Chapter 1 - The Body at the Bottom of the Bottle

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CHAPTER 1

Last call had been over an hour ago, but I snuck behind the bar to pour myself one last beer. At the other end of the bar, Len shot me one of those, “Really? Already?” looks – it was my first night back at Marlowe's since I'd stormed out over two years ago – but he also shot a look at the empty rocks glass in front of him. He tipped his chin at me in silent consent as he slipped out from behind the counter, raising two fingers at me.

Once he sat down on our side of the bar, it was free reign for us regulars to serve ourselves. After counting out a big shot of Jack for Len, serve myself is exactly what I did – foam was exploding over the top of my pint when I decided that since I was never able to pour myself a drinkable beer when sober, there was no chance I'd be able to do it after hours of reminiscing. I dumped it out in the sink and turned to look at the top shelf stuff.

My instinct was to reach for the 30-year aged Kendrick’s Whiskey. I like the idea of drinking whiskey older than I am and have, thus, progressed from the twenty-year to the twenty-five and now, with my thirtieth birthday looming in a few months, I’m almost too old to enjoy my 30Keds like I used to. Guess I’ll have to move to the more expensive, more aged stuff. Then again, since I don’t actually like the taste of whiskey and just shoot it straight down, maybe I’m getting to the age where I shouldn’t waste my money on it at all.

I made a big show of ringing up my drink like he'd shown me and putting the money in the already-emptied register to make sure Len saw I was paying my way.

“See you still remember how to work it, Claire,” he called out before I reached for the bottle.

As I poured myself a skimpy shot, I realized that my instinct had also been to fall madly in love with Pete, and look where that had got me. Months of heartache. Months of drinking too much while making sure no floozies threw themselves at him during his shifts. Months of trying to forget about him while writing myself into a two-book publishing deal. Recent months of a whirlwind book tour. And weeks of debating whether or not to accept Pete's email invitation to come back to the bar to catch up.

And what a bar. Marlowe's was a Prohibition-era Park Slope-adjacent Brooklyn speakeasy that had, after the law was repealed, turned into a cop bar, hitting its peak of popularity in the fifties. By the sixties the cops had been run out by the hippies and by the seventies the hippies had been run out by the punks. By the eighties the punks were scared off by the coked-up yuppies and the nineties saw a real social spiral downwards – Marlowe's was the one bar that refused to succumb to the neighborhood's gentrification movement. While wealthy gay and straight couples pushed out the old Italian families and newer minorities with their giant strollers, Marlowe's became a refuge for the old immigrant who’d bought a brownstone down the block for $20,000 in the fifties as well as the drug dealer who sold the immigrant’s son his weed, dope and speed.

By the turn of the new century, Marlowe's had caught up with the times, but it still kept that old-bar feel, and it had thrived since Len bought it fifteen years ago. The dark pub wood mixed with an old shark head on the wall. Stained-glass windows shared sunlight with old leaded panes and upside-down neon beer signs. The bathrooms had foregone wallpaper in lieu of customer-provided graffiti and the only framed pictures on the walls were local artists' paintings or photos of Jazz musicians and old famous authors of the Bukowski variety.

Len had live music of varying degrees of talent and localism every night of the week in the back room, and a loyal slew of regulars. That’s what Marlowe's had been like when I’d last been there two years before, and when I’d walked though the green door earlier that evening, it seemed only a day had passed. Every tap was the same, every stool in the same place, every regular in the same stool. It hadn’t changed a bit.

And how dare I speak with such authority on Marlowe's history? I stuck it to my ex real good – by writing Marlowe's Many Nights: When the Beer Floweth, a bestseller about the very bar he worked at, its history, its secrets, its dirt. All under the guise of fiction, of course. After Pete and I broke up so publicly, I didn’t dare show my face around the place, and after I published a book about them I didn’t dare show my face around the barfly friends I’d plagiarized on the page. That is, until Pete sent me a quick email asking me to.

Once I finally got up the courage to slide through that green door, I spent the first few hours slyly waiting for him to show up. I was relieved to be welcomed back by the other familiar faces with open arms. After all, what was I afraid of, that the men who had drunk at the same bar every night for years would make fun of me for my screaming break-up two years before? That they’d be upset I’d used them as inspiration?

