Charlie’s Place is one of those old-bar-and-grills you see in antiquated black and white movies. It’s a place where you can get any drink you want as long as it’s a shot, a beer, or a shot and a beer.
Charlie’s Place won the war against the changes, time and the outside world, rammed down our throats. But a few of the old regulars were still fighting the battle.
Take Emil Ford for instance. He hit the skids when his old lady ran off with a trucker from Portland. One day he was getting home cooked meals, his clothes washed and ironed, and his crank polished. The next day cold beans, wrinkle city and a little five finger lovin’.
He still had his Knuckle. The bike, like him, was in need of loving care. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen the Knuckle washed or Emil sober and with a woman.
Then there’s old Lefty Slater. He lost his job and most of the use of his right leg after an accident down at the mill.
The Mill claimed he was drunk on the job.
Lefty claimed he wasn’t.
The Mill won. So they pensioned him off and showed him the door. But Lefty still rolls up at that same Mill door every morning straddling his 1948 Indian, cussing and swearing at the white collar drones till the 9:15 plant whistle blows. Then he idles the old Indian over here and parks next to Emil’s Knuckle at the end of the lot. He does his gimp shuffle inside to join Emil in finding the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle.
Even Charlie has changed some. He used to be here morning, noon and nite. But now, he’s here mid-morning, noon and night.
I was glad Charlie’s Place had won the battle. It felt like my favorite leathers, a bit wore around the edges but comfortable just the same–until last Tuesday.
That morning started like any other morning. I was doing the usual white-towel-once-over-lightly, when I heard the rumble of the Knuckle’s pipes and Emil came in and perched on his honorary stool.
As always, he waited impatiently for me to stop cleaning and start pouring.
Just as I finished pouring the drink I heard a screeching of tires out front.
Through the stained front window, I saw a cloud of dust in the shape of chopper slide to a stop. It was one of those generic ones you see in the ads in biker rags.
It made enough noise and carried enough rake to get pretty little skirts wet in anticipation and the law reachin’ for their ticket books.
The old guy, getting off the machine, must have bought his riding outfit to coordinate with the bike. I hadn’t seen that many zippers in one place, since I worked as a bouncer at a strip joint in Miami.
He lit up one of those half cigars that look like they were stubbed out in an ashtray before he bought ’em.
“Look at this shit, Emil, ” I grinned. But Emil was engaged to his shot glass, and wasn’t about to break off the relationship.
The old guy snapped open the screen door and eyeballed the room, like he was a process server. Then sauntered over to the bar, and grabbed the stool right in front of me.
The cigar was emitting smoke signals, but since I’m not an Indian, the word “coffee” found it’s way through.
As I turned to grab the steaming pot, he asked, “This establishment belong to a Charles Henry Thurston from St. Louis?”
Shit, he talked like he dressed.
No sense lying to him, since Charlie’s full name was on the liquor license above my head.
“Sure does,” I replied, pouring the coffee.
Through the cloud of smoke I saw a satisfied smile light up his face.
“It’s about goddamned time”.
“What is?”
He stubbed out the cigar. The face became serious. “I’ve been cruising every little small berg west of South Dakota looking for him. Knew he had a bar called Charlie’s something”.
He stared at me.
“You got any idea how many bars called Charlie’s I’ve been in?”
I shook my head.
“One hundred and forty-seven… forty-eight now”.
“That’s a lot of bars”.
He nodded. “That’s a hellava lot of Charlies too”.
“Popular name.”
“Yeah, for shithole bars in shithole bergs. And this shithole berg is called what?”
“Trenton.”
He lit up another cigar. “Charlie ever mention me?”
I shrugged. “He mentions a lot of people. Some even smoke cigars. But a name might help narrow it down some.”
He let the sarcasm slide. “Cecil Treadwell.”
I shook my head. “Nope, I can honestly say I’ve never heard him mention that name. That’s one I’d remember”.
“That figures. He gonna be in today?”
“Might–”
“Surprised he isn’t here already counting last nights take. He was always raiding the till first thing in the morning in the old days.”
“Man, you do know Charlie, ‘ I grinned.
He nodded. “Like the crack of my ass.”
I reached for the phone under the bar. “I’ll give him a holler. Tell him an old friend is here.”
Cecil reached inside his coat and pulled out a stainless S&W .357. The two inch barrel was just the right length for what is referred to as a ‘face’ gun. That, and the fact it was pointing at MY face brought me to that conclusion.
“I say anything about him being a friend?” Cecil hissed.
“Well no,” I stuttered, eye to barrel with the Magnum. “I assumed–”
Cecil pointed the pistol at my forehead. “What’s it they say? Never jump to assumptions? Makes an ass out you and somethin’.”
“That’s assume,” I corrected.
The magnum dropped to my nose. “Then we’ll assume the bastard will be in sometime today,” he hissed again. “Right?”
The 9:15 whistle blew at the mill.
My eyes had crossed watching the barrel of the magnum. “There some special reason—-?”
Cecil pointed the gun at Emil. “Who’s that?”
My eyes uncrossed. “Emil.”
“Hey, Emil,” Cecil shouted, “keep your ass planted on that stool and it won’t get shot.”
Emil raised his half empty glass and stared straight ahead. If he had any idea what was going on, he hadn’t shown it.
The magnum was back pointing at my nose. “And your name?”
“Charlie. Just like the sign says.”
He grimaced. “Think I’ll call you Chuck. I’ve had my fill of Charlies to last me my lifetime.”
I shrugged. “You got the gun. You can call me late for dinner if you want.”
I put both hands on the bar. “This some new kind of high-class hold-up? You don’t want to deal with the hired help?”
“You always this smartassed with a gun pointed at you?”
