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“Unless you’ve got some high score going on. If you’re making a run at Bejeweled or catching some Pokemon or whatever, I can wait a few. Important things are important.”
“I’m not gaming right now.”
“Then you need to focus. But, if you game later, let me know. I’ll get your screen name and we can connect.”
“Maybe later. But let’s get back to what’s important. You sure this is the place we should start?” I say, gesturing to the rundown bar in front of us. “The sign just says ‘Hole.’”
“A lot of the letters are broken, yes.”
“Looks like they’ve been broken a long time and no one’s bothered to fix them. All of this makes me think that, after you had a scotch or three at my place and said you were going out to recon, you wound up deep in some strange hole.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time, and you know that. You’ve been there for a few of those expeditions.”
“So tell me why we’re here looking at a strange hole. Why this hole?”
Diesel smirks. It’s a sideways grin that makes me want to punch him, but somehow, some women fall for it, think it’s charming. “Well, you’re right, I left your little domestic paradise in that abandoned house looking to get a little dirty, because I thought, why not mix work with pleasure? Nothing wrong with it. So I drove around until I found the shittiest bar. Had a few drinks there, made friends with the bartender and better friends with a waitress, and I asked them where I could find a bar even shittier than theirs. They all told me to stay away from this place unless I wanted my drinks to come with a chaser of syphilis and fentanyl. Obviously, I popped by and had a beer or two, chatted up a few people, and found out they’re right. It’s a real fucking dive.”
“And you think this is where we look?”
“They literally had a menu with drug prices on it. By the way, you want to score some crank? They’re having a two-for-one special tomorrow for happy hour.”
“Oh, fun, I’ll get blasted and hang out with my infant. Dad of the year material right here.”
“Nah, I think for that, you’d be acting out more of the ‘fun uncle’ role. At least, in my experience.”
“Your uncle often do meth while hanging out with you?”
Another sideways grin that makes me want to knock some of his teeth out. “Why do you think I enjoy hanging out with you so much? Reminds me of the good ol’ days.”
“Fuck you,” I say. “Let’s get in there and find out who Moretti has in town.”
With a shared nod, Diesel and I enter the hole together. First time that’s happened at the same time. Inside, the bar redefines what it means to be dirty. A cockroach the size of a mouse scurries out of the way as I step across the threshold and the chemical smell of a half dozen drugs assails my nose. A handful of mismatched tables sit scattered at random intervals across the floor, filled by a clutch of crooked men, some drinking, some smoking, some, impressively, doing both at the same time. The bartender stands leaning against the bar at the back of the room, a bar that looks like it was constructed out of rotted pallet boards, like some Pinterest fever dream.
He grins at us as he sees us draw close. There are at least four teeth missing from his smile, and those escaped teeth are the lucky ones — the rest are a tortured mix of brown and black. “Diesel, back already? You know Cindy went home already. Couldn’t walk straight after the time you and her spent in the walk-in.”
“Walk-in? It was the alley,” Diesel says. Diesel catches me giving him a strange look and grins. “It’s been a while since Brandy. I’m trying to move on.”
Move on, or move down? Because I have a hard time believing anything in this place could be associated with the word ‘recovery.’ But I keep my mouth shut; Diesel’s my friend, basically a brother, and now is not the time or place to see how he’s really doing recovering after Brandy’s death; I’ll have to ask him later, once we’re done in this place that makes my skin crawl and me crave a shower with a firehose and industrial solvent.
“Walk-in, alley, same difference here,” the bartender says. “Anyway, what can I get you and your friend?”
I scan the room, taking in the details. The air is thick with smoke and the acrid smell of chemicals. A few patrons glance our way with glazed, suspicious eyes before returning to their drinks or hushed conversations.
"Two beers," I say, keeping my voice low. "Whatever's on tap."
The bartender nods and shuffles over to a grimy tap, pulling two pints of something that looks more like dirty dishwater than beer. He slides them across the bar, leaving trails of foam on the sticky surface.
I’m not touching that.
Diesel picks his beer up and takes a long swig. He winces. “That’s sharp.”
The bartender shrugs. “Last keg went bad. Mold got in the lines. But I put that fresh keg in not too long ago. A month, maybe.”
“A month? Did you clean the lines at least?” I say.
“Does this look like the bar at the Four Seasons? Fuck, I gave you fresh beer. You got a problem with that?”
“It tastes like vinegar that’s been filtered through a jockstrap,” Diesel says.
