Weezer was going to come out with a new record as good as “Pinkerton.” Pete didn’t care about either band anymore.
Before he’d moved to New Jersey to take the Bergen Light job, before he’d fallen for Emily and decided to go from friend to lover, he’d lived in a tiny apartment less than three blocks away from the Pub, making it all the more obvious a destination for him. It also made driving between the lines less of a worry when he was trying to decide between going home and having one more. It may have even been one of the reasons he moved downtown when he returned to Miami, as opposed to settling into Coral Gables. Not much had changed. In his new neighborhood, he had just found another bar down the street.
He walked toward the double doors that led into the Gables Pub. Blondie’s “Dreaming” was playing low on the jukebox as he walked in, looking around for Emily and Mike. The Pub was dark and empty. Aside from Blondie, the only noise came from the middle-aged, longhaired bartender whistling to himself as he wiped down the bar. He stopped abruptly as Pete entered, recognition flickering in his eyes. It’d been a few years, but Pete remembered him, too. Pete slid onto a stool near the end of the bar.
“Hey Jimmy,” Pete said, realizing the bartender couldn’t place his name. He leaned over the bar and extended his hand. “It’s Pete. Pete Fernandez. I used to basically live here a couple years back.”
Jimmy the bartender smiled and nodded, shaking Pete’s hand drowsily and speaking in a hippie/surfer drawl that took Pete back to simpler times, when his biggest concern was being able to roll out of bed at noon to get to class.
“What can I get you, dude?”
Pete hesitated for a second. It’d been a shit day. Normally, that’d call for a serious drunk. But he needed to think. “Just gimme a Bass,” he said.
Jimmy’s eyes widened slightly at the request.
“Damn, dude. No shot this time?” Jimmy said, puzzled. “Shit, I remember you closing this place down more than I did, and I fuckin’ worked here, man.”
Pete looked around. Emily and Mike probably stopped to get a bite to eat or decided to go somewhere else. He stood up quickly and scanned the patio area. Nothing. He took his seat at the bar. That was fine. He wasn’t in a hurry to see her. Not yet.
Jimmy walked over to the other end of the bar and began pouring Pete’s beer. Jimmy pointed at the Jägermeister machine next to the tiny Red Bull cooler and nodded toward it. Pete groaned to himself as he gave Jimmy the thumb’s up. Fuck it, he thought. The reminder that he’d be seeing Emily soon made the decision that much easier.
Jimmy returned with a full pint and a shot of Jäger—a healthy shot, too, not a plastic, sissy shot. As Jimmy walked away, Pete downed the purple liquor in one swift motion. He winced as it slid down. He coughed, gagging a bit on the drink as it coated his stomach. Pete gripped the bar.
He took a small sip from his beer and pulled out the small notebook he carried in his back pocket, a remnant of his reporting days. He started jotting down notes. Kathy. Javier. Jose Contreras. Kathy was missing, Pete decided. He wasn’t sure if it was the Jåger giving him clarity, but she didn’t seem like the type to leave her cat unattended or her TV on for days. Her apartment did not seem like its owner had left on vacation, either. And if she was missing, she was most certainly in trouble.
He was certain he’d missed something at Kathy’s apartment. Had he planned better, he’d be able to figure out where Kathy went, and if she’d left with Javier. Pretty unremarkable work, Pete thought, as he took another sip from his pint glass. Yet, for some reason, he felt energized.
He was fuzzy on why he was helping Chaz, beyond his inherent need to be liked and to be helpful. Something still bothered him about Chaz’s request. He could have done many of the things Pete did today—basic info hunting, visiting
Before he’d moved to New Jersey to take the Bergen Light job, before he’d fallen for Emily and decided to go from friend to lover, he’d lived in a tiny apartment less than three blocks away from the Pub, making it all the more obvious a destination for him. It also made driving between the lines less of a worry when he was trying to decide between going home and having one more. It may have even been one of the reasons he moved downtown when he returned to Miami, as opposed to settling into Coral Gables. Not much had changed. In his new neighborhood, he had just found another bar down the street.
He walked toward the double doors that led into the Gables Pub. Blondie’s “Dreaming” was playing low on the jukebox as he walked in, looking around for Emily and Mike. The Pub was dark and empty. Aside from Blondie, the only noise came from the middle-aged, longhaired bartender whistling to himself as he wiped down the bar. He stopped abruptly as Pete entered, recognition flickering in his eyes. It’d been a few years, but Pete remembered him, too. Pete slid onto a stool near the end of the bar.
“Hey Jimmy,” Pete said, realizing the bartender couldn’t place his name. He leaned over the bar and extended his hand. “It’s Pete. Pete Fernandez. I used to basically live here a couple years back.”
Jimmy the bartender smiled and nodded, shaking Pete’s hand drowsily and speaking in a hippie/surfer drawl that took Pete back to simpler times, when his biggest concern was being able to roll out of bed at noon to get to class.
“What can I get you, dude?”
Pete hesitated for a second. It’d been a shit day. Normally, that’d call for a serious drunk. But he needed to think. “Just gimme a Bass,” he said.
Jimmy’s eyes widened slightly at the request.
“Damn, dude. No shot this time?” Jimmy said, puzzled. “Shit, I remember you closing this place down more than I did, and I fuckin’ worked here, man.”
Pete looked around. Emily and Mike probably stopped to get a bite to eat or decided to go somewhere else. He stood up quickly and scanned the patio area. Nothing. He took his seat at the bar. That was fine. He wasn’t in a hurry to see her. Not yet.
Jimmy walked over to the other end of the bar and began pouring Pete’s beer. Jimmy pointed at the Jägermeister machine next to the tiny Red Bull cooler and nodded toward it. Pete groaned to himself as he gave Jimmy the thumb’s up. Fuck it, he thought. The reminder that he’d be seeing Emily soon made the decision that much easier.
Jimmy returned with a full pint and a shot of Jäger—a healthy shot, too, not a plastic, sissy shot. As Jimmy walked away, Pete downed the purple liquor in one swift motion. He winced as it slid down. He coughed, gagging a bit on the drink as it coated his stomach. Pete gripped the bar.
He took a small sip from his beer and pulled out the small notebook he carried in his back pocket, a remnant of his reporting days. He started jotting down notes. Kathy. Javier. Jose Contreras. Kathy was missing, Pete decided. He wasn’t sure if it was the Jåger giving him clarity, but she didn’t seem like the type to leave her cat unattended or her TV on for days. Her apartment did not seem like its owner had left on vacation, either. And if she was missing, she was most certainly in trouble.
He was certain he’d missed something at Kathy’s apartment. Had he planned better, he’d be able to figure out where Kathy went, and if she’d left with Javier. Pretty unremarkable work, Pete thought, as he took another sip from his pint glass. Yet, for some reason, he felt energized.
He was fuzzy on why he was helping Chaz, beyond his inherent need to be liked and to be helpful. Something still bothered him about Chaz’s request. He could have done many of the things Pete did today—basic info hunting, visiting
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