“Don’t get many opportunities.”
“To be smartassed?”
“To have a gun pointed at me.”
He lowered the gun a little. “Then I guess you should relish this moment, eh, Chuck?”
I pointed to the bottle, and glanced at Emil. Cecil nodded.
After I had filled Emil’s glass, I came back and stood off to one side of the gun.
“Mind if I ask a dumb question?”
“No question’s dumb, Chuck. Least not one I’ve ever heard.”
“There some special reason,” I started again, “you have a beef with Charlie? Or you just pissed off it took you this long to find him?”
The Magnum rose back to my forehead. “You had to go and ruin my perfect record, Chuck. That second question was dumb.”
“So just answer the first one then.”
Cecil’s face twisted into a mask of hatred. “The bastard ruined my life,” he hissed. “That a special enough reason?”
Normally, I’d have agreed. But this time I needed more answers. “And just how did he do that?”
“Some shit he pulled on me back in St. Louis.”
“Man, that’s a long time to hold hold a grudge. Charlie hasn’t been there in thirty years.”
“Thirty-five to be exact.”
“Thirty-five’s even longer. You sure you remember what it is he did to ruin your life?”
He pointed to his empty cup. “Like it was yesterday, Chuck.”
I considered splashing him with the hot coffee, but that Magnum, and the way it was pointed, helped me just fill his cup.
“Boy, that must have been some fucked-up yesterday.”
Cecil nodded. “Oh it was, Chuck, it was.”
I refilled Emil’s glass.
Cecil sipped his coffee and began with his story.
“You see Chuck, back in St. Louis, in Charlie’s and my neighborhood, I was just starting to be the Big Dog in the kennel. I was getting the right connections, had a Harley, and the money was starting to roll in. Even had the prettiest girl in the neighborhood too.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “By the way? Charlie still married to Ellen?”
“Ellen was Charlie’s wife.”
“Was? She run off on him?”
I shook my head.
His face softened a bit. “Dead?”
I nodded.
The face twisted back to hate. “Good. That makes me feel a little better. Now he knows what it feels like to live without her.”
“I’m not quite sure I’m following this.”
“Ellen and I were going together. We were going to be married. Then Charlie entered the picture—riding that damn stripped down bike of his. I saw the way she looked at him. Between that bike and Charlie’s outlaw attitude, it was clear that even though I had a bike, and a goddamn fancy one, I didn’t have a chance. Told her to go. Told her there’d plenty of women out there who’d just love my money.”
He lit his cigar again. “I got alimony checks proving the love part.”
I lit a cigarette. “Must have been some bike Charlie had.”
“Oh it was. You ever heard of a Vincent Black Shadow, Chuck?”
I blew smoke at the barrel of the Magnum. “Who hasn’t. Charlie even had one up until a couple years ago. I got it now.”
Hate turned to surprise. “You mean he doesn’t have the Shadow anymore either? He always said he’d be buried on the damn thing.”
“He almost was,” I replied. “It did bury Ellen.”
The gun started to drop a little. “Accident?”
I nodded. “Rear tire blew, and he lost it out on Route 18. He nailed those barrels they put in front of them concrete pillars that holdup the overpass. Ellen was thrown off the bike and broke her neck. Happened about five years ago.”
“What happened to Charlie?”
“He drags his left foot now, and his right arm doesn’t do what it used to, but he gets around. He just does it a whole lot slower these days.”
Cecil smirked. “Good. That’ll make him a little easier to shoot.”
The sweat was forming a pool where my belt and the small of my back met. Maybe a little reasoning was in order.
“I don’t get this grudge shit,” I began, “You told Ellen to go. Seems it should be you you’re pissed off at.”
“Oh I am, Chuck, I am,” he sneered. “Right after I take care of Charlie, I’m jumpin’ on that Bourget out front and letting that big S&S wind out till its pumpin’ blood. Then I’ll hit the twin NOS system and find that overpass pillar that took my beloved Ellen.”
His last remark sent chills down my spine. It was said flat, without feeling or emotion. He’d made his decision, and now, he was going to die with it.
I heard the footsteps outside. Not really footsteps, more like a shuffle.
I looked out the window. I could see his cowlick and the orange vest.
He saw me looking, waved, and pointed behind the bar.
I shot a quick glance a Emil. He was buried in his shot glass.
The screen door opened.
Cecil spun the Magnum in that direction.
“Duck Charlie!” I yelled.
But he didn’t duck. He just stood there dumb-founded, as the six bullets struck him in the face and chest.
Cecil turned and stared straight at me. His eyes went flat, and a little smile crossed his lips as he put the empty Magnum on the bar and swaggered out, giving the lifeless body a swift kick as he stepped over it and mounted the Bourget.
My shirt was drenched in sweat. And even though my ears were ringing, I could still make out the roar of the exhaust as he turned the wick up on that big S&S.
I glanced at Emil, but he hadn’t stopped hibernating in his shot glass.
I heard a voice outside the screen door.
“Good lord!”
I looked out and saw the bearded man bent over the body, his hand patting the down the gray cowlick. He stared up at me through the half open screen door.
“Lefty Slater,” he stammered, “Why?”
The explosion was faint in the distance, and the smoke rose lazily from the direction of the overpass.
He looked up from Lefty. “What the hell was that?”
“Just someone payin’ his dues,” I said, rubbing my ears.
He stared toward the overpass. “For what?”
“Guess it’s gonna be for Lefty now.”
He looked down at Lefty’s lifeless body. “And this someone was?”
I shrugged. “Never saw him before today.”
“But why’d he shoot Lefty?”, he repeated.
I picked up the JD and filled Emil’s glass. “Guess that’s something we’ll never know, Dad.”
