The Rooster Bar

  what’s left of his shirt. There’s nothing else.”

  Swayze said, “That’s why we couldn’t do a positive ID. We figured it was him, but his wallet, keys, everything was missing. I’m sorry.”

  Mark closed his eyes and said, “So am I.” For some reason, he touched the body bag around the ankles and gave it a pat. “So am I.”

  They followed the lady out of Body Storage. In the hallway, Mark asked the detective, “So what happens now?”

  “The family has done the paperwork. Their funeral home will come get him. He’ll be transported in a couple of hours.”

  “Nothing else from us?”

  “No. Thanks, and again I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  They sat with Zola in the waiting room for a long time. Things were quiet and somber until Todd said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Outside, Mark stopped and said, “I guess I need to call Mr. Tanner.”

  —

  FOR THE REST of Tuesday and throughout Wednesday, Todd and Mark stayed close to Zola. She was unable to work and lost her job as a temp with the accounting firm. It was seasonal anyway. When Todd put in a few hours at the bar, Mark stayed with her. They took long walks around the city, hanging out in bookstores, window-shopping, and thawing out in coffee bars. When Mark puttered around Ness Skelton, Todd took her to the movies. They stayed in her apartment each night, though she assured them she was fine. She wasn’t. None of them were. They were sleepwalking through a nightmare and needed each other.

  As other law students drifted back to town, they wanted to talk about Gordy, conversations the three preferred to avoid. On Thursday night, one carload drove to Martinsburg for visitation at the funeral home, but Mark, Todd, and Zola decided to skip it. A party materialized later that night at a popular sports bar, and they spent an hour with friends. They left when the beer was flowing and their fellow students began offering toasts to Gordy.

  Mark was relieved when Brenda did not call. He did not want to speak at the funeral, and knew it was unlikely anyway. Neither he nor Todd was asked to be a pallbearer, another relief. The service would be dreadful enough. They planned to stay away from the families and watch it from a distance, if that was possible. There was even talk of not attending, but that would have been wrong.

  On Friday, Mark and Todd dressed in their nicest suits, white shirts, subdued ties, leather shoes, their best “interview uniforms,” and picked up Zola, who wore a long black dress and looked like a model. They drove ninety minutes to Martinsburg and scoped out the church, a pretty redbrick building with lots of stained glass. A crowd was already milling around the front steps. A hearse was parked at the curb. At 1:30, they entered the vestibule and took programs from an usher. On the cover was a handsome photo of their friend. Mark asked the usher about a balcony and he pointed at some stairs. It was still empty when they sat down in the rear pew, tucked away in a remote corner of the sanctuary, as far away as possible from the pulpit.

  Zola sat between them and wiped her cheeks with a tissue. “This is all my fault,” she said and began crying. They didn’t scold her and they didn’t argue. Let the grieving run its course. There would be plenty of time to hash it out later. Mark and Todd felt like crying too but managed to keep their composure.

  The church was beautiful, with a wood-paneled choir loft slightly elevated behind the pulpit and a massive pipe organ to one side. Behind the loft was a painting of Christ on the cross. Stained-glass windows lined the walls and provided plenty of light. Four sections of pews formed a semicircle around a center aisle. As they waited, a crew of solemn men set up dozens of flower arrangements on both sides of the pulpit.

  The pews were filling quickly and soon there were others in the balcony. The Tanners and Karveys had lived in Martinsburg for generations and an overflow crowd was expected. Mark was reminded of his little fictional scenario when the town learned that one of its favorite sons had run off with an African Muslim, jilting his childhood sweetheart. Jilting everyone who knew Gordy. It was almost humorous a few days earlier, but not so much at the moment. Fortunately, the town would never know. If things had gone as planned, in about four months Mark and Todd would have been standing down there as groomsmen watching Brenda walk down the aisle. Now they were hiding in the balcony, paying their respects while trying to avoid the family.

  An organist took her position and began playing a quiet dirge that seemed perfect for the occasion. After a few minutes, the choir filed in from a side door and filled the loft. It was obvious that Gordy’s farewell would get the full treatment. The mourners kept coming and were soon standing along the walls. The balcony was packed and the three squeezed together to make room for an elderly couple. At 2:00 p.m., the pastor appeared and settled in behind the pulpit. According to the program, he was the Reverend Gary Chester. He raised his arms and everyone stood. The casket was rolled down the center aisle with four pallbearers on each side. Behind it, Brenda walked alone, erect and steadfast. Mr. and Mrs. Tanner were behind her, then the rest of the family. Gordy had an older brother and a teenage sister, and she was struggling. Her brother had an arm around her shoulders, helping her. When the casket, mercifully unopened, was in place beneath the pulpit, and when the family took their seats, the Reverend Chester motioned for the crowd to sit.

  Mark glanced at his watch: 2:12. How long would this last?

