I really do owe her and I’ll still get my credit card tips for tonight. Besides, I love taking the change. I keep it in a jar on my dresser. Every month or so, I’ll cash it in. It’s usually a couple hundred bucks and I treat it like that ten-dollar bill you find in your jacket pocket at the beginning of autumn. I’ll go out for a steak dinner or take a day trip to Napa.
“Thanks,” she says, placing the bills in her personal check presenter, which is already stuffed with slips of paper.
“How many numbers you stack?” I ask.
We each have our own check presenter where we keep our change, credit card receipts, cash, order pad. A bartender never wants to leave their check presenter behind. It’s also where we keep the phone numbers customers give us. Katie and I have our own little rivalry. We call it “Stacking Numbers”. At the end of the night, we’ll see who got more phone numbers. It’s always Katie, to the point that I have a “ten-phone-number” handicap.
“You don’t want to know,” she replies, confidently.
“I would like to know who you’re having dirty sex time with tonight.”
She tuts her tongue at me and takes my hand. “Oh, Clay. Are you jealous?”
“Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m having my fun.”
“Yeah,” she says, sadly. “But it’s not with me, is it?”
I snatch my hand away. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” She laughs and gives me a knowing wink.
“Then get out of here before I do.”
She hops off the stool and heads for the door. “Good night, Tommy!”
“Good night, Katie!” he replies, bent over the mop.
“Good night, Clay!”
“Good night, Worst Person in the World!”
She stops in the door, turns, and blows me a kiss. I grudgingly return the gesture. She “catches” it, slaps it on her backside, and heads out into the street.
“You two are a walking lawsuit.”
I spin around to see Alex standing at the end of the bar.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go,” he says, popping my drawer and running the sales report.
I grab the drawer and follow him into the office.
Alex sits at his computer, working on the inventory while I count my drawer.
I quickly make sure that the amount in the drawer is the same as when I started, minus my sales and credit card tips.
“I’m dropping four-hundred-twelve dollars and sixty-two cents and my credit card tips are two-seventy-four-eighty,” I announce and hold the drawer out to Alex.
“Give me a sec,” he says, slowly pecking away on the keyboard.
I keep the drawer right where it is, hovering near his face, and don’t say a word.
Unable to ignore it any longer, he looks at me. “You got somewhere to be?”
“Maybe. And she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
He snatches the drawer. “I don’t want to know.”
He double checks my figures and counts the money.
“Perfect, as always,” he says, signing my drop slip. “Get out of here and do whatever it is you need to do.”
I pop out of my chair and head for the door. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist getting one last dig before I go.
“I’ll tell her you said ‘hi’.”
He jams his fingers into his ears. “La-la-la-la-can’t-hear-you-la-la-la-don’t-want-to-know-la-la-la.”
“Have a good night!” I shout as I exit the office.
A couple minutes later, I’m driving past the gazebo in the town square, which is festooned with lights, as I head towards to the ocean. I’m already anticipating the sex that is mere minutes away.
Emily and I have been seeing each other for months and it hasn’t lost any of its shine. It’s fun, thrilling, and a challenge in its own way. It’s almost entirely physical. That’s not to say that I don’t care about her. I do, but we’ve laid our cards on the table and “love” was not one of them. We are fine with it.
I didn’t even know that she was married the first time it happened. She conveniently forgot to mention it. She came into the bar by herself, we flirted all night, and ended up in bed together. It was fun and I thought it was a casual, one-night stand.
Then, a few nights later, she came into The Gryphon with her husband. They were a total physical mismatch. She was stunning, sensual. He was a short, thin, balding man. He was also arrogant, demanding, and eager to show her off. To put it another way, he was that stereotypical short, incredibly insecure guy with a massive chip on his shoulder, but as a hedge fund manager, he possessed the one asset that levelled the playing field: money. For Emily’s part, she was bored.
I was speechless.
