Prologue
“Send a frosty one my way, Aila.”
I recognize the regular patron and know exactly what beer to serve.
“Here it comes, Steve!”I holler at the top of my lungs so the beer sliding towards him across the counter doesn’t take him by surprise.
The real reason they crank the music so loud in here is because it forces everyone to get close if they want to be heard.And I’m talkingrealclose.
And that’s great if you’re at the honkytonk bar to pick up some random hottie to take back home and bang.But I’m the bartender.My job is to sling beer.Period.
I’m not here to pretend I find the customers appealing.This is a saloon for truckers, and sometimes patrons from the motel down the road, not a cotillion ball for debutantes.It’s where folks from the diner next to the gas station come to get loaded after eating.
Every night as I come in to work, my mind is busy trying to invent new ways to serve liquor without looking like I’m in the mood for a little something extra.
The bass is so powerful I can feel it more than my own heartbeat.
I’ve asked Si Leblanc, the manager, to turn the stereo down so many times, but he just shoos me away without even bothering to take off his noise-reduction headphones.
A bulky shape looms out of the darkness and leans on the counter.A loud crack tells me there’s a pool game going on.
“Hey, Aila, give us a Coors.”The man has to shout over the music.
Grabbing a cold one out of the refrigerator, I pop the cap and slide it over.And now comes the part I usually hate, but fortunately, Bobby is one of the good guys.Leaning over the counter, I manage to muster up a smile as I hold my hand out for the money.
“Hey, Bobby.Whatcha hauling this time?”
The trucker holds out a Canadian five-dollar note for me to take and shakes his head.
“Fucked if I know.The doors were sealed at the depot, and the truck’s got satellite tracking up the wazoo.Probably computers or chips or something.”
Moving to the till, I ring up the sale and slip two dollars in change out of the note compartment, but Bobby waves the change away.“Put it towards that student loan of yours, Aila.”
“Every little bit helps, Bobby.Thank you.”Folding the notes neatly, I place them in my bra.It’s the only place Si never thinks to look when he’s mooching around at closing time and bitching about “getting his cut.”
All the saloon regulars know about my loan debt.It’s the reason why I’m spending my hot summer nights working at Harry’s Saloon instead of studying in my cozy bedroom back at the motel.
There is a surprising amount of traffic in this particular part of Manitoba.Provincial Trunk Highway 10 is the road that heads south from La Pas.Just before a driver reaches the transport depot, they see Harry’s Saloon nestling off-road.It would be hidden by the tall pines of the forest if it wasn’t for the flickering neon sign.
Harry’s consists of a sprawling log cabin, a dirt track, and a haphazard parking lot.Half a mile deeper into the forest brings drivers to a lake called Cemetery.And one mile north takes them past La Pas Cemetery itself.
We get our fair share of wakes in here.Alcohol seems to help sad hearts heal.
Another dark shape takes Bobby’s place as the trucker lopes away to watch the game on the flatscreen.
“Hi there, beautiful.Got anything you would recommend to a man looking for something different?”
My hackles rise, but I check the man’s expression before adding my own subtext to his question.He’s leaning with his forearms on the bar counter, grinning hopefully, maybe just looking for a conversation.
He’s wearing the La Pas summer uniform of plaid flannel shirt, jeans held up by one of those flashy belt buckles, and cowboy boots.But every single one of his clothing items is high end.
Expanding my inspection, I clock an enormous diamond signet ring on his pinky and made-to-measure veneers.
He reeks of one of those intense designer perfumes for men: Acqua di Parma or Creed.
“Whiskey or beer?”I have to lean over the counter and speak with my mouth only a few inches from his face.His grin gets even more hopeful.
“What you got in a premium whiskey?”
