top it all off, I’m catching snippets of customers talking about Emily’s murder. It’s not much. Not everyone knew her, but there’s enough that I try to discreetly eavesdrop on the conversation, only to find that, like Genevieve, I know more about what happened than they do.
An hour later, a young-looking girl orders a Long Island. I ask for her ID and she hands me this utter monstrosity of a fake. There’s no hologram. The picture is dark and obviously photoshopped. And here’s the secret to spotting a fake ID: a blind person can do it. It’s not how an ID looks, but how it feels. Is it flimsy or hard? When you handle hundreds of IDs a night, you know what a real one feels like in your hand. This thing is as hard as a rock. Avalon is a wealthy town, so we get our fair share of rich kids who have spent a lot of money on fake IDs and I’ve seen some damn good ones, but this is laughable. Normally, I’d hand the ID back, and wish her good luck someplace else, but tonight ain’t that night.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What?”
“What is this?” I ask, holding the ID.
Her eyes go wide. “It’s, uh … It’s my ID.”
“Okay, I don’t know how much money you paid for this, little girl, but you should ask for a refund.”
She wilts but for some stupid reason keeps pushing it. “It’s … It’s real.”
I sigh. “The image is shopped and too dark. It’s hard as a rock and there’s no hologram.”
“I—I left it in the wash.”
“Now I’m worried that you don’t understand how a washing machine works.”
“Okay … okay. I’m sorry,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’ll take it back.”
I nonchalantly toss the ID into the trash behind the bar and nod at the door.
“Get out.”
Stunned, she turns and quickly leaves.
Wonderful. I’ve turned into the asshole bartender I’ve always hated.
“Clay?”
Alex is staring at me from the end of the bar. He’s been watching me and obviously doesn’t like what he sees.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
I walk over. “What’s up?”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. You want to take a break? I know it’s been a crazy forty-eight hours.”
“No. It’s okay. I don’t need a break.” It’s getting late in the evening and the last thing I want to do is stop working because I’ll start thinking.
“All right,” Alex says, “but if you could do everyone a favor and stop being a jerk, that would be great.”
“She was trying to use a fake ID.”
“I get that, but she’s not the only person you’ve been a jerk to this evening, is she?”
My shoulders drop. There’s nothing to say in my defense.
“Sorry. I’m just on edge.”
“Listen, I know that Mrs. Parker was one of your regulars and these past few days have been kind of crazy and if you need a break to calm down, that’s fine. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
As I turn back to the bar, I catch a glimpse of a lonely figure sitting at a high-top table against the wall across the room.
Genevieve Winters.
She’s sipping a cocktail by herself, eyes locked on me. In front of her on the table is a notepad.
There’s a knot of businessmen two tables over, sizing her up, deciding who’s going to make a move.
How did she get in here without me seeing her?!
Once our eyes meet, she casually glances down and starts writing in her notepad.
“Alex! Alex, hold on.”
Alex halts his retreat to the office.
“What’s up?”
“See that woman sitting over at table twenty-four?”
He glances over and definitely sees her.
“What about her?”
“We have to kick her out.”
“What are you talking about? She’s been here before.”
“She’s a reporter. She was waiting for me when I opened up and started harassing me. She said that she was going to ask customers about Mrs. Parker’s murder. She’s gotta go.”
He takes another look.
“She’s not talking to anyone right now.”
“But she might.”
“We’re not kicking her out. She’s minding her own business.”
“But—”
“Clay, we’re not kicking out someone for calmly having a drink at a table, especially if they’re a reporter. I wouldn’t want her writing about it.”
“She’s a reporter, not a Yelp reviewer.”
“Whatever. If you’re not going to take a break, then you need to calm down, stop being a jerk, and do your job, okay?”
With that, he turns and goes back to the office.
Through the sea of people, Genevieve has been watching my discussion with Alex. She can tell from my expression that she won and gives me a light wave with her fingers.
I fight the urge to wave one finger at her and get back to work.
The hours drag on.
Alex’s little admonishment worked for a time, but the simmering frustration is building into a flame and it’s fanned every time I look over and see Genevieve watching me. She’s been here for six hours. It feels like twelve. Every drink order is tedious. Every special instruction for a martini or a Manhattan is a chore. Every question is inane.
“What do you have on tap?” a customer asks while looking directly at the beer taps.
“What can you make?” a girl asks, which is like asking an accountant what they can “math”.
Business picks up steam. Katie and Tommy are pulling my dead weight. I botch one drink order after another. People are simply yelling their orders at me before
