Love Me and Die

“I’m surprised to see you so soon,” I said to my coworker, who had been taken by the police to be questioned downtown, “I expected you to be there for days.” I motioned with my hand to get the attention of the bartender and pointed to my coworker. He understood I’d be buying this round.

“I don’t know why they keep on dragging me down town to questioned me about one of my one night stands either going MIA or coming up dead.” She said, and tapped out a cigarette from a new pack. “I have alibis for whenever these guys showed up dead. I’m here working. I’m surrounded by coworkers and clients. I can’t be in two places at once.” She lit her cigarette with a vintage zippo lighter, something she picked up at the flea market.

I always admired how nice her nails were. They were always perfectly polished and never chipped. I watched how she held her cigarette and her nails reflected the light from the neon sign above the bar back.

“So what was it this time?” I asked as the bartender brought her drink and refreshed mine. I put some folding money down on the bar. He took what he needed and left the rest.

The bartender was one of the men we work with who wasn’t enamored by her charms. He was very gay and told me one time he thought she could ease up on her makeup. “A little more makeup on her and she’ll look like a drag queen.” I never told her what he said. If he wanted her to know what he felt he would tell her himself.

“This time they were asking me about this guy I saw, what was it,” she looked up at the ceiling as she blew smoke as if to find the answer, “must’ve been a month ago. I hardly remembered his name. When they showed me his picture I kind of remembered but I couldn’t be sure. The picture they showed me was a postmortem shot. I guess they were trying to shock me. As if I haven’t seen a picture of a dead person before.” She said as she tapped her ash angrily into the ashtray.

“What did he die of?” I asked, “I mean, if you can share that information.”

“They didn’t tell me right away. They were trying to spook me into snitching on myself. But I know their tricks. And dig this, he got hit by fucking lightning.” And she laughed uproariously, and caused some heads to turn at the bar before she put her hand over her mouth. “I asked the police ‘do you think I have the power over the elements?’ And they had nothing to say because I can’t cause lightning to come down out of the sky and hit some guy I fucked a month ago. An encounter so unmemorable as to have fallen out of my brain in the meantime.” She said and took a sip of her white Russian.

“Hit by lightning? How could they possibly think that you had anything to do with it? When did it happen? You must’ve been at work, you’re almost always at work.” I said in a low tone as not to be heard by the customers who were paying half attention to our conversation.

She took another drag from her cigarette, tapped out the ash, and said with a shrug, “Whether I was at work or not I can’t command the elements. But as it stands I was at work. Surrounded by people who if asked would say that I was not waving a magic wand in the air, summoning up demons of the airy ethers, to strike this poor sap who just happened to be out in the rain, in the middle of the park, stupid jerk. Everybody knows that if there’s a possibility of a thunderstorm you don’t go stand underneath a tall tree. Christ Jesus.”

I didn’t have anything to say after that other than I was glad the police let her go so she could come back to work. She was a draw here at the bar. Men did have a way of being taken in by her charm. She wasn’t exactly beautiful. She had an ineffable quality about her. It wasn’t her makeup, or the way she wore her hair, or the type of clothes she wore, or even the conversation she would have with these men. They were just moths to a flame.

I didn’t tell her that I was keeping track of how many times the police called her in to be questioned about some random guy. Must’ve been a dozen so far. Each time a body was found there was a piece of evidence that led them to her: a phone number in their contact list, her email written on the inside of a matchbook cover, in one case there was a strip of photos from an old time photo booth showing her with some random guy. The police are funny about too many coincidences.

Granted, being a bar girl in a gin joint she’s bound to meet a boatload of men. But I can’t count one of my coworkers, my bar girl coworkers specifically, that has a body count like she does. The only thing I can think of is some of our older girls had ex-lovers die of natural causes, because they are fucking old.

Just the other day one of our old gals was crying in her beer about some old codger who used to always send her a crisp $100 bill in an envelope for her birthday. “He said to me once that he ain’t seen it dame like me since the 40s. I took that as a big complement.” She said and blew her nose, her mascara running down her cheeks, she ain’t going to be getting any customers tonight. When he died of natural causes she did weep. Whether she wept for him or for that crisp $100 bill I’m not even gonna hazard a guess.

“How can it be my fault?” She said in a sigh, blowing out smoke from her cigarette. “I mean, honestly, if guys drive drunk and wrecked their car and I’m all the way across town, how can I be implicated? I’m not the only bar girl they hooked up with, I’m sure. And what about that guy who was walking on the beach and got hit by a freak wave? Again, can I control the elements? He had my fucking phone number in his contacts and I didn’t give it to him. Like I want some of these assholes calling me or texting me at all times of the day or night.” She said and smashed her cigarette into the ashtray as if making a point.

“Yes, weird.” I said. I didn’t know what else to say other than if I were a cop I would find it right weird that all these dead guys have a recent encounter with her. Those guys could hooked up with other girls, the common denominator with those dead bodies was a connection to her. But I didn’t say anything because I’m not a cop and I gotta work with her.

In a break in our conversation one of the customers came up to us and started talking to her, didn’t notice that I was even sitting there, didn’t even give me a nod of the head, rude asshole. He was a White guy, maybe Italian, in a suit, a bit of dark shadows under his eyes. Maybe 40ish or a hard rode 30. He could have used a shave or might have been one of those guys who had a 5 o’clock shadow at lunch time. He was a little taller than us, so on the short side of most guys. He had a mean look about him, but I’m more fearful for him than of him.

“How about you come and sit with me in a booth over there?” He said to her, more of a demand than a request, he jerked his thumb towards one of the semi private booths available. It’s not like she’s gonna say no, she’s working.

She doesn’t say anything to him, gives me a look of extreme boredom, and slid off of her barstool and walked to the booth he indicated.

“Hello, to you too, Mister.” I said, to remind him that I was sitting there too.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Sister.” He said in a dismissive voice.

I just shrugged off his comment. Ok, so go with her and see how long you live.

He put his hands in his pockets and lifted up on his tiptoes before walking after her. He probably thinks that he’s going to be able to get a hand job underneath the table, which she doesn’t do. She has a strict rule that if some guy wants to buy drinks, she’ll drink with him, letting the bar over charge the guy while pouring cold black tea for her shots.

If they want sex that’s a whole different set of negotiations. It doesn’t happen at the bar, although the bar gets a percentage of her fee, it happens off-site. I don’t know where. It could happen in the guy’s car or at an hourly hotel. I know she doesn’t take guys to her apartment because, she told me, that’s just too much of a violation of her personal space.

I tend to agree with her about bringing random guys to my apartment. Once in it’s hard to get them out if they are not willing. At a hourly hotel I can always bolt, even if it means going down the fire escape half dressed.

I’m just taking a hot minute to note what this random guy looks like, just in case he comes up dead in the near future. I’m not a betting gal, but I’ll bet money this guy is not long for the world. She should have a warning sticker, like a name badge over one of her pert breasts, saying “love me and die.”