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TWENTY-SIX

HAPPY HOUR AT HEMINGWAY’S Pub. It’s the third time this week Tommy Malone has been here, always between the hours of four and seven. He’s kept to himself, sitting alone in a booth in the bar, wearing a baseball cap to downplay his memorable red hair.

He lays out some work in front of him — sales numbers and graphs and charts that are utterly meaningless. And he has earbuds in, synced to his phone. He looks like someone getting a little work done but enjoying a few cocktails while doing so. Between the work laid out and the earbuds, he figures nobody will bother him. So far, it’s worked, all three days.

In reality, Tommy is counting. Counting the drinks the bartenders pour and the finger food they serve, counting the number of times the bartenders use the cash register or credit card machine. He already knows the prices they’re charging for wine, straight liquor, martinis, draft beers, premium draft beers, bottled beer, and mixed drinks, plus the appetizers.

“Two mixed drinks, one wine,” he says into the microphone on his earbuds, his words transcribed onto his phone.

“Cash register, five thirty-eight.”

“Credit card, six twenty-two.”

“Four drafts, nonpremium.”

Like that all night, or at least between the hours of four and seven.

He knows he won’t catch every single transaction. Or he might confuse a draft beer for a premium or miss the fact that a Jack and Coke was a double. But he’s pretty damn close. And the overall count is the most important thing.

The late, great Jimmy Buffett is wasting away in Margaritaville over the speakers blasting in the corners. There are currently twenty-five people spread out among the long bar, the high-top tables, and the booths. Off to the right is the dining area, reachable only by walking past a hostess station. Tommy’s not bothering with the food. Drinks are easier to catalog. And a sample is all he needs anyway.

Tommy’s seen more than his share of taverns, and Hemingway’s Pub is cleaner, classier than most. Well lit, fresh paint on the walls, new flat-screen TVs, an impressive and colorful collection of bourbons and vodkas and tequilas and rums behind the bar.

The stone statue of Hemingway outside the pub is a nice touch — a replica, or so it says on a plate at its base, of a statue of Hemingway in Pamplona, Spain. Beckoning tourists and travelers to come have a drink with Papa.

The security system is surprisingly low-rent, purchased through a local vendor. Alarm pads by each of the three entrances, plus a motion detector and glass-break sensor.

David Bowers is here, got back to the pub midafternoon, though Tommy waited until four to come in. No chance David would talk to Tommy, not if Tommy introduced himself as a freelance reporter for USA Today . David has declined all interview requests about the heroic river rescue.

From what Tommy’s seen over the last three days, David Bowers is all about the receipts. He chats up the customers a bit but otherwise seems to leave the management to one of his people. David collects the receipts from the cash register at the bar; he collects the receipts from the register by the dining room; he disappears into some back office.

Tommy would really, really like to see that back office where David works.

Tommy walks up to the bar for a refill from the busty bartender, Gwinne, who has a face he’d expect to find on a Miss Italy contestant. She knows how to work it, too, dressed just provocatively enough but leaving something to the imagination, those tight leather pants, a revealing skin-tight white shirt with a flannel hanging loosely over it.

“In town on business?” she says to Tommy as she puts a second bourbon in front of him. “Can’t really hide that red hair.”

“Don’t I know it. Hey, is what I’m hearing true? Your owner over there — he’s the guy that rescued the man from the river, like, a month ago?”

“That’s him.” Gwinne looks over at David, who has reappeared behind the bar with a bunch of receipts in his hand. “Our resident hero. Not that he’d admit that.”

“Let me buy him a drink,” says Tommy. “Pour us a Baker’s.”

“Oh, David doesn’t drink.”

“No? He owns a bar and doesn’t drink?”

She shrugs. “Never has, as far as I know.”

Interesting.

“My girlfriend went nuts over that video of him rescuing that man,” Tommy says. “Me, I’ve never seen anything so brave. No way I’d have the guts to do what he did. Any chance — any chance I could take a picture with him and send it to her?”

“David,” Gwinne says as she walks away, attending to another customer. “Customer wants a picture with the Cotton River hero.”

David walks over and greets Tommy with an extended hand, lighting up with a smile.

Could be an act for the customer, sure, but Tommy senses otherwise. That’s David’s default position, Tommy figures, happy and positive energy and all that shit.

“Having a good time tonight?” he asks Tommy. “Everything good?”

“Yeah, great. Nice selection of bourbon. So … any chance at a photo? So I can impress my girlfriend?”

“Nah, nah, I’m not into that stuff. How about a drink on the house instead?” David manages to blow him off without seeming like he’s blowing him off.

“Ah, okay. Hey, could you sign something?”

He laughs. “Like an autograph?” David shakes his head but ultimately shrugs. “I guess that’s fine.” He grabs the back of a blank receipt, poises his left hand over it with a pen. “Actually, I’d feel like a pompous jerk signing an autograph.”

Tommy decides not to push it and returns to the booth. He didn’t really want the autograph anyway. He just wanted to see which hand David would use to write.

Left. He used his left hand.

Tommy leaves at seven and walks around to the rear of the restaurant, where his rental car is parked and where, not coincidentally, the supply entrance to the restaurant is located.

The entrance is surrounded by a tall wooden fence, but for purely cosmetic reasons — concealing the dumpsters and air conditioner — not security. It’s easy enough to open the swinging gate to gain access to the entrance, which is protected by a knobless metal door that looks quite thick. Next to it, an alarm pad.

Tommy turns back to the swinging gate. He reaches up and removes his “eye” device, a small motion-sensitive contraption he stuck high up on the interior of the gate two days ago. The device, facing the metal door and alarm pad, surely has picked up the alarm code by now, because this is the entrance used by the manager who opens the restaurant every morning.

Tommy drops the device into his pocket, walks to his car, and drives away.

“See you tomorrow night, David,” he says to himself.