to hit the streets of the French Quarter, I was far more interested in getting out of the extended-stay hotel into our own place. And the bar would do just fine without me for a weekend.

The move was painless. We'd bought the place furnished, so between filling up Bubba's truck and the back of my car, we were able to make the move in only a couple of trips back and forth.

Bubba's new co-workers in the New Orleans office came up on the following Friday to a cookout we'd hosted. Some brought gifts—mostly wines and liquor; ironic since I'm a bar owner. All of 'em loved the place, and several of the guys wanted to come back to fish on occasion. Of course.

As fall rolled on, the office group started coming in small groups to the bar without waiting for the excuse of Bubba's birthday or some other personalized event. Everyone seemed comfortable, and they kept their profiles low, so no one knew they were with The Bureau. As it turns out, a couple of the guys are gay, in addition to Marcus, so they felt even more comfortable with me, Bubba, and the bar. One of the ladies who came up is lesbian, so it was definitely a case of “the more, the merrier”.

Bubba hit Sid up to allow us to contact Jonathan and Greg, our original security team and buddies in Florida. We were able to convince them to come up for Thanksgiving week. Great to see 'em. Big group hug as soon as they hit the porch on the house; a great reunion. Bubba had adopted them like younger brothers, grooming them for bigger things within the Bureau; hell, he was talking about using them on the “special project” he was working on, whatever that was. They were the first to recognize us as a couple. Special guys. They're as much family as I've got so Thanksgiving was extra special.

Sid called Thanksgiving day, giving us all good wishes. Great to hear from him, but there's something going on there. I swear my right hand tingles every time I talk with him. He's doing great, getting together with his boy for the holiday. His boy ….

Enough. I'm not gonna think about the boys. Can't be a downer on the day.

The afternoon was pleasant enough, we moved out onto the screened-in porch to have a few beers and watch the games. Damned if Trey's team wasn't playing! He's impressive on the field I've gotta admit. An aggressive player. Was proud of him, but tried not to say anything with the guys around.

Recognizing that bond is gone is hell. Maybe one day I can accept that ….

Even though we're all relaxing, having a few beers, notice that Bubba's constantly scanning the grounds. Training I guess, but fuck if it doesn't make me feel good.

He's always looking out for me. Thank God I've got him.

Joe and Rex insisted we all join them for leftover turkey and ham sandwiches later that evening. Great hosts; Jonathan and Greg loved 'em. They filled us in on their day, with all their kids, a couple of co-workers from each of their jobs, their housekeeper, some friends from the bar; they'd invited us but we'd begged off because we wanted to spend time with Jonathan and Greg. As it turns out, they had 25 or so in for lunch, but even so, said they'd missed us. Like I said, great hosts.

Spent Friday and Saturday, just Bubba and me with Jonathan and Greg hanging out at the house. We'd bought a couple of jet skis, and although it was cool outside, it wasn't bad enough to keep all of us out of the water, playing like little kids, and the jet skis got a good workout.

Woke up Sunday morn to Greg knocking on our bedroom door. “Let's do brunch. If ya want, call Rex and Joe, they'll be good company.” Looked around trying to find Bubba. He'd awakened early, he's outside in jeans, workboots, no shirt, splitting wood for the fireplace. Yelled at him to come hit the shower, and he turned around and grinned, yelling he'd be up in a minute.

Hot fucker. A regular Paul Bunion, sweaty furry chest with wood chips on him, scruffy face from no shave yet. All I could do to keep from joining him in the shower—hell, we'd never have made it to brunch. And yeah, we did have a fun time with Joe and Rex there. Joe's got a quiet, wicked sense of humor, kept us laughing the whole time.

Woke up Monday early to help Greg and Jonathan get rolling for the day. They're going to go explore the French Quarter and a couple of spots they'd picked out in the city. They were kind to try to drag me along, but still too early to be in the city—too visible. After they're out, Bubba and I have another cup of coffee. He heads to the office, I head to the bar.