  After a lengthy prayer by the reverend, the choir sang four stanzas of a hymn. The organist followed with a piece that could not have been more depressing. When she finished, several women were sobbing. Brenda’s brother stood, walked to a lectern near the piano, and read Psalm 23. Chester returned to the pulpit and began his homily. Evidently, he had been there for a long time because he knew Gordy well. He told stories of watching the kid play football and baseball. Without using the word “suicide,” he dwelled on the mysteries of death and its often confusing forms. God is always in control. He has a plan for everything. And while we are left to question death, and especially tragedies, God knows what he is doing. We may someday understand why Gordy did what he did, or we may never know, but God is the supreme architect of all life and death and our faith in him is never ending.

  Chester was reassuring, a real pro. At times his voice grew weak, and he was obviously suffering. Given the impossibility of his task, he gamely offered words of comfort.

  Jimmy Hasbro was Gordy’s favorite childhood friend, and Mark and Todd had partied with him several times during law school. His was the first of two eulogies. As a kid, Gordy was fascinated by snakes and liked to collect them. His mother, with good reason, banned them from the house. It was a cute little hobby that came to an abrupt end when a copperhead sank its fangs into his right knee. The doctors even considered amputation. Jimmy did a fine job with the story and brought some humor to the occasion. As teenagers, their favorite cop had been an old guy named Durdin, now dead. Late one night Durdin’s squad car went missing. It was found the next morning in a pond just outside town. How it got there was a great mystery that had never been solved. Until now. With a flair for drama and humor, Jimmy told the story of Gordy “borrowing” the car and driving it into the pond as Jimmy watched. The church exploded with laughter that went on for several minutes. What a perfect time to reveal what really happened after all these years.

  When the laughter passed, Jimmy grew somber again. His voice cracked when he described Gordy’s loyalty. He called him the epitome of a “foxhole buddy,” the guy you want beside you in a fight. The guy who always had your back. Sadly, though, some of Gordy’s friends had not been so loyal. When he needed them the most, when he was suffering and in need of help, some of his friends had not risen to the task.

  Mark flinched and Zola grabbed his hand. Todd glanced over. All three felt sucker punched.

  So this was the narrative in Martinsburg! Gordy wasn’t responsible for his own actions. Brenda played no part in his crack-up. No, sir. Some friends in D.C., his law school pals, had neglected him.
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  His pals sat in stunned anger and disbelief.

  Jimmy finally choked up and couldn’t finish. Wiping his eyes, he stepped away from the pulpit and returned to his seat in the third row. The choir sang again. A kid from the church played the flute. A friend from Washington and Lee delivered the second eulogy, one that did not include finger-pointing. After fifty-five minutes, the Reverend Chester gave the closing prayer and the processional began. With the organ roaring, the congregation stood as the pallbearers rolled the casket down the aisle. Brenda, sobbing now, dutifully followed. There was a lot of loud crying, even up in the balcony.

  Mark decided that he hated funerals. What purpose did they serve? There were far better ways to console the loved ones than gathering in a packed church to talk about the deceased and have a good cry.

  Todd whispered, “Let’s just sit here for a moment, okay?”

  Mark had the same thought. Brenda and the families were outside, wailing and hugging as they loaded Gordy into the hearse, which they would then follow to the cemetery down the road, where they would gather again for the burial, another gut-wrenching service the three had no plans to watch. And Jimmy Hasbro would be in the middle of it. If Mark made eye contact with him, he might throw a punch and ruin the day.

  As the balcony emptied, they watched the same crew hurriedly gather the flowers and whisk them away, no doubt headed for the cemetery. When the flowers were gone, and the sanctuary was empty, they sat, waiting.

  In a low voice, Mark said, “I can’t believe this. Everybody’s blaming us.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Todd said.

  “Please,” Zola said. “Not in church.”

  They watched a custodian remove some folding chairs near the piano. He looked up, saw them sitting alone in the balcony, and seemed curious about their presence. Then he returned to his job and left the sanctuary.

  Finally, Mark said, “Let’s get outta here.”

  12

  It was Friday afternoon, the end of another miserable week. They were in no hurry to return to the city, so Todd took the back roads and they crossed into Virginia. Near the town of Berryville, the boys decided they needed a drink, and Todd stopped at a convenience store. Zola, who never touched the stuff, volunteered to drive, something she often did when she was out with Gordy and the law school gang. Mark bought a six-pack and a soft drink for her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  Todd, in the front passenger seat, pointed to a sign. “It says that’s the way to Front Royal. Ever been to Front Royal?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let’s take a look.” They popped tops and took off. A few miles down the road, Mark stuck his beer between his knees and checked his phone. There was an e-mail from Ness Skelton. He read it and yelled, “What! You gotta be kidding!”

  “What is it?” Todd asked, startled.

  “They just fired me! I’ve been fired!”

  “Come on,” Zola said.

  “No, this is from Everett Boling, sorry, M. Everett Boling, a real ass who’s the managing partner at Ness Skelton. Listen to this. He says, ‘Dear Mr. Frazier. Today our firm announced its merger with the London-based law firm of O’Mara and Smith. This is an exciting opportunity for Ness Skelton to expand and better serve our clients. However, the merger requires a shifting of our personnel. I regret to inform you that the offer of an associate position is being rescinded. We wish you the best in your endeavors. Sincerely, M. Everett Boling.’ ”

  “I like their timing,” Todd said.

