Chapter 11
Jackson
There are two bars within walking distance of Jackson’s apartment.
The first is The Rudder it gives him something to stare at other than the peeling beer labels stuck to the bartop.
An hour and another rye in, Jackson’s still got nothing. Stop the presses, Mort: it turns out fishermen like to drink.
He’s about to call it a night when a voice at the pool table slices through the bar chatter.
It belongs to an older man, staggering slightly, in a faded Whitaker Seafood pullover boasting ‘One Million Man-Hours Worked Without a Lost-Time Accident,’ ironic considering he currently looks one wrong drink away from losing more than time.
After missing his final shot, the guy curses loudly, slams his pool cue against the felt, and shuffles off to the ATM to settle up. Then he drifts toward the bar, clearly expecting consolation in liquid form.
The bartender regards him sympathetically but keeps his hands away from the taps. “Maybe wanna slow down a bit?”
The guy groans, leaning against the bartop like it’s the only thing holding him upright. “Slow down? Buddy, I’m just trying to survive the week with Whitaker’s brat breathing over my shoulder. Kid’s greener than a seasick tourist and about as useful as tits on a tuna.”
The bartender, bless him, senses entertainment. “Oh yeah? That bad?”
“Worse.” The guy lets out a loud, drunken guffaw, warming to his rant. “He just shuffles around the place mumbling to himself. Doesn’t trust anyone to do their job. I got dandruff older than him. Lord help us if they actually let him run the place.”
“Hey,” cuts in a deep, gravelly voice two stools down. Jackson swivels subtly and spots the speaker: a man built like someone stuffed a grizzly bear into a Carhartt jacket. “Watch your mouth. Ben’s alright.”
The drunk visibly shrinks, suddenly six inches shorter and considerably less bold. “Ah, sorry Lou.” He lets out a weak chuckle. “You know how it is, just blowing off steam.”
“Then blow it off somewhere else. I’m trying to drink in peace.”
The guy gives Lou a stiff, embarrassed nod, grumbling quietly as he pays his bill and gathers his coat before slinking away. Jackson sighs. So much for loose lips at the bar.
Jackson quickly signals to settle his own tab, wondering if he can catch the man outside.
Surely without Lou looming over him, he would be back to ranting freely in no time.
A little bruised pride might be exactly what he needs to start spouting off about what the Whitakers are up to.
Before he can follow the drunk toward the door, though, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
The notification is from a dating app he hasn’t touched in months, mostly because the Silver Shoals dating pool is about as deep as a birdbath. Another buzz. Then another.
Curiosity wins out. He opens the app, and there, front and center, is Ben Whitaker’s familiar gym selfie, cheeks pink, T-shirt vacuum-sealed, expression frozen halfway between “Please look at me” and “Oh God, please stop looking at me.”
Below the picture are three rapid-fire, increasingly desperate messages:
I need to talk to you.
Please.
Sorry, I realize this is literally the weirdest way possible to contact you.
Jackson’s gaze flicks back and forth from the drunk who’s stumbling out the door to his phone, where a frantic Ben Whitaker waits anxiously in digital form. It’s not really a choice, but he’s going to be irritated if Whitaker is wasting his time once again.
He makes his decision and taps a quick reply, already half-regretting it:
Not the weirdest message I’ve ever gotten on here, trust me. Meet me at Twice Told Tales in half an hour.