The Bar

Somewhat stunned by the realization that he was ducking out of this particularly brutal winter squall and into the building where his great uncle had met his final fate a half century ago, Tommy Kirk was pleasantly surprised when he’d opened the door to what turned out to be a pretty goddamn classy bar.

“Well I’ll be,” he whispered to himself, “This sure ain’t the old town I left.”

Folks were chatting comfortably and jazz was humming through the joint like a cool summers breeze. The smell of warm sauce and melting cheese filled the air and no one was cheering on another losing season in front of televisions as big as football fields.

“Well, well, well,” he chuckled as he thought, “if any of these folks knew Tommy Kirk’s story, they’d toss me out on my ass as soon as I’d turned the doorknob.” Kirk approached the crowded bar knowing that he knew just enough about drinking to not stand out like a sore thumb. Nodding to the pretty, dark-haired bartender he spoke with a quiet, lawyerly confidence “I’ll have an old fashioned please.” The bartender nodded, “one old fashioned, coming right up sir!”

“I could get used to this,” he figured as a smile started across his face. The Kirk’s were never smilers, but then again, they never seemed to have a goddamn thing to smile about.

The bartender eased a cool glass down onto the bar and slid it towards Kirk. “Hey, Tom Kirk,” said a voice from behind him. “Been a long, long time.” Kirk’s smile disappeared, he was a Kirk after all, and he turned. “Jesus Christ, McFinn?! Is that you McFinn? You’re a cop now?” Kirk could not help himself. He just started laughing. Laughing loudly. He glanced down and took a sip of his drink between chortles. Letting out a heavy sigh, he lifted his gaze back up and towards McFinn.

“McFinn,” he said with urgency, “DUCK!”