  “So they’re firing me before I even start the job. Can you believe this?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mark,” Zola said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Todd said. “Sorry, pal.”

  “And they don’t even have the guts to do it in person,” Mark said. “Terminated by a lousy e-mail.”

  “Are you really surprised, Mark?” Todd asked.

  “Of course I’m surprised. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Because they’re a bunch of low-end lobbyists who gave you a half-baked offer that didn’t include a salary, and one contingent upon passing the bar exam. You’ve said yourself, and many times I might add, that you trusted no one there and never felt good about the place. They’re a bunch of creeps, your term not mine.”

  Mark took a deep breath, put down his phone, drained his beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it on the floorboard. He ripped off another can, popped the top, and took a swig. Todd drained his and said, “Give me another.” When he popped his top, he held his can up and said, “Cheers. Welcome to the world of the unemployed.”

  “Cheers,” Mark said as the cans touched.

  After another mile or so, he said, “I really didn’t want to work there anyway.”

  “Attaboy,” said Todd. Zola kept glancing at him in the mirror.

  “You would’ve been miserable,” Todd said. “They’re all a bunch of turds, real pricks who hate their work. Said so yourself.”

  “I know, I know. But I would like to call Randall, my supervisor, just to hear him stutter and stammer.”

  “I guarantee you he won’t take your call. Let’s bet on it.”

  “That’s a bad bet.”

  “Don’t do it,” Zola said. “Don’t waste the energy.”

  “For some reason I’m low on energy these days,” Mark said. “My worthless little brother is about to go to prison, which is a bum deal for him, but I really hate it for my mother. Then Gordy loses it. Now we’re taking flak for his suicide. Zola’s family gets rounded up and tossed in a prison to wait on deportation. Now this. Now we’re supposed to somehow push it all aside and hustle back to law school for our last semester, which will be followed by two months in hell studying for the bar exam, so we can do something to make a little money and start repayment, which, actually, is far more impossible than it seems, and it seems awfully damned impossible at the moment. Yes, Zola dear, I’m tired. Aren’t you?”

  “I’m beyond exhausted,” she said.

  “That makes three of us,” Todd added.

  They slowed and passed through the small town of Boyce. When it was behind them, Mark asked, “Are you guys really going to class on Monday? I’m not.”

  “That’s either the second or the third time you’ve said that,” Zola said. “If you don’t go to class, then what are your plans?”

  “I have no plans. My status will be day to day.”

  “Okay, but what are you going to do when the law school starts calling?” Todd asked.

  “I won’t take their calls.”

  “Okay, so they’ll put you on inactive status and notify your loan sharks and they’ll be out for blood.”

  “What if they can’t find me? What if I change phone numbers and move to another apartment? It would be easy to get lost in a city of two million people.”

  “I’m listening,” Todd said. “So, you start hiding. What about work and income and those little challenges?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Mark said and took a long swig. “Maybe I’ll get a job tending bar, for cash, of course. Maybe wait tables. Or maybe I’ll become a DUI specialist like that sleazeball we met last Friday at the city jail. What was his name?”

  “Darrell Cromley,” Zola said.

  “I’ll bet Darrell nets a hundred grand a year hustling DUIs. All cash.”

  “But you don’t have a license,” Zola said.

  “Did we ask Darrell to show us his license? Of course not. He said he was a lawyer. His business card said he was a lawyer, so we just assumed he had a license. He could’ve been a used-car salesman moonlighting at the jail.”

  “What about going to court?” Zola asked.

  “You ever been to city court? I have, and it’s a zoo. There are hundreds of Darrell Cromleys running around, hustling small-time criminals for fees, ducking in and out of courtrooms where the judges are bored and half-asleep. And the judges and clerks and everybody else in the courtrooms just assume, as we did, that the guys in the cheap
suits scrambling around are really lawyers. Hell, there are a hundred thousand lawyers in this city and no one ever stops and asks, ‘Hey, are you really a lawyer? Show me your license.’ ”

  “I think that beer’s gone straight to your brain,” Todd said.

  Mark smiled at Zola in the mirror.

  13

  The first day of classes for the spring semester meant money. The Department of Education wired Foggy Bottom the sum of $22,500 for each student’s tuition, along with another $10,000 for living expenses. The school immediately wired the bulk of the tuition to its owners at Baytrium Group, then handed out individual expense checks to the students. The Office of Financial Aid was a busy place throughout the day as cash-starved students waited in long lines.

  Mark and Todd skipped classes and arrived just before five, when the office closed. With $20,000 in their pockets, they retired to a dive they had discovered over the weekend. The Rooster Bar was tucked away on Florida Avenue in the U Street section of the District, far away from the Foggy Bottom clientele. It covered the ground floor of a four-story building that, though painted bright red, attracted little attention. Todd’s boss, a bookie everyone called Maynard, owned both the bar and the building, along with the Old Red Cat and two other joints in the city. Maynard had succumbed