He hesitated. "A few months back you came here. We talked briefly outside. You'd had a...big night."
A sudden bolt of clarity, and I remembered. It had been just a few days after I found Tom; the first time I'd decided to get truly shitfaced just to see if it would ease the agony even a little. I hadn't been to Charlie's before. I wasn't even sure how I got there or what happened when I did. But I remembered sitting on the curb with my stomach and head churning as one and having Logan loom up behind me. I remembered a brief moment of fear, followed by resignation and even a hint of relief. This thug was going to do something horrible to me, but maybe he'd put me out of my misery. Only he hadn't. He'd just wanted to talk.
"You wanted to take my drink away." I tried to make it sound like a joke, but my voice cracked a little as I said it. Suddenly I was right back there, feeling everything open up inside me all over again like a fresh wound. Heat pooled in my eyes, and I blinked furiously. Even now, it didn't take much to set me off. Pull your damn self together.
There was sympathy in his smile this time. Or was that understanding? Whatever it was, I appreciated it. Even more, I appreciated that he didn't comment about the way I'd reacted. "Only after you poured half of it down my shirt."
"I did? Oh shit." I laughed as the memory returned. "I did! I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "No big deal. Comes with the territory. Once you've been thrown up on three times in one night, a little vodka doesn't seem so bad."
I scrunched up my nose. "Lovely. I can't wait to join that club."
"Fingers crossed you won't have to. That's my job, get to them before they lose their dinner."
"How heroic."
His eyes crinkled in amusement, but he said nothing.
The silence stretched between us, and that feeling of unease returned. Joy had been right: intense was the perfect word for him. There was something more, though. When he looked at me, it felt like he was searching for something. I didn't know what to make of it.
Someone approached the bar a few feet away, and I saw my opening. "I should get back to it," I said, gesturing to the customer. Logan nodded, although he lingered in place for a few moments before returning to his post.
Thankfully, the rest of the night was fairly tame. Everyone who approached the bar was coherent and respectful, and nobody gave Logan any cause to wade back into the fray. But despite him being back near the door, I felt his presence as though he were standing right behind me. He filled the room, and I found myself constantly stealing glances at him just to reassure myself he'd stayed put. My mind wandered back to that evening outside. Most of it was still a blur, but I got the sense that there was something important I was forgetting.
*****
As midnight came and went, the bar gradually emptied out. New York may be the most famous "city that never sleeps," but anyone who has laid eyes on the epileptic neon of the Vegas Strip at three in the morning knows it's not the only one. Vegas has a nightlife that's all its own. In most other cities, the bar clientele in the weeknight small hours is fairly predictable; cab drivers, stock traders, shift workers, lawyers looking for a little liquid numbness to soothe their corporate guilt. Here though, things are different. In a city that is one giant twenty-four hour performance, you get a much more eclectic group. Dancers, cocktail waitresses, card dealers, professional gamblers — these are the people that haunt Vegas once the rest of the city retires.
Some things remain the same though. Working as a chef, I was intimately familiar with the rhythm of the world after most people were tucked up in bed. There always comes a time — usually an hour or two after midnight — when something in the air changes, a kind of unspoken mutual agreement that you've now reached the reflective part of the night. Scotch and gin replace beer and cocktails, and everything seems to get just a little heavier, a little more downbeat. It's the sort of time when mid-life crises are born. Charlie's reached that point pretty soon after the clock struck one. By then we were technically shut, but it was apparently a "soft close," which meant the regulars could hang and finish their drinks as long as they didn't disturb the clean-up. Charlie and the others had left a little while back, leaving Joy and I to handle close. Logan had disappeared at some point too. I think I was relieved by that.
This part of the job was slightly more familiar. Loading dishwashers, storing leftovers, melting sinks full of ice; it was very similar to cleaning a commercial kitchen.
Once we'd finished out back, we moved to the front. "So, that wasn't so bad, huh?" Joy asked, tossing me a cloth and nodding at the bar-top.