It had been years since I’d been to Herla’s, but for all it had stayed the same, it could have been only a night or two: the same football club pennants thumbtacked to the wall over the bar, the same stained blue carpet that had been a bad idea from the day they laid it down, the same jukebox. I was pretty sure the level of some of the bottles lined up in front of the mirror hadn’t changed either, because even the kind of people who drink at Herla’s have some minimal self-respect when it comes to what they put into their bodies. No one wants to be remembered as the guy who died after a shot of something that tasted like cough syrup and burning plastic.
It wasn’t exactly the same, though. When I stepped in from the street, the old warmth was gone, even if I couldn’t see or explain just how. Like going back to a movie theater you used to take your ex, once the feelings were stripped away and you saw it for what it was, it turned into something less, something cheap, something with no kindness for old friends or old memories. But I wasn’t there today to feel cozy. I was there because I had to be.
Koenig was working behind the bar like he always was, all five-foot-and-change of a scarecrow build and seven or eight decades of experience in the sharper, meaner parts of life. When he saw me coming, he cleared the stools in front of him of their patrons to give us room to talk, poured a draft, and set it out between us without a word. The stool wobbled when I sat down, because of course Koenig wouldn’t have fixed it in all the time I’d been away.
“Sorry it took so long to get here,” I said. “This country’s too big to have to cross it on a bus, but I couldn’t get to any of the shortcuts. And I wasn’t going to pay for a plane ticket. It’s not like he’s going anywhere, right?”
“Welcome to life as one of the little people,” Koenig answered. From under the bar, he produced a coffee can and put it down next to my beer. A strip of tape on the lid read JACK’S ASHES — DO NOT SNORT in black marker, with the last three words underlined. It wasn’t an unreasonable precaution to take in a place like Herla’s.
I took a moment to look at it. It was all so ordinary. Probably not the way Jack expected to end up. Not the way anyone expects to end up, but especially not people like us. I lifted my glass and tapped it against the side of the car in a toast. “I remember him being taller. You sure he’s in there? This has to be the fifth time he’s died since I’ve known him.”
Koenig nodded. “Went to the funeral myself. Wasn’t much of a turnout, what with the way he died and no one wanting to get on one of TITAN’s lists for being too friendly with an Outlaw. Can’t say I blame them, but you’d think more of his friends would show up for it. At least the man who called himself Jack’s blood brother would.”
I winced a little at the jab, then took a sip of my beer. “Doesn’t look like there’s any blood left in him to be a brother to,” I said. The whole blood brother deal had been a mistake anyhow. Jack and I both got too drunk one night after finishing off a man-eater in Los Angeles, swore our everlasting loyalty to each other, and woke up the next morning with matching cuts on our palms. I still have the scar, and I’m sure he would, too, if he had anywhere to put it. “Hard to believe they finally got him.”
Koenig nodded. “They don’t play fair, not like the old days. Last time I talked to him, he’d got himself wrapped up in some kid’s problems not far from here. The usual thing: sorcerer getting too big for the little town he was in had his hands on some magic that would’ve blown up in everybody’s faces if he kept at it. Normally, it was the kind of deal Jack would have sorted out without anyone wising up to what he was doing, but this time, the sorcerer’s connected.” He sighed and shook his head. “Jack had barely set foot in town before a sniper took his head clean off. Right out in broad daylight, too, can you imagine that? Not like the old days, not at all.”
I didn’t bother to ask if they found out who did it; there wasn’t any point, at least as far as the police went. Jack had been outside the law for a few years now, which made him fair game anywhere. The only way they’d charge someone was if a civic-minded citizen put in a noise complaint about the rifle, and most people value their own heads too much to risk it. Not like the old days, indeed.
Suddenly, I wasn’t in the mood to reminisce. I’d come back for the ashes like I was asked to, but this bar — this whole city, really — was weighing down on my back more than I thought it would. Or maybe that was just the two-day bus ride I was feeling. Koenig had filled me in on Jack’s last request over the phone before I’d started my trip: “He wants you to scatter his ashes over his boat, the Red & Black. It’s still down in the harbor where it’s always been, but someone’s eventually going to notice the payments have stopped, so you have to get over here. And it’s got to be you. He was clear on that.”
There wasn’t much more to say, so I didn’t say anything. Once I finished my drink, I picked up the coffee can and tucked it under my arm. It was lighter than I expected. Of course, it didn’t have Jack’s ego in it, which was always most of what he was. “See you next time, Koenig,” I said on my way out. I didn’t catch what he said back to me, but I don’t think it was a fond farewell.
The Red & Black could have been called a houseboat, but not if you wanted anyone to believe anything else you told them. Sure, it was a boat, and technically, you could live there, but having spent more than a few nights onboard, I wasn’t going to be the one to make a case for it. But I added the layer of ashes Jack wanted, muttering a few prayers as I did.
In the old days, this would have been the time when he walked up to me with a grin on his face and some story about how he’d slipped away from death again. We’d open a bottle of vodka and traded shots until we couldn’t feel the boat rocking any more. But these weren’t the old days, and he wasn’t coming back tonight.