Took Jonathan and Greg to the bar Wednesday night for our karaoke night. Had a good crowd, some good singers, and drink sales were going well according to Bryant. Hell, Greg even sang—and did a credible job. Had to kid him about it, of course, and told him not to quit his day job. He loved the teasing. And they loved the bar, commenting on what a great laid-back place it was, how friendly everyone was.

Back at the bar's office Thursday morn, Bryant was right—we did do well last night. Looks like karaoke is here to stay. Also noticed the weekly liquor order—we're going through lots of Southern Comfort, Two or three bottles a week. Compared that to the sales register, and there's no SoCo shown on the sales register for the entire week. Bryant is recording his 2 comp drinks per shift, none reported on Randy's shifts at all. Randy's sales are low. And Bryant mentioned SoCo was Randy's drink of choice.

Randy drinking and giving away that much liquor in a week when he only has 2 shifts? Need to catch him in the act, and haven't been there during any of his shifts, damnit.

Walked outside for a smoke, walking around the building—and there are two cars, one on each side of the building. Both are empty, guess the occupants are in the woods. Damn this town is horny.

Got a call from Bryant late that afternoon, an hour before the bar is set to open, while Jonathan, Greg, and I were relaxing on the porch, watching the fish strike, and a young eagle trying to get a meal from the river. Randy called Bryant, canceled his shift appearance tonight; Bryant couldn't cover, since he was on his way to a wedding rehearsal in New Orleans. Could I cover? Sure. Told Greg and Jonathan to join me at the bar after dinner, drinks would be on me. Shame Bubba couldn't be there—but he was running on empty, after having something going on with his team last night, so he's hitting the sack early.

Standard bar crowd on Thursday—nothing big. Maybe Randy really isn't doing well on sales that night; we'll need to come up with something to increase business.

The light Thursday crowd had cleared out near midnight when Vincent Arnould, the mobster, his driver Sammy, and a couple of other guys came in. Sammy was in good shape, but the other three looked rough—half drunk, and down in the dumps.

It was like waving a red cape in front of a bull. Pissed as hell, but managed to keep my cool though, and took their drink orders as they headed over to shoot pool. First time they've been in the bar—at least when I've been there--since that first night I'd tended bar.

Vince was the man who got Dave shot.

“Don't worry, boss, we'll get the next shipment in ok. By next Thursday morning, the big boss will be happy again. We'll make it all work out.” Sammy was the most sober one of the group, but was still talking loudly.

Looked over at Jonathan and Greg. They'd already said they were heading out at midnight when they finished their drinks.

Got 'em another round of drinks. “Ok, guys, that's the last drinks for you. You've had enough, and your gonna sit here for a while till I make sure you're ok to drive.” I was a little louder than needed, hoping Sammy and crew would overhear. Sammy just grinned while Jonathan and Greg looked at me, puzzled. Greg although bewildered, understood and brightened considerably when I nodded toward the pool table. Finally recognizes something was going on.

Sammy is still running his mouth. “Thank God we got word they were coming for a raid. We didn't lose anything, boss, it was all dummy stuff. And we put the hurt on 'em, so they'll think twice about getting us again.”

They knew Dave and his team were coming in? They've got an inside man in the bureau? Set up a dummy run just to try to kill 'em?

Really do hafta get a gun. I could take 'em out now if I had one.

Jonathan's eyes grew wide when he heard what they'd said. No efforts to leave the bar now.

“Let's go, Sammy,” Vince slurred, “I'm not shooting pool for shit tonight.”

Sammy settled up and the four of 'em headed out.

Now it's just Jonathan, Greg, and me in the bar. “Guys, he's the man who gave the tipoff that they had a shipment coming in. I'd passed it to Dave the week before he got shot. Now they've gonna do a real run, not a dummy one, but they've got a source inside the Bureau's New Orleans office—or at least one of the other agencies that's working the case. Not a word about any of this to your bosses; Dave and I are calling Sid with this tomorrow morning. Don't know who I can trust in his office, yet.” They quickly nodded agreement. It was now almost 1am, decided to closer the bar early.

Called Sid the next morning, passed along the info I had, my concerns about the trustworthiness of the office.

