I’d visited more bars than usual in the past few days. This one was called Bar None, and it was busy, crowded with Thursday night partiers getting ready for the weekend. They were mostly younger than me and Rachel, dancing to the hip-hop blaring through the speakers.
I spotted Kempton right away, slouched over the bar with an empty glass in front of him. One of the two bartenders, a young woman in a sleeveless black T-shirt, was slicing lemons and oranges and other garnishes, keeping an eye on him while the other one, a short Black guy in a Metallica shirt, kept busy pouring beers and mixing drinks.
We walked up. The female bartender lifted an eyebrow, asking if we wanted a drink. I shook my head and pointed at Kempton, and she nodded with a look of relief.
“Luke?” I put a hand on his arm. “It’s me. Tom. You all right?”
He jerked up, as if he’d been asleep, and blinked at me. “Huh? Oh, hi. What’re you doin’ here?” He reached for his empty glass.
I shook my head at the bartender before she could pour him another. “Your wife’s worried about you. Maybe you should go home.”
“Jenna? How do you—” He saw Rachel. “Hi. Who’re you?”
“I’m Rachel. Tom’s girlfriend.” She reached out to take his hand. Touching it, she turned to me and nodded. “Yes.”
The demon. “Let’s get you home, Luke.” I reached for my wallet. “What’s the damage?”
But Luke grabbed his glass. “One more. C’mon, one more, Tom, I’m buying!”
“I think you’ve had enough,” the bartender said firmly. “Thirty-two dollars.”
“Nah, c’mon, gimme one more.” He tried to reach over the bar for the bottle, but it was out of his reach. “Goddamn it, I’m fine! Just give me one more!”
I fished a credit card out and handed it over. The bartender took it, her eyes on Kempton. The other bartender drifted toward us, alert to trouble.
Neither of them kept an eye on the knife. Luke’s arm lurched forward, and he snatched it up.
His stool fell over and he staggered backward, bumping a couple dancing behind him. I was on his right, with Rachel to his left. He was wobbling on his feet, but the blade looked sharp and knew it could hurt me. Or Rachel.
“Luke, settle down.” I raised one hand. Trying to keep his attention on me, away from Rachel. “Just put the knife down and let’s get you—”
“No!” His face was red, and he was breathing hard. “I’m not going home! I’m not—”
I expected him to try stabbing me, so I was keeping my distance as best as I could. I could see someone doing a video on their phone, and I could hear the male bartender talking to a 911 operator.
Kempton closed his eyes. I took a step toward him.
Then he stuck out an arm, gritted his teeth, and started slicing the blade into his wrist.
Blood spurted. Someone screamed. Kempton dropped to his knees, grunting, and sawed at his skin, his eyes wild, blood seeping through his sleeve.
I grabbed his right arm—the one with the knife. Rachel took his other hand, and we pulled his arms apart. Rachel swore as blood spattered her jacket and jeans. I twisted Kempton’s wrist until the knife dropped next to a bar stool. He doubled over, groaning and sobbing, pounding the floor with a fist.
The female bartender raced around the bar with a handful of towels and started wrapping them around Kempton’s wrist. I stood up, catching my breath, and looked at Rachel. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Somebody owes me a new jacket. This was my favorite.”
“I’ll add it to the invoice.” I waved a hand to the person taking the phone video. “We’re done here, okay? Show’s over—”
Then I saw Phillip in the back of the bar.
“It’s him.” I started moving. “Stay here. Or not, whatever.”
I pushed past a man staring down at Kempton and through a crowd of people deciding whether to start dancing again or get more drinks. Phillip saw me charging at him and turned to run, but he was blocked by two men with beers throwing darts in the corner.
He ducked low and headed for the back door. I dodged around a woman drinking wine and swaying to the music, caught up, and snagged his elbow.
Phillip twisted, snarling at me. “Get away from me!”
I pushed him against the wall. Very Mike Hammer. Doing my best tough P.I. impression, I leaned into his face. “What’s going on, Phillip? This isn’t in any of the 12 steps, I don’t think.”
He punched at my chest. I grabbed for his hands, but he shoved me back and swung around, spilling someone’s beer, and then he darted for the back door.
Paramedics burst in at the front. Rachel saw me, and saw Phillip, and started pushing through the people between us.
I followed Phillip. The door banged in my face and I yanked on it and tripped down the steps outside.
We were in an alley, a floodlight high overhead casting harsh yellow light down over the dumpsters and the rough pavement. Phillip was running for the street, but he stopped when he saw the flashing lights of a cop car and turned. Now he was facing me.
“Come on, Phillip.” I held my hands wide, nonthreatening. “Let’s go to a meeting. Or get coffee or something. We can get a handle of this demon.”
