Scotch

Larry R. Flewin, the oldest of four children, was raised and educated in Winnipeg. His passion for writing spans everything from a song (which won a CBS radio contest) to company newsletters and technical manuals, children's books, and e-zine mystery fiction. Larry is active in his community, a member of the Manitoba Writers Guild, and is currently on his second novel. He has been happily married for over 20 years and has one son.

Good scotch over ice. You really could feel the fire as it went down. And did you know? Ice cubes really did tinkle when stirred. Breakfast in a glass some called it, fuel for the soul. So, what was he doing holding up the wrong end of a bar, with something in his hands that he’d never had before, fueling his soul. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care.

Well, yes he did know, actually. But the more he drank, the less he cared. He just wanted this over with. Any second now there was going to be that oh-so-friendly tap on the shoulder, the quiet word in his ear, and then he’d never see the wife and kids again.

It was cold outside, as it always was in December. There was snow on the ground, a crisp bite to the air, and so much joy between his fellow men that he wanted to puke. That was a laugh. Eleven months of the year they couldn’t kill each other fast enough, and yet come Christmas time, they couldn’t be nicer or sweeter. Bastards.

"Hey you, ‘nother one of these." He banged the empty glass on the counter top until it’s replacement arrived.

"Gimme that", groused the barkeep, snatching away the empty. "I told ya before, I ain’t runnin’ dry so lay off on the drum solo."

The barkeep, his name tag said Charlie, was a fountain of knowledge, all of it drink related and all of it useless. At least to him, the only one keeping him busy that afternoon. What was in the glass was more important. He didn’t care if it was free, or "on the house", or a happy-hour special, he was still going to have to pay for it, one way or the other. And it was the other that frightened him. Enough to litter the bar with self-loathing and peanut shells.

So, what was he doing here? Well, where else do you go when you’re running scared. It was nowhere near where he worked, and was probably the last place they’d ever think to look for him. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t find him. These guys weren’t complete idiots. Otherwise how could they have stayed in business for so long, aside from killing off all their competitors.

The guy who owned his soul, Johnny Tarrasco, was a real piece of work. To get where he was, he’d cut as many throats as he’d cut corners, and made money at both. Which had been his bottom line from day one, making money, and lots of it. That’s why there were 2 man sized vaults in his corner office, one for the 2 sets of books, and the other for the daily piles of cash and the envelopes they filled.

"Alright alright, I’m comin’. Just don’t break anything ‘til I get there."

So, one day you’re a fresh face just out of college, looking to take on the world. A day and a mickey later, you’re standing in front of a very expensive suit explaining how a college boy bet what he didn’t have, and couldn’t cover. But he could pay it all back, with interest, if he’d just give him a chance to, honest. Which he did, for the next twenty years.

Bookkeeping, accounting, or whatever the hell else you wanted to call it, wasn’t much when you first thought about it, but somebody had to do it, and that somebody had turned out to be him. If only just to stay alive long enough to pay off what he owed and swear off gambling forever. The degree on the wall looked nice, and kind of made what he was doing official, if not entirely legal.

Armed with a blank ledger page, he had learned how to hire people, fire people, alter their very existence, all with the single stroke of a pen. People he’d never met relied on him for the livelihood, sometimes lost it because of him, and, on occasion, lost more than that. All from the desk in his office on the third floor.

And in all that time, nobody had ever mentioned the danger. I mean, he asked out loud, what the hell problem could there be, it’s just paper. The barkeep didn’t know, shook his head, and started polishing another glass. Sure, it was on the shady side, and sure, there were two sets of books. So why would some shmuck have taken a shot at him.

It was the kind of thing you only ever read about. A speeding car on a busy street, and a wayward bullet fired from the back window. It was that kind of neighbourhood, and that kind of business. Yeah, he’d known about that, but up until now, it hadn’t been a problem. He was well paid and well protected, so like as not it had probably been meant for someone else. Or so he had been told.

The bullet hadn’t hit him or even come that close, and yet it had hurt him all the same. Call it the case of the misplaced comma, or the accountant with the hiccups, but that’s all it had taken. He was going to die, and he knew it.

Interest paid, loans collected, net profit and loss, all normally came together like links in a chain. The chain drove the gears that drove the business, and made it run. Not always smoothly or quietly, but it did run.

It was that lack of smoothness that was the problem. Everything had seemed to balance out okay, and he’d closed off the books for the month, like always. And neither had Johnny T when he’d reviewed the books and signed off on them, like he did every month. But somehow it hadn’t.

It was when he’d been reviewing the figures from one of the boiler rooms, JT’s favourite end of the business, that the discrepancy had come to light. Somehow, a comma, a lowly, nothing stroke of the pen, had turned a profit into a loss. And while under reporting income wasn’t a crime everywhere, it was here. The irony was delicious, a crime within a crime, but with a more deadly penalty than usual.

It wouldn’t sink in right away, it never did. But the misplaced figures would gnaw at JT until he double checked them himself. He had a habit of doing that, because to him it was all about the numbers; life, death, and everything in between all dependant on numbers. If they didn’t feel right, look right, or just plain irritated him, out he would come, and papers would go flying in all directions.

Nine times out of ten it was nothing; numbers had a habit of being as much of a nag as a second or third wife, or so he had been told. Always in the background, never quite out of sight or mind, and not going away until told to or looked at.

If they added up, felt right, looked right, or didn’t irritate too much, all was well. If they didn’t, or wouldn’t, it was his job to point it that out before balancing. If the numbers weren’t going make it that month, neither was the responsible party. The boss saw to that personally. And now he, your humble, drunken ex-gambler and accountant, was the one responsible.

He ordered yet another drink, by parting the sea of empty glasses in front of him with both hands and repeadtedly slamming his palms down hard on the counter top. Three fingers of scotch and another bowl of peanuts saved the empties from further destruction. He held up the golden elixir in mute thanks to the bartender’s speedy delivery, and saw not his own reflection this time but that of a complete stranger. Some one was close behind him, and coming right for him. Damn. He swallowed hard.

"Excuse me," said a quiet voice in his ear. It was the reflection. "Excuse me sir." He ignored it.

"Hey buddy, you wanna come with me now. It’s time". And there it was, the oh-so- friendly tap on the shoulder.

"Yeah, I’m lookin’ for you. I been all over this damn place lookin’ for you. I’m supposed to come get you, remember? You told me to, soon as your flights ready, and now it is. Don’t wanna to miss it do you? C’mon, gate’s right over there."