When Olivia met K
Chapter XIV
Clint & Ernst
written by: Michael McCarthy
@FlateyeFiction
I’d known Clint for many years, we were close friends, as the owner of such a legendary institution he knew what was going on before anybody else, and not just in this area; we trusted each other implicitly, and I often liked to end my working day with a nightcap or two and a chinwag with him. But for one reason or another, I hadn’t seen him for a while.
Clint and I were sitting on stools at one end of the bar sipping large cognacs, the bottle standing between us.
‘‘What’s new, Clint?’’
‘‘We had a pack of hard cases sniffing around recently.’’
He imparted in his croaky growl.
‘‘What were they after?’’
‘‘A bar they could call their own.’’
‘‘Ever seen them before?’’
‘‘No, but I made some enquiries, they’ve been going from bar to bar in town checking them out. They’re just hooligans, their only strength is in numbers.’’
‘‘And?’’
‘‘Well, your girl Olivia’s friend K was involved.’’
‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘One of the louts provoked K who humiliated him. It was that simple. End of story.’’
I liked that. K was known to have a slow fuse and to be able to look after himself and was clearly not one to engage in violence for violence’s sake. But I made a mental note.
That was one reason, I knew he’d be perfect for Olivia; her antennae sometimes, in fact often, let her down in her choice of male companions.
As I left Clint’s that night K was walking in, I directed my gaze to the ground, as usual, as we walked past each other, it was a force of habit. I sensed him stop and pause as though he thought he knew my face and looked back at me. Our eyes met and we exchanged nods, then he carried on and I watched him approach Clint at the bar and, I was sure, he asked him about me.
I’d ask Clint one day. No, I didn’t need to.
I first met Clint many years ago when I walked into his bar for a drink. I was his first customer, he later told me. I didn’t like him at first or he me; we got off on the wrong foot. Anyway, the place looked a mess.
‘‘So what are your plans for re-decoration?’’ I asked, just to make conversation.
‘‘First one’s on the house.’’
He said through gritted teeth, slamming a beer on the bar in front of me.
He looked at me as though I’d just propositioned him.
‘‘It doesn’t need it.’’
He answered turning away, muttering darkly.
I looked around again, thinking, this’ll be a short-lived business.
I’d forgotten about Clint’s until a few weeks later when I happened to be close by and, fancying a drink, I walked in and found it looking fruitfully full.
‘‘Didn’t think I’d see you again.’’
He said.
‘‘Nor did I. But as I’m here, I’ll have a beer.’’
He looked at me intently, unnervingly until I decided I’d either challenge him or just walk out.
‘‘First one’s on the house. Again.’’
He said finally.
I examined my fellow customers, they were all men, none of them looked especially elegant, some looked like hired muscle out of central casting, but there was a convivial atmosphere which I gladly let draw me in.
‘‘Stand by.’’
Yelled Clint as he propelled my glass down the bar.
Hours later I was still there, alone with Clint. We were talking over a bottle of cognac, sitting on stools at the bar.
The following evening I popped in quite late and, without a word being exchanged, one of Clint’s customers placed a bottle of cognac and two glasses on the bar, nodding at me,
‘‘Clint’ll be along, make yourself comfortable.’’
Inevitably, Clint’s attracted a criminal element, but they were welcome as long as they paid and behaved themselves. They were also a source of information for me; a profitable vein mined by Clint on my behalf.
Our relationship was not solely based on information, although we were both in a position to help each other out.
Clint was notoriously tight and I was someone who liked to pay my way.
A short while later, we were having our now regular nightcap when I said, pointing at the cognac,
‘‘It’s about time you let me put my hand in my pocket.’’
‘‘You’re just worried about ending up with the same reputation as me.’’
He answered.
From that moment on it was clear; I attended to his books and paperwork, administration never had been his strong point, and I never paid for my drinks.
Years later, having divested myself of various tedious responsibilities, I began looking around for something else to help fill my waking hours.
Figuratively speaking, I found it on my doorstep. A couple of years before, Clint had decided the time was ripe to open a ‘surgery.’ His regulars had a disparate range of problems most of which could be eased with a paternal chat or a dose of common sense over a couple of drinks. He saw himself fulfilling the need for a mixture of agony uncle and shoulder to cry on.
Some of his regulars were in need of financial advice, but were not keen on leaving a paper trail; this was clearly out of Clint’s scope so he asked me to sit in now and again; I agreed and soon found myself filling the same role as Clint although I wasn’t as gruff; basically like Clint I was just there.
Of course, I now saw K on a regular basis but we never got beyond the silent greeting stage, it made sense although I didn’t know why.