No, they congratulated me on my success, asked what life was like now, and ordered themselves another beer before I had a chance to go into detail. Just like old times.

I played catch up with Len, who was still miserably content with his co-investor/girlfriend of ten years Aimee, who was off that night. I felt like nary a day had gone by with old-time barflies Michael Jenkins and Rob Loss. I chatted with trombone player Travis and local charmer Johnny Red. I had my ear bent by third-grade teacher Louise whose engagement to violin restorer Gerald had broken up just days before they were supposed to walk down the Coney Island Boardwalk toward a life of never ending happiness. I drank too much and for some reason let a very inebriated Carl the construction worker buy me two shots of top-shelf tequila. All the while my eyes were darting back to the front door, expecting Pete to stroll in.

And just when I was sure that maybe I should have emailed him back to let him know when I would drop by, Rob and Jenkins told me about Pete.

Rob, always one for a good cause – not a good cause like charity, but a good cause to rail against – had been going on and on about the Tri-State-Towers company buying up all the buildings in the neighborhood. It had been a mere rumor in the local newspapers when I'd last been there but it seemed that recently the TST had announced a big deal with the city and was about to break ground on its planned convention center and condos.

“What about Marlowe's?” Rob repeated after me, “Well, Claire, we were pretty worried there for a while, especially after the eminent domain edict came down from Albany. The TST made Bruno's pizza close, and bought out that Mediterranean place and even took over the whole block that big book store is on. Pete,” that was the first time anyone had mentioned his name all night, “was running interference between the TST's lawyer making the offers and Len there.”

Len growled at the mere mention of the lawyer and I couldn't help but laugh.

“Why didn't they talk to you directly?” I asked.

Len waved me off, tutting in anger at the mere memory.

“Well,” Rob picked up the tale again; he sounded like he'd told this at least a few times before. “The first time George Braxes – that's the lawyer’s name, George Braxes – met with Len and made the TST's first offer to buy the lease, Len got so mad at the poor guy that Braxes messed himself!”

Jenkins grabbed the local paper he’d been leafing through and flipped through a few pages. Once he found what he was looking for, he poked the page excitedly. “Here, that’s him.”

The photo showed a fit, proper young man who looked like he walked straight off the football field into a frat house and from there into a corporate law firm's palm. He wore what I can only assume was a boring gray suit too expensive for his roguish face. He was shaking hands with the Brooklyn borough president at a press conference. I couldn't believe this proper lawyer would wet himself, and suspected that Rob and Jenkins were exaggerating on that front.

“Negotiations as they were, that is,” Rob continued. “After that incident, Braxes got a restraining order against Len here so he had to designated someone else as the bar's rep.”

“And you chose Pete?” I asked, regretting immediately how harsh I sounded.

“He sort of offered,” Len called out from half-way down the bar.

“Pete was real big on saving Marlowe's from the TST,” Jenkins chimed in, “So he really seemed to enjoy playing the lawyer for a fool, leading him on.”

“Yeah, but even though his own restraining order forced him to only come by when Len wasn't working, that didn't stop him,” Rob picked up again, “Because of the eminent domain edict, Marlowe's had a legal obligation to allow the TST to present buy-out offers, so George would come by when he knew Len wasn't working, and send in patsies the rest of the time, talking up the TST and how much happier all the other store owners are now that they sold out, what it would do to the neighborhood – trying to eradicate local opposition.”

I searched the bar. There was Len, Rob and Jenkins. Louise and Johnny Red were chatting at the end of the bar. A drunken couple of kids in a booth whose lips were glued together. Carl was hitting on a young blonde at a table. But thinking back over the rest of the very crowded night, no obvious patsies jumped to mind.

“Nah,” said Rob, “they don't come around no more. Hell, we haven't even been bothered by that George jerk in weeks.”

“Not that he could have, I guess,” said Jenkins, “You know, because of Pete.”

I didn’t know. And I guess my face said as much.

“Because he’s not here, Claire,” Rob continued.