She and I kept exchanging glances while he would speak too loudly about his business deals in an attempt to impress those around him, many of whom were also millionaires and didn’t care for his grandstanding.
At one point, he theatrically announced that he was stepping outside to take a phone call about a “billion-dollar project”. After our shared glances, I took the opportunity to approach her.
“So, who exactly is that?” I asked.
“My husband,” she casually remarked.
“You didn’t tell me you were married.”
“You didn’t ask.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. You’re not in danger of breaking up a happy family or anything. There’s no kids. We’re only married in a legal sense.”
“Isn’t that kind of the only sense that matters?”
“Do you regret the other night?”
My hesitation was all the answer she needed.
“Good,” she said with a look that intimated we were just getting started.
I liked her little game. I liked her confidence. I liked her.
Just then, her husband re-entered the bar with a swagger and a sense of self-congratulation that was almost comical. He ordered a round of shots for the bar in celebration of the deal he had just closed. I was pretty sure he was lying but he paid the exorbitant tab and insisted that Katie and I join in by taking a shot. We were more than happy to oblige. Emily and I locked eyes as we took our shot.
In that moment, I knew that what I had thought was a one-night stand was far from over.
When they closed out their tab, I thanked them, saying I hoped they would be back soon, all the while keeping my eyes on her.
A week later, she did come back, sans husband.
“No date, tonight?” I asked as she settled into the bar, surprised at how happy I was to see her.
“Nope.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Isn’t it? I’m so distraught. I’m going to be so lonely.”
“Tragic.” I nodded. “Well, I suppose I can keep you company if you don’t mind me working for a bit.”
She gave me a hungry look from head to toe. “Not at all.”
She and I continued our parries and jabs of innuendo all night.
When I got off work, we went back to her place. Her husband was in San Francisco at some conference, so we had sex on his prized pool table. I was in a little bit of a dry spell, but from our two encounters, it was obvious that she had been starved for a long time.
Ever since then, we had seized every opportunity offered to us.
I turn right onto Kensington, which runs along the beach, and will take me right to the Seaside Motel. If I had kept going straight instead of turning, I would have eventually reached the Parker house.
When we first started sleeping together, that’s exactly what I would have done, but not anymore. We’ve stopped meeting there. We had been on a mission to break in every room in the house while her husband was away. It was fantastic. We’d have sex, and afterwards I’d walk naked out of their bedroom onto the massive balcony, which was cantilevered out over the sea, and marvel at the view. Then, I’d go back inside and we’d have sex in another room. I would spend the night. We’d fall asleep around eight in the morning. I’d wake up and leave from her place to go to work in the afternoon with a flushed glow and receive looks of scorn from Katie and Alex. Alex knew I was seeing someone but he didn’t know who. Katie figured it out because she had seen us flirting at the bar multiple times.
Emily isn’t a fan of being a trophy wife. In fact, she hates it and she’s most definitely not a fan of her husband. She’s talked about leaving him, but she loves the perks and she’s not in a hurry to part with them. Eventually, she began swinging from paranoid about being caught to “devil-may-care”. Sometimes, she would be overly worried about someone finding out and cancel plans at the last minute. Other times, she would rail about how much she didn’t care and we’d take ridiculous risks, like the time during one of my shift breaks when we had sex on the hood of a car on a side street next to The Gryphon. Then there were the times when we’d just go back to her place.
But we were sloppy and almost got caught at her house.
After that, she decided that we would only meet up at motels, and not good ones, either. In my opinion, I think it’s lame but after a world of fine Egyptian cotton sheets, marble floors, and a private wine cellar, she finds it a turn-on to meet at these “seedy” establishments. Whatever. I’m not going to say no to getting the chance to see her.
Which is why I’m already fantasizing about what I’ll find in room 37 as I pull into the Seaside Motel parking lot. It’s an L-shaped, single-story structure forever stuck in the 1960s, but it’s not without its charm. They’ve embraced the retro look and there’s a stunning view of the ocean across the road. Avalon is full of places like this.
