"So," I finally asked, "how long have you been dead?"
The dead guy rocked back on his barstool like I'd slapped him. He turned away from the Panthers game playing on television and stared across the bar at me. Without looking away, he fumbled for his shot glass and tossed the Jim Beam down his throat.
"How..." He swallowed the bourbon without so much as a grimace, "did you know?"
"You keep forgetting to breathe when you're not talking."
"Ah," he said. "Gotta work on that."
I gave him my most engaging smile, the tight-lipped semi-grin that says, "Hey, I understand." Apparently, it didn't say enough. He looked down and began contemplating the water stains on top of the cherry-wood bar.
Putting down the clean glass, I started drying another one while I studied him. I couldn't tell for sure because he was sitting down, but he looked to be about average height. Brown hair hung limply past his ears. His average build fit loosely into a rumpled brown suit that was a size or so too large for him. He looked amazingly normal; the sort of person I don't see enough of. Aside from being dead, that was.
Nice and normal wasn't good enough. This dead guy had walked into a situation that was like juggling buzzing chainsaws. Blind. And drunk. Too many things could go wrong. I put too much effort into setting up the meeting that Nathaniel was late for. I didn't need somebody mucking up all my hard work, inadvertently or not. This guy did not belong in Bloody Mary's.
"All right," I said. "You're not in a coffin. What the hell are you doing in a bar slugging down rotgut? Especially this bar."
"Don't know. All I remember is seeing the sign and feeling like I _had_ to come in. When I try to remember more, all I get is that there's something I've got to do. It's just... Aw, forget it."
The dead guy turned back to his drink for a moment, grimaced and slapped his forehead. His chest started rising and falling as if he were breathing. He caught my eye and held up his index finger. A thought occurred as I gurgled Beam into his glass.
"Does that still work on you in your, ah, condition?"
I swigged from the brown bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale I'd been nursing under the counter for the last hour and watched a dead guy swill down Jim Beam. Watching, I thought about preconceived notions. Before I landed this gig, I thought the things that frequented this bar had only a single item on the menu. Turns out they like a good Bordeaux as well as the next fiend. Who knew?
The dead guy meditated on the amber liquid for a few seconds before looking back at me.
"I have no idea," he said. He tried to smile, but
his face was so full of twisted loathing that it rather spoiled
the effect. The dead guy rubbed absently at a spot on his chest
just below his breastbone. "But I sure aim to give it my
best shot. No pun intended."
Read the rest of the story by buying Night to Dawn #5.