Read Online Midnight Before Christmas by William Bernhardt - Free Book Online Page A

the sharp stabbing agony reminded him that he had sliced up his arm only hours before.
    He tossed back the remains of his shot glass, savoring the sensation of hot burning fluid hitting the back of his throat. Feel the burn, as the boys on the force used to say. Feel it washing away all the hurt, all the misery. It erased everything, Carl realized.
    Everything except memory.
    He couldn’t forget that it was Christmas Eve. He couldn’t forget that his son would be spending the day with some slimeball who wasn’t his father. He couldn’t forget that his wife would be spending the night with the same slimeball. And he couldn’t forget that he had failed to do a damn thing about it.
    “I’ll have another round,” he said, marginally aloud. Was he slurring his words? Damn, he thought maybe he was. And maybe that was a good sign. He’d long since acquired the skill of drinking to excess and not letting the effects show. Maybe this meant he was crossing a new threshold, reaching a new peak.
    Or maybe he was just becoming a sloppy drunk. Who the hell knew? Either way, he wanted another drink.
    “Hey, Joe!” he shouted. “Hit me!”
    The substantial, big-boned man with the white apron around his waist pivoted in Carl’s direction. “My name ain’t Joe.”
    “Ain’t—” Carl slapped his forehead, a bit harder than he really intended. “Right, right. Joe tossed me.” He attempted a grin that he hoped might be something like charming. “And your name is—?”
    “Mister Bartender to you. And I think you’ve had enough.”
    “Aw, don’t start with that. I hate that.” He could tell he was weaving a bit, which could be dangerous on a bar stool. He cleared his throat, concentrated on controlling his body movement and diction. “Come on, please. I’m just getting started.”
    “I could get my license yanked if—”
    Carl spread his arms wide. “Hey, it’s Christmas!”
    Mister Bartender whipped a Scotch bottle out from beneath the counter, a bitter frown on his face. “This is the last one, buddy. And I mean it.”
    Carl scooped up the refilled glass and cradled it in his hands. “You’re a Christian saint, pal. A Christian saint.” The glass was mere inches from his lips when he heard a shrill beeping noise from somewhere nearby.
    He jumped, almost spilling the precious contents of the glass. He focused his eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning. Was that some kind of fire alarm? Was there a raid?
    He noticed that all the other patrons at the bar were looking at him. Did they know something?
    The burly bearded man at the next stool leaned his way. “It’s your phone, you mook.”
    He pressed his hands against his chest. Damn! His cell phone; he’d almost forgotten he had the thing. Not like anyone ever called anymore.
    He whipped the phone out of his coat pocket. He hoped he had enough battery power to take the call; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d charged it. ’Course, at the moment, he couldn’t remember much of anything.
    He flipped the lid open and pressed the Send button. He twisted away from his neighbor, finding some measure of privacy on the other edge of his bar stool. “Yeah?”
    “Carl, is that you?”
    Carl froze. His lips parted, but he didn’t know what to say, couldn’t think—
    “Bonnie?” It was barely a whisper, as if he didn’t dare risk shattering the dream by saying her name out loud. “Is that you?”
    “It’s me, baby. Can you talk?”
    This can’t be real, he thought to himself. This can’t be happening. “I—I can talk.”
    “Carl, I’m so sorry about everything that’s happened. I never meant for things to turn out like this.”
    “I—I didn’t either, honey.”
    “We shouldn’t be fighting. A family should be together on Christmas Eve.”
    Carl’s head was swimming, supercharged with adrenaline and excitement. “I know, honey. That’s what I’ve been saying. That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”
    “I’ve been so wrong,