I park in one of the numerous open spots. The air is heavy with the taste of salt, churned up by the low tide. I notice that there’s another gray Honda Civic just like mine occupying one of the spaces near the office. I don’t see her car, which is not a surprise. Like I said, since we were almost caught, she’s become much more paranoid. She always pays cash at the bar. She also bought a burner phone for us to text each other. She finds Uber and Lyft drivers that will accept cash to drive her to our hookups. There’s always a handful of them outside The Gryphon. They don’t want to split the fare with the rideshare company. They also don’t want to pay the taxes and their riders don’t want anything showing up on their credit card statements for their spouses to find. Emily also discovered that motels like the Seaside often don’t need to see your ID or make a record of your stay if you offer to pay double their nightly rate in cash. She’s become very good at making sure that her husband’s assistant won’t find something that will raise any red flags on her credit cards, which her husband pays, and that he won’t see anything in her bank accounts, which he controls.
I stroll down the row of numbered doors. Next to each is a large window. Some have the curtains drawn and are illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of a television but at this hour, most of them are dark.
I arrive at number 37.
The lights are on inside.
On the other side of this door, I’m going to find her on the bed, naked, lying on her side, head propped up in her hand. She’ll ask something like “What took you so long?”. That’ll be the extent of our conversation. I’m already anticipating her hungry touch, her skill, and reveling in the abandon that comes from two people who are comfortable with the fact that they are using each other for physical pleasure.
I push on the door, but it doesn’t budge. She normally leaves it open a fraction of an inch so that she doesn’t have to get up to let me in, but there’s a problem; the deadbolt is engaged.
What the hell?
I check the number on the door.
Yeah, this is room 37.
I lightly knock.
“Emily?”
There’s no answer.
Maybe she fell asleep.
I knock again. No response.
I take out my phone, dial her burner phone, and press my ear to the door. There’s the sound of a cellphone ringing inside. If she fell asleep, I’m hoping the call will wake her up, even though the knocking should have.
The call goes to the generic, automated voicemail.
I glance around. The Seaside Motel is quiet. There’s only the soft buzz of the lamps in the parking lot and the crashing of waves from across the road.
I’m about to knock again when my phone pings with a text message.
I don’t want to do this tonight.
Damnit.
Sorry I’m late, I text back. But it doesn’t have to ruin our evening.
I hit send.
I’m too tired, is her reply.
My thumbs fly across the screen. Okay, but can you please open the door?
There’s a long pause and then my phone pings again.
No. Leave me alone.
Great. She’s having one of those nights, but even on nights that she’s suddenly canceled plans in the past, we’d at least talk for a little bit.
It’s no good trying to get her to reconsider. She’s made up her mind.
So, that’s tonight down the drain. It’s a little weird but I’m not gonna waste any more time with this. If it’s not happening, it’s not happening.
Good night, I text.
She doesn’t answer.
Once inside my apartment, I head straight for the bathroom. I hop in the shower, scrub down, towel off, and climb into bed, not a little frustrated.
She’ll be back at the bar in a week or two, and we’ll pick up where we left off.
Still, that was odd.
She’s run hot and cold but that felt different.
Oh, well.
As I drift off to sleep, I think about what was behind that door, waiting for me …
Sitting across from Detective Mendez, staring at these photos, now, I know.
Even though there is a Post-it Note covering a section of the image, I can see Emily’s face.
Mechanically and in utter shock, I reach towards the photo.
“Mr. Davis, I’m sorry but you can’t—”
I remove the Post-it.
There’s Emily, just as I had envisioned her, lying naked on the bed, but her throat has been cut by an angry slash across her windpipe. Her lifeless eyes stare up at the ceiling. The mattress is soaked in blood.
“Mr. Davis!”
The photo is snatched away but the image is seared into my brain.
“I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I stammer. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s my fault,” Detective Mendez says, replacing the photo into the folder. “I shouldn’t have shown you that.”