“Tonight,” I said, though it was more question.

“In weeks,” said Jenkins. He and Rob exchanged a look. “We thought that’s why you came back. Because it’s now, you know, safe. For you.”

“Because of that big fight you guys had,” Rob finished.

I didn’t respond. I guess these men who drank at the same bar every night for years, while not making fun of me, certainly remembered the scene we’d made that night.

Rob continued, “He quit like a month ago.”

“So now you won’t run into him again,” Jenkins said. I’d had no idea these two middle aged men were so concerned about me saving face. “He didn't actually quit, he just kind of left in the night. Not literally, but he just stopped showing up for work, and no one’s heard from him since.”

Rob said, “You really didn’t know?”

I really didn’t. It crushed me. I shot the whiskey down as I settled back on my stool. It may sound silly but Peter loved this job. Too much, maybe.

*

As I stubbed out my first of many cigarettes the next morning – well, afternoon, since I hadn’t left Marlowe's until after 5am and thus didn’t roll over from a drunken slumber until the sun was beating down through the curtains. Something was bothering me. Something in my stomach. But before my hung-over mind could really solidify the thought, my stomach lurched, my eyes bugged and I had to run to the bathroom to vacate the contents on my stomach.

That done, I cursed that evil bitch named alcohol to whose charm I’d succumbed once again, and vowed never to return to Marlowe's. That part of my life was over. I was a successful novelist now. I had a busy life full of interesting, important things to do. Later that day I was due to drop by Harding Publishing to deliver the first three chapters of my sophomore effort to Stephanie, my editor. I’d been dreading Stephanie’s notes for weeks. I knew exactly what she’d say.

She’d start with, “Two thousand words do not three chapters make,” then follow that up with some variation on, “I don’t know what the hell is going on,” and finish with, “This is nothing like Marlowe's Many Nights: When the Beer Floweth.” She’d then add a friendly p.s. suggesting I seriously get my act together before they would be forced to forfeit their nearly-gone advance and accuse me of breach of contract for failure to deliver. And finally she'd remind me about my final deadline in only three months.

The fact that I’d have to attend the meeting with a pounding hangover would be the cherry on the I-suck-sundae, so I popped four aspirin and stepped into the shower, determined to do myself up to the nines. If I looked successful on the outside, maybe some of that confidence would seep into my insides. I tried to believe it.

*

I flipped my head up and finished towel-drying my hair. I own a hairdryer and was pretty sure it was under the sink somewhere, but I’d only used it twice – once to attempt to straighten my wavy brown hair, and once to try to get it to curl. Neither worked so I gave up and now I just rub some goo through my angry tresses and let it air-dry, hoping for the best.

I quickly applied a coat of my newest favorite nail polish – a muted plum that can pass for grown-up without being old-lady-like. I carefully grabbed my go-to make-up – mascara and eyeliner – and went to work on my eyes.

About two years earlier – right after my break-up with Pete, actually – I’d decided I was just too old for my extra dark black kohl. I’d rocked the goth eyes for years but had to come to terms with the fact that I had to change a lot of things in my life, not just Pete-things, but other things I’d been doing for years that just weren’t right for me. Eyeliner and nightly trips to Marlowe's – or any bar – were the first to go. So I started writing every night instead and went to the drugstore, buying light-brown crayon liner and brown mascara.

I re-heated my cold coffee in the microwave and went to my closet. Not a huge trip – I live in a one-bedroom studio on the outskirts of Park Slope that barely qualifies as a studio, let alone a one bedroom. The apartment’s three best features are the reasons I haven’t moved in the last eight years. Location: near subways and close enough to Park Slope without being stroller-central. The big bathroom: it’s like a walk-in dressing room with floor-length mirrors on three walls, the toilet and shower are out of sight behind a privacy wall and there’s a built-in nesting chair in one corner. And the huge closet: in the bedroom, double-doored with a linen cabinet up top that reaches the ceiling, it’s better than any closet in any previous New York City apartment I’d lived in.