Sid called the next day. After analyzing each agent's financials to make sure there were no irregularities, their cell phone calls and texts over the last month to make sure nothing out of bounds there, and quick discrete personal investigations, the Bureau was assured of all but one of the agents' fidelity, and Sid told Dave to work around that agent.

The Bureau made arrests the next week at the docks on a shipment of both drugs and guns. None of the big boys of the operation were arrested, but it definitely put a kink in their operations—the shipments were huge.

Vincent and his buddies had started a pattern of showing up at the bar on Thursday nights, and occasionally some Sundays every couple of weeks or so. Bryant later confirmed they'd been there a couple of times on his Thursdays when he was there covering for Randy, and Randy had mentioned 'em to Bryant, too. May need to juggle the schedule or just make sure I'm there and can feed their tips to Bubba.

It'd been a great week and a half, and hated seeing Greg and Jonathan leave for Florida that Saturday. They promised to stay in touch, letting us know they're there for me. Greg handed me a package. “We found this when we were in New Orleans, consider it an early Christmas present”

Opened it, it's a gold chain with both a Saint Christopher and a Saint Scholastica medals. “You're traveling on a road, Barry, and the traditional patron saint of travelers is Saint Christopher.”

“And,” Jonathan picked up, “the patron saint of storm protection is Saint Scholastica.”

“I'm not even Catholic,” I protested.

“Still, can't hurt. You've had a few storms in your travels—hell, hurricanes!” Jonathan's grinning as he says it. We all join in a hug before they drive off to the airport. “Promise y'all will come see us in Florida soon?”

“Promise. Maybe after the New Year's holiday and before Mardi Gras. I'm gonna need a break.” And I'm serious when I promise it.

My buddies—my family--head out; miss 'em already.

Managed to settle into a routine of work at the bar, mixed in with some community involvement. Joined the local Chamber of Commerce, a move Bubba wasn't particularly happy with, but it's only a membership, no leadership, i.e., no visible, role. Between running the bar, the Chamber, and a weekly therapy sessions, I stay busy. Hope to eliminate the therapy sessions by the first of the year. Really don't think I need 'em any more.

Went to the bar the following Thursday night after Jonathan and Greg had left. First visit when Randy was working. In all this time, he's never met me—just hasn't worked out—so checking him out will be easy. Must admit that it marks me as something of a shitty bar manager; shouldn't have waited this long to see him in action.

Pulled in, the bar is packed. Looks like a Saturday night show there are so many inside. How can he not be making sales? Everyone's drinking, dancing, laughing, folks lined up to shoot pool. And a total contrast to last Thursday when I was working his shift.

“It's a great bar, isn't it?” One of the patrons, a young woman who bumped into me on the way to the bar, gushed in my ear. “Shame he had to work tonight, though—if he were off, we'd be at his place or somewhere else. He always has great parties, and good shit. Last week's party as his place was off the charts.”

He's taking off to party, and maybe doing drugs? Dealing?

Ordered a Johnny Walker Red and soda, and watched. Patrons would get drinks, Randy wouldn't record 'em on their tabs and no money changed hands. At one point, he “bought” a round of cheap schnapps shots for the house—maybe 65 or so shots that were never recorded. And Randy is drinking SoCo doing a drink-and-a-half or more an hour. By 1am, the bar had cleared out; Randy was slurring his words.

“Mister, I'm gonna be closing in a few minutes, you want anything else before I close?” He's a little unsteady on his feet.

“Nothing more for me, thanks.” I'd had two drinks and hadn't paid for either of 'em. “Don't think we've met; I'm Barry Evans. And if you'll get my tab, I'll get out of your way.” Even though the bar was scheduled to be open for another full hour, he's drunk enough he shouldn't be serving.

He had a blank look on his face like he was trying to engage his brain, but the transmission wasn't working. “I've heard that name somewhere … you new in town?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Well, since you're new, don't worry about the tab—it's on the house!” He smiles as though he's just given away the world's largest lotto award. Wrong answer. And, look down the length of the bar by the register on the wall—and there's no tabs open there.