While he collects himself, I stare at the other photos which show the rest of the room; there’s her clothes placed neatly on a chair, her purse, keys, and cellphone on the table.
I’m able to choke down the bile in my throat, but my hands continue to shake. The beads of sweat that popped on my forehead have run down into my eyes. In all of this, there’s this strange thought in my head amidst the chaos that something was wrong about the photos; something other than the woman I was sleeping with lying naked on the bed with her throat cut. Something was missing.
“Mr. Davis? … Clay?” Detective Mendez asks.
Of course, I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him everything; the affair, the sneaking around, the motels, all of it but with everything that’s happened in the past thirty seconds, I’ve forgotten how to speak.
Wait. I know what was missing in the photo: Emily’s burner phone.
I check the photos again, to be sure. There’s no sign of it.
Which means whoever killed her took it and …
I suddenly remember the text I received as I was walking down the hall into this room.
My brain on autopilot, I reach into my pocket for my phone.
“Clay?”
“I’m sorry, Detective. I just need to check something …”
Detective Mendez may as well be on the other side of the world, and it’s a good thing that my expression is already at “maximum bewildered” because this text message, sent from Emily’s burner phone, has taken what was a surreal situation and turned it into a nightmare.
Keep your mouth shut or I’ll tell them about the blood in your car, MY SWEET LITTLE CUPCAKE.
This can’t be happening.
Another realization causes my stomach to plummet into my shoes: last night, as I stood outside the door of number 37 at the Seaside Motel, it wasn’t Emily that I was texting. It was this guy. He knows who I am. He knows my number … and he knows about “my sweet little cupcake”.
That’s impossible! It was a joke!
“Clay? Are you all right?”
My mind snaps into horrible focus.
Whoever this is can easily make the cops think I killed Emily. I didn’t, but how can I explain that to Detective Mendez? Yes, we were having an affair. Yes, I was at the Seaside Motel and yes, my fingerprints are on the door, but I didn’t kill her. And if I show him this text, and there is blood in my car, how do I explain that? Even if there’s not, he’s going to ask what “my sweet little cupcake” means, and if I tell him, that’s it. I’ll be locked up in a cell and whoever did this to Emily goes free.
“Mr. Davis?”
Some sort of survival instinct is triggered. The chaos happening in my head is swept away and I see my situation, clearly. If I try to tell him everything and show him the text, they’ll think I did it. I’ll be locked up. No one will ever believe me and this guy, whoever he is, walks away.
I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I see no other option.
I have to lie.
I blink my eyes and shake my head in an attempt to concentrate.
“I’m sorry, Detective Mendez. I just—I can’t believe it.”
“It’s all right,” Detective Mendez says, picking up the rest of the photos and putting them back in the file folder. “I know it’s a shock but I need you to tell me: how did you know Emily Parker?”
“She, um, she was a regular at the bar.”
“That’s how you met?”
“Yeah …”
All I can do is keep the panic at bay. This guy, whoever he is, knows who I am. He knows things about me and Emily that no one could possibly know.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Um … two nights ago when she came in.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Yes. I served her some drinks.”
“How many drinks?”
“A couple of vodka tonics.”
“How many?”
“Like, maybe four.”
“Did she seem strange to you?”
“No.”
“Did she say if she was meeting anyone?”
“No.”
He nods and makes a note on his pad of paper. “Who texted you?”
“It was a work thing.”
He nods again, not looking up at me.
I’m keeping my trembling hands under the table so he can’t see them. I don’t know if he believes me. Is he like this all the time, or is this an act to get me to break?
“So, you two were … friendly?”
“I’m a bartender. I’m friendly with everyone. It’s my job.”
Something about his question causes my mind to click.
What can I get you?
It’s the old bartender question. I know it sounds like I’m being subservient to you when I ask, but your answer, what you ask for, your body language, your tone, tells me everything I need to know. Are you happy? Sad? Do you have money? Do you want someone to talk to or do you want to be left alone? You tell me everything about yourself and I’m going to use that to get what I want, which is the biggest tip. But now, looking at Detective Mendez, I think, “What can I get you?” What is it that you want that I can give you that will get me what I want, which is out of this room?