This might make you think I’m a clothes horse, and I am. I'm also a pack rat, unable to ever throw anything away. I use the upper storage part of my closet for junk, research and linens and the huge lower portion for clothes – all fastidiously arranged. So while I usually have no idea what I’ll look like when I’m done dressing, because I love every one of my two hundred and thirty-eight items of clothing and shoes, I know that whatever I choose, I'll look damn cute in the end.

An hour later, with an hour and a half left before I was due in Manhattan for my Harding meeting, I twirled in my mirror and was pretty happy with what I saw. My hair had decided to behave, so I left it down with just a clip keeping the front out of my face. My less-stark make-up still accented my eyes and my clear skin took care of the rest, face-wise. I wore my most mature office-type gray trousers and my gray-and-black hounds-tooth wool jacket over a black shell. Somber, mature, author-like. I’d need all the help I could get at this impending talking-to. I almost reached for my comfiest black ballet flats, but changed my mind and slipped into my two-inch mustard open-toes pumps. My confidence level demanded a pop of color.

Going to Harding was always nerve-wracking and I tried not to psych myself out before I even left the apartment. Before walking through the outside rotating door, there's always a tiny part of me that fears as soon as I get to the forty-seventh floor, the new receptionist will hand me the phone and tell me they've all realized I'm just an assistant, faking this whole author thing this past year.

You see, I used to be an editorial assistant there.

Once I'd finally finished my book, after nightly writing sessions and daily grunt work, I finally got up the courage to ask my then-boss, Stephanie, for a meeting. It was the most nervous I'd ever been. There were three possible outcomes: she'd agree to read my manuscript herself; she'd tell me to dump it in the slush pile; or she'd fire me on the spot for presumptuousness. She met me between options one and two: she read my proposal, then had the second-best reader read the manuscript, author unnamed. Once it was fast-tracked through the usual reading channels, I was offered a decent two-book deal and cleaned out my desk.

Unfortunately, I had no inspiration for my second novel – between book signings and interviews, I spent every waking minute failing as a writer. I guess that's why I'd finally decided to return to Marlowe's the night before. Re-live my pre-success happiness.

I was half-way out my front door, planning to hoof it to Harding on the subway, when my cell phone rang – back in my bedroom. I ran for it, more glad I’d been reminded to take it with me than excited for the call. As I answered, I hoped against hope that maybe it was Stephanie calling to tell me they were extending my deadline and pushing back the meeting.

“Hello? Claire?” It was a man. A man I knew, but didn't recognize over the phone.

So I answered politely, “Yes, this is she.”

“It’s Len.” A moment of confused silence on my end. Len? From Marlowe's? “Len, from Marlowe's,” he said. He’d never called me before. I didn’t even know how he got my number.

“Oh, hi,” I might not have sounded super excited, but I wasn’t. I was really confused. Apprehensively, “What’s up?” I sounded dumb.

“Can you come by?”

“To Marlowe's?”

“Yeah, I need to show you something.” He sounded upset. I think. I’d never heard him sound like that before. “It won’t take long.”

I looked at my watch. It was 2 pm. “I guess I can stop by later tonight. I – ”

“No, now.” His tone took me aback. “Sorry. I mean, well, it’s pretty urgent. Can you come by now?”

I tried to think up an excuse. “Um...”

By way of explanation, “I’d rather it not be tonight when the place is packed, so I can talk to you. It’s pretty dead here now.”

“I have a meeting in the city – ”

“Can I call you a cab to pick you up and bring you here? That way you’ll be on your way pretty soon. I’ll pay.”

Wow. Now I don’t want to say that Len is cheap, but, well, he’s cheap. If he was offering to pay for a cab – it’s not far, it usually costs ten or twelve bucks each way, but still – it must really have been important.

“Yeah, I guess that’ll be fine. I’ll call the cab – ”

“Don’t worry about it. I have ten cab companies on speed dial,” he said. Bartenders are always calling cabs for drunks at the end of the night. “It’ll be there in five minutes. See you soon.”

And he hung up! I hadn’t even given him my address. Before I had time to worry about it, though, I was outside lighting up, when a cab pulled up. I was kind of suspicious that he’d called the cab before he’d called me. I flicked my cigarette aside and warily got in.