One of Clint’s longest-serving customers was known as Bob (in fact, most of Clint’s regulars were known by a nickname) because that’s what he did when he spoke, he bobbed his head up and down repeatedly; he just wanted to talk, not have a conversation but a monologue. He was a rangy, inoffensive character who only wanted to reminisce about his late wife. I didn’t know how she’d died but I had a feeling a situation had simply spun out of control, if I was right that was what Bob was trying to live with.
‘‘Y’do know what I mean, don’t you?’’
He would plead after nearly every recollection.
‘‘Sure, Bob.’’
‘‘She’d talk to anybody. I mean she wasn’t looking for men. Y’do know what I mean, don’t you?’’
‘‘Sure I do. Tell me about yourself, Bob?’’
‘‘Y’don’t wanna know. Y’do know what I mean, don’t you?’’
‘‘I do, Bob.’’
That could have been quite heavy for me but Bob would never sit at my table for longer than fifteen minutes, then he’d clap me on the shoulder,
‘‘Thanks, man. Enjoyed our little chat.’’
‘‘Any time, Bob.’’
Then there was Flower Pot, one of Clint’s other regulars who was usually to be found at the bar reading a book and sipping his beer, in fact he was always reading a book and always by authors I’d never heard of, and always on his own. We always greeted each other and exchanged a few words;
‘‘Hi, Flower Pot. How are things?’’
‘‘Can’t complain, Ernst.’’
‘‘What’s the book about?’’
‘‘It’s a thriller about a famous photographer whose life ends up in a downward spiral, all because he wants to do the right thing.’’
Then if he thought a follow-up question was coming he’d go to the toilet and when he came back would casually stand with his back to his interlocutor.
He was from somewhere in east Europe, short but sturdy with thick grey hair. We toasted each other and he went back to his reading. He didn’t shun contact, he just preferred to be alone with his thoughts and memories, I should think. I heard him muttering to himself once when Clint with his usual brashness said,
‘‘Talking to yourself again, Flower Pot?’’
‘‘Yes, you meet a very nice class of person that way.’’
That had shut Clint up and made me think that perhaps it had revealed all you needed to know about Flower Pot.
‘‘Hey, Clint. Maybe you should read it.’’
Flower Pot said, gesturing to his book.
‘‘No work of fiction or otherwise could come close to describing what I have to endure in here.’’
He emitted a heavy theatrical sigh.
One day Flower Pot ambled over to me during a ‘surgery,’ a fresh beer in his hand,
‘‘May I?’’
He asked gesturing at the chair.
‘Help yourself. What can I do for you?’
From somewhere he produced a filled to the rim glass of my favorite cognac.
‘‘Thing is, Ernst, I’d like to arrange delivery, by hand, of a large amount of money, in the local currency, to a certain person in a certain foreign country, on a certain date, only I’d rather there was no record of my involvement.’’
‘‘Sounds a bit unusual.’’
‘‘It’s nothing illegal, Ernst. I promise.’’
That was good enough for me.
‘‘Just give me the details, Flower Pot. I’ll see to it.’’
They trusted me, and that meant I was never going to let them down.
Most financial matters were more or less straight forward but it gave me a kick to handle something like Flower Pot’s request.
It was sobering listening to grown men letting the barriers down and just talking. Sometimes it wasn’t so much what they said, but how they said it, their body language; how the mere thought of revealing what they were feeling but seldom, if ever, getting to the core could help them to relax.
It helped me a lot too.
But it didn’t help Clint. Around the anniversary of the disappearance of his former lady friend, Rusty, he was once more, as every year, plunged into a period of mourning. His thousand yard stare became more pronounced. I’d met Rusty a few times and, to be honest, she was an acquired taste; it was clear to me that her number one priority was Clint and she felt, and wasn’t worried about showing her feelings, that his bar and customers were not good for him or her. She just disappeared. Literally, like a puff of smoke. And he never heard another word from or about her again.
Of course, the police investigated, of course, they turned up leads that turned out to be anything but, thereby raising Clint’s hopes only for them to be repeatedly dashed.
We walked the streets together. I contacted everybody I could think of and then they referred me to more people who I spoke to.
We spoke to the police a million times; we placed ads and scoured the gamut of media outlets and all we found out was that thousands go missing each and every year, most turn up again, but a proportion are never seen or heard from again.
They simply disappear and stay disappeared.
That’s it. No consolation there. They’re the bald facts. Live with it or go under.
- Clint & Ernst - October 7, 2024
- Else – My End - September 5, 2024
- Olivia and the End of Else - July 31, 2024