“Yeah, I'm new here, Randy--I'm the new owner of the bar, been here a few months now. You're more than half-drunk, you've given away most of the drinks you've poured tonight. Hell, you aren't here half the time for your shifts anyway. How much did ya sell tonight?”

Deer in the headlamps look. Crickets chirping. “Uh ...I dunno ….”

Step around behind the bar, hit the “close” button on the register. “A little over a hundred bucks? For, what, 65 people? Not even $2 a drink per person. The only thing that cheap is a glass of draft beer. Get your shit now and get out. You're fired. Give me your keys.”

He's stunned, grabs his keys, picks off the color-ones for the bar, puts 'em on the bar, cursing to himself. Storms out of the bar, slamming the front door. Hear his car peeling out of the drive, throwing gravel and debris as he goes. Seconds later, hear a crash. The bastard, in his anger, lost control of his car as he pulled out of the bar's drive, and has crashed it in the deep ditch across the highway. Tires are spinning and squealing as tries to get out, to no avail. Minutes later, cops are on the scene. Get a wrecker to pull the car out. Haul his ass to jail with what's certain to be a DUI.

Guess I'll be working his shifts from now own. Maybe get more info from Vince.

Christmas was ahead, and we're celebrating it alone in our place. Put up a tree the week before, Bubba helped decorate as we both did beers, then curled up together on the sofa to look at the finally-completed tree. The next day, there's 2 big boxes underneath the tree with my name on it. What the hell has Bubba gotten me?

The presents I'd ordered for Bubba were delivered to the bar the next day, so wrapped 'em there, and took 'em home. There were another 2 boxes underneath the tree with my name on 'em. Guess Bubba put 'em there when I was in the shower this morning, and didn't notice before I headed out to the bar's office.

Christmas Eve day arrived. I'd slept in until 10:30am, having worked the bar the night before. Bubba was already gone.

Found a letter in front of the coffee maker with Bubba's unique combination of cursive and printing of my name on the envelope. It was dated this morning at 6 am. Poured coffee, got the fireplace going—yeah, it's now chilly enough, but not cold—that I can do a fire. His letter was on two standard blank printer pages, handwritten. Sat on the ottoman in front of the fireplace with my coffee and read it.

Dear Bulldog,

Just found out just now I've got to work Christmas Eve. I'm pissed about it, but it's my job, and this goes with the territory sometimes. I'll be in as soon as I can, but don't wait up for me. It's a really special Christmas for me—and for us; our first (of many) Christmases together. Trust me, I'll be racing to get home to you!

Also wanted you to know your and Rex's “spidey sense” thing has gotten me, too. It's just a gut-level feeling and don't know how to prepare for it, but something really big is happening this New Year's Day.

I'm no good at saying this shit, but I want you to know how much I love you and what a difference you've made in my life. When you first came on board with the Bureau, some thought that we'd made too big a deal with you, given you preferential treatment. They finally saw that you are a big deal, that thousands of crimes would be prevented and that hundreds of lives would be saved from drugs that we'd intercepted because of you.

You started out as a big deal with me, and you know I've always had a crush on you. Thank God that it grew into love on both our parts!

I love how you bite down on something, and hang on till the job is done. (You earned the nickname “Bulldog”!) I love how you're the strongest man I know, even at times when you don't believe it. I love how you make me feel that I'm someone special and the only man in a crowded room.

I love how you make me want to be a better man. And I love the bond that's between us. After Keith was killed, never believed I could really love again, and you've made it even better than I could have imagined.

I'm just grateful that I'm the lucky bastard who gets to be loved by you.

The old Gladys Knight song fits:

“If anyone should ever write my life's story,

for whatever reason there might be,

you'd be there, between each line of pain and glory,

'cause you're the best thing that ever happened to me.”

I'm yours forever,

Bubba

Didn't get a lot done that morning. Just sat there, reading and re-reading the letter. And yeah, the letter is saved—copied and kept at my office, and the original in a safe deposit box.

He got it all wrong—I'm the lucky bastard.