“You don’t understand!” He leaned forward, flexing his fingers as if getting ready for a fight. “It wants to kill me!”
“So you give it to other people? And it kills them?” Demons always want fresh blood. This was an approach I’d never heard of before, but who better to target than an alcoholic?
“I can’t control it! I’m helpless!”
“That’s the first step, isn’t it? Admit you’re powerless over alcohol? What about giving it over to your higher power?” I was throwing out everything I remembered from the meetings. This wasn’t exactly the time or place for an exorcism, but demons back down and return to hell when you throw God at them.
Phillip shook his head wildly. “I can’t! I tried! For years. It goes—dormant. Like it’s asleep. But then it wakes up again, and it gets too strong. It wants me to drink. It wants to kill me!” He gasped. “This is the only way.”
“It’s no way to stay sober,” I told him. “After all these years, you’ve got to know that.”
Rachel was behind me. “You’ll be okay, Phillip,” she said. “We know people who can help—”
He reared up, clutching his head with both hands. “Nothing helps! Nothing—” His hands dropped. “Nothing helps.”
Phillip turned and ran for the street.
Oh no.
I followed. Phillip hit his knee on a fire hydrant and stumbled. Pulling himself up, he staggered between two parked cars. A cop at the door to Bar None yelled. Phillip looked back, his eyes wide and wild. The blue flashing lights of the parked police car flashed across his face like a flickering mask.
“Phillip!” I shouted.
He glanced back at me, his eyes wide and wild, and then he leaned forward to peer up and down the street, biting his lip. He rocked on his feet, back and forth, as if getting up his nerve..
“Hey you!” the cop yelled. “Get back out of—”
Phillip ignored him, took one step, and then jumped forward—
The cab driver tried to twist the wheel, but he was probably used to people trying not to get hit. Phillip flew over the hood, cracking his face on the windshield, and tumbled down onto the pavement, right in front of a minivan that didn’t have any chance to veer away.
Brakes shrieked. Horns honked. Phillip dropped out of sight behind the van. The cop at the door ran forward, waving for the traffic to stop.
I pushed between the two parked cars, Rachel behind me. The cop shouted at me, and stopped, but I was close enough to see Phillip lying on the street, his legs twisted, blood streaming from his shattered skull.
Rachel put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me away.
We stood outside as the paramedics carried Kempton through the front door, and waited until the second ambulance pulled up for Phillip.
The cop came over to us. “You know him?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
I nodded. “A little. His name was Phillip. Is he—?”
The cop shook his head. “Sorry. Let me get your names.” He saw the blood on Rachel’s jacket. “You all right, ma’am? Do you need a medic?”
“I’m fine.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’ll be okay.”
“Okay.” The office pulled a smartphone from his pocket. “Your names?”
“My name’s Tom.” I almost followed up with “I’m an alcoholic,” but I stopped myself. “Tom Jurgen.”
His eyes flickered. A lot of cops know me, or at least my reputation for getting involved in crazy, supernatural stuff. “Oh, boy.” He sighed. “Okay, let’s talk.”
I always tell cops everything—well, almost everything—no matter how crazy I sound. But the one officer had watched Phillip leap out into oncoming traffic while I called to him, and the people at Bar None confirmed that Kempton had grabbed the knife himself for no reason they could see, so I wasn’t in any trouble. For once.
I called my client from outside the bar, told her that her husband was at Northwestern Hospital, and promised her a full report tomorrow. Then Rachel and I went back to our car and drove home.
“I’ll have a beer,” I said as I locked the door.
“Get it yourself.” Rachel dropped her jacket on the floor and started pulling down her jeans. “I’ve got to see if these can be salvaged.”
The beer tasted—different somehow. I sipped it and tried not to think about Phillip.
Rachel came back in a long T-shirt and slippers. “No chance. Did you get a beer for me too?” She sat down and opened her laptop.
I opened the second bottle. “Here.”
“Thanks.” She took a long swallow.
“You okay?”
Rachel looked at me. “Are you?”
“Hangover’s almost gone. Not looking forward to writing up the report tomorrow. Glad Luke is alive. I wish I could have done more for Phillip.”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “Booze is a bitch, right?”
“I know a lot of people who’d agree with that.”
Then Rachel closed her laptop and shut off the TV. She stared at me.
“What?”
“You going to be okay with that beer?
“You can pour it out if you want. Bring me some water.”
“Get your own water.” She punched me. I kissed her.
Eventually I said, “Don’t you need to study?”
She giggled. “This is better. You going to drink your beer?”
I shook my head. “This is better.”
# # #
(Drinking problem? Go to https://www.aa.org for information and help.)
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