How long had it been since Frank and Mel were at AL’S BAR? It was poorly illuminated and poorly ventilated, with the bourbon waterred down. AL’S electric bills and alcohol concentration were equally low.
“Has it been a month already?”
“No, I think it’s longer than that, Mel. I half-expected that Al might find an air conditioner in the meantime.”
“Al? I don’t figure him that way.”
The balding, short-tempered owner wasn’t there. No one talked freely about the BAR when he was behind the counter.
“Do you want the usual?” asked Sylvia, the waitress and bartender.
“Al’s not coming in, is he?”
“No. It’s Sunday, and he’s gone to the shore.”
“As long as he’s not making the drinks, could you put a little more bourbon in mine?” asked Frank.
They looked to the flatscreen above the bottles and mirror on the wall. The Phillies were behind again. Why bring that up?
“How’s Rayette?”
“Don’t ask, Mel.”
“Is she talking to you ever since you smashed in her window?”
That was two months ago.
“No. I haven’t heard a thing.”
“Two months, huh? And not one of her usual putdowns?”
“Right.”
Mel sipped the bourbon and water that Sylvia pushed his way. “I always thought she was a little strange,” he said.
“The whole family’s odd, if you ask me. Her brother’s even stranger.”
“You mean Otto?” questioned Sylvia, who took some interest while wiping the counter with a rag.
“Yeah, Otto.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
Frank made a sour face. Was it the drink or the reminder of Rayette’s younger brother? “Otto’s still talking to me,” he said.
David Sydney is a physician. He writes fiction in and outside the Electronic Health Record.