His demeanor is infuriating. He’s not intense. He’s not digging too deep. He just wants some answers. He seems like kind of a loner, someone without many social skills; a Sydney Loomis-type. I need to be casual with him. Make him forget about his social awkwardness.
“Did she ever come into your bar with anyone?” he asks.
There. Right there is my “out”.
I try to relax or at least appear to relax because relaxation is not possible under the circumstances, and treat the table between us like it’s the bar. I slip into my bartending persona, which makes me feel gross, but I have to get out of this room.
“Yeah,” I say with a slight roll of the eyes. “Her husband. Have you seen that guy?”
The change in him is instant. He loosens up.
“Yes,” he says, mirroring my eyeroll. His lips tighten into something almost like a smile.
My tactic worked. Now, we’re just two guys talking.
“He’s a piece of work.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he says, making another note. “How did they seem to you?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m only asking for your opinion.”
“They were … not great.”
“Really?”
“Well, yeah, but nothing like that,” I quickly add, pointing to the file. I may have overplayed this. I wanted to get on Detective Mendez’s good side to loosen him up so I can get out of here, but I don’t want to insinuate some other innocent person is guilty of Emily’s murder.
“I see,” he says, taking more notes. He’s much more at ease. “But she came in by herself two nights ago?”
“Yes.”
“And where did you go after you got off work?”
“Home.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?”
“Bachelor for life,” I reply with a shrug and a sheepish grin.
He makes a note. “Okay. That’s all I’ve got for now.” He takes something from his pocket and slides it across the table. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please tell me.”
There are a million things I could tell him, right now, a million things I want to tell him because I want him to catch whoever did this to Emily, but if her blood is in my car, he will never believe me. No one will.
“Okay.” I deposit the card in my pocket and try not to rise too quickly from my chair. I have to get to Katie. I need to know what they asked her. Why did Detective Mendez show me those photos? There’s no way he showed them to Katie because she would have said something. So, why me?
Detective Mendez stands. “And let me know if you plan to go out of town any time soon, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” he says, extending his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I mean ‘Clay’.”
“No problem,” I reply, shaking his hand. He’s got a grip.
I begin walking towards the door.
“I’m sorry, Clay. One last question.”
Well, there it is.
He’s done it. He’s spotted a crack in my story. He’s been playing me. I don’t know what this question is, but I’m sure it’s going to pin me to the wall and slap handcuffs on my wrists.
“Yeah?”
“Your bar; The Gryphon. Is it any good?”
Seriously?
“… yeah.”
“What makes it good?”
“Me.”
He laughs, proving it was the perfect response.
“What’s your favorite drink to make?” he asks.
Bartenders hate this question. It’s like someone asking you what’s your favorite sales report to compile. There are drinks that we know we make well, but that’s different than what’s our favorite drink to make. I always give the smart-ass answer of “bottles of Bud Lite”, but this is the one time that I’m relieved someone is asking me this question. This guy wants a friend.
“I make a mean margarita.”
“Really? Well, I may just have to come by and see if you’re telling the truth.”
The way he says that last part about telling the truth, I’m back to not knowing if he’s messing with me, but I’ve already committed.
“The first one’s on me.”
He smiles. “Well, all right. Thanks for coming in and, remember; if you think of anything, don’t hesitate to call me. I mean that.”
“Will do, and I mean it about the margarita, too.”
He nods and I head out the door.
I’m staring at my Civic like it’s radioactive. My initial urge was to search the inside of the car right then and there, but it would look really suspicious right in the middle of the police station parking lot. I do a quick scan through the windows. I don’t see anything, but it could only be a drop or two somewhere. Or there might not be any blood at all.
I didn’t see anything when I drove over here but I wasn’t really looking for—
