Just One Night, Part 3_ Binding Agreement(37)

“But no Genevieve?” I ask meekly.

“Only Genevieve I know of lives in Camelot,” he says with a smile before stepping away to address the woman waving her credit card in the air.

He doesn’t hear me when I reply quietly, “You’re thinking of Guinevere and Camelot . . . it doesn’t exist.”

I glance around the room, study the patrons more carefully. They look normal enough. There are a few hipsters, a few women and men who have worked a little too hard to emulate the visual perfection of Hollywood’s stars. But mostly they’re everyday folks, people who probably live around here and just wanted to go to their neighborhood spot, a place with little pretense, a place that seems more dedicated to comfort than image. Last time I was here Robert and I were the center of attention. Everyone seemed to be somehow tuned in to us, hyperaware of our presence even before . . . things happened.

Tonight I get a few looks but only the kind you would expect. Glances of hopeful men and competitive women. The energy’s different.

And the music comes from a stereo.

When the bartender looks my way again, I crook my finger, beckoning.

“Need another?” He asks, eyeing my drink that I’ve barely touched.

“No, I was just wondering if you’ll be having live music tonight . . . you know, later.”

Again he gives me a funny look. “We don’t have live music here. We did a karaoke night once, for a holiday weekend . . . think it was Memorial Day . . . maybe Columbus. Anyway, that was a few years ago. It didn’t really catch on.”

I shake my head, now impatient and a little frightened. “I was here. I heard the music. A woman and a bass player. He played, she sang. I heard it!”

Another quizzical look, and then finally the dawning of comprehension. “You must have been at that private party the owner had a little while back. Yeah, I heard a little somethin’ about that. Mr. Dade hired talent, used his own people to tend bar. I was kinda pissed because, you know, I can’t afford to just lose a whole night worth of tips but Mr. Dade, he made it like a paid vacation for all of us so you know, no complaints.”

I suck in a sharp breath, feeling once again unsteady on my stool. The bartender is watching me more closely, a new twinkle of interest in his eyes. “Did he pay you?” he asks.

“Excuse me?” The response is too quick, too visceral. I can’t keep the note of offense from my voice.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. One of my friends told me all about it. He got paid, too.”

“Your friend . . .” my voice trails off as a new, horrible thought occurs to me. “Your friend the bass player?”

“Nah, I don’t know anything about the musicians. My friend was one of the patrons. Mr. Dade doesn’t have a clue that I know him and he was sworn to secrecy and everything . . . even had to sign some confidentiality agreement but like I said, we’re friends. You break those kinds of rules for friends.”

“We have rules for a reason,” I whisper. “There’s something to be said for following the rules.”

“Yeah, whatever.” The bartender laughs, mistaking my statement for lighthearted teasing. “He says he got paid three hundred bucks just to show up. He just had to sit here and look like a regular ol’ barfly and then, when the bartender rang the bell for last call, well he had a choice, he could spend some of that money on getting one last drink here or he could head out. But if he got the drink, he couldn’t dawdle. And if he didn’t, he couldn’t just run out the door, he had to get up all leisurely like. Like a real barfly.”

“Why?” I ask. There’s still emotion in my voice, not offense this time, something weaker that speaks to a deeper pain. But once again the music and the hum of the bar drowns out the nuance and the bartender continues.

“Beats the hell outta me,” he says. “But my friend? He says that when Mr. Dade arrived, he came with this really hot chick . . . not like a hooker or anything. He said she was dressed in expensive brands and holding a designer purse. Sounds like one of those uptight Rodeo Drive types looking for a little downtown adventure, you ask me. You know what I think . . .” He falters and then looks away, suddenly awkward.

“What?” I ask.

“Nah, what I think probably shouldn’t be said in mixed company.” He laughs.

I hesitate before goading him on, trying for my best lecherous leer. “Come on, I’m dying here! Tell me the dirty details. What do you think happened?”

“You really wanna know?”

“Fuck yeah!”

This is not a part that I know how to play well but the bartender isn’t very smart so he continues without picking up on that.