The Rarest Of All
by Andrew Benson
The usual suspects at Merle Early’s bar sat in a misty haze of cigar
smoke blended with the aroma of fifty-year-old scotch and stale steak
sandwiches. The Friday nighters had all shuffled in around 9:30; it was
the Friday before the Fourth of July. They were loyal customers and Merle
Early appreciated their business, no matter how pissed off he got at each
one of them at one time or another. Everybody certainly had their turn,
though. The Friday nighters were not exactly alcoholics but they were
dedicated drunks. Sam Taylor knew each one of them and each one of
them knew Sam Taylor pretty well. He stood in the doorway, quietly
observing the men in various degrees of wallowing. It was muggy outside
and Sam looked back at the street behind him. Perhaps it would be better
if he just turned around and continued on down the sidewalk, marveling
at the magnificent oak trees lining Main Street and taking in the sultry
summer air. However, he knew he had to go inside Merle Early’s bar. It
wasn’t that big of a deal that Sam Taylor was dead.
Sam stepped into the bar and let the door slam loudly behind
him, to which every man at the bar took notice. Joe DeNardo’s head
bolted upright as if he had been struck by lightning while Eddie Coyle’s
sorry-looking mug slightly peered upward from his stupor. The old man
sitting at the small corner table was Mr. Leonetti; he was still fast asleep.
Sam stood before the barflies with his hands in his pockets before he
broke out in a sly grin.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie exclaimed in a slurred but sobering moment of
clarity. Joe’s jaw had dropped. Frank McIntyre ventured away from the
bathroom door; suddenly, he didn’t have to go anymore.
“What in holy hell...” Joe v7VBࠐ