Dinner at Bar-bra's

NOTE. Some words and references of a sexual nature are contained herein.

"How in hell? I don't believe--"

"How can you not? It's a bar, so let's get you something to loosen things up."

"Anywhere you like.

What'll ya have?"

"Coke for me."

"Not drinking?"

"I can't."

"Beer, thanks."

"Why no alcohol?"

"First it makes me flirt and then I become horribly hostile. Assertive is not even a word You don't deserve either, and I would be so embarrassed tomorrow. 

"But hey, you'd be gone, right? No. No, I won't drink. I have my self respect."

"I might like the flirting part."

"Sorry, I don't do flirting very well. Women react, and that's fun. Men always come on too fast and I never have a chance to try my hand. Speaking of relationships, anyone special--"

"My mother, if you're asking. And she's doing fine, thanks. I'm thirty-eight, divorced. I mean she is alive and kicking."

"And?"

"Divorced, single, same difference."

"I'll guess. You take your job too seriously and were never home and you have to work nights and find out if someone is a prostitute or not and if they are breaking the law. She just got fed up and left you."

"Nope. She just fell out of love with me and into love with another policeman. I didn't know him or how they met. I was left waiting on that corner at night with no one to go home to."

"Sad. Go on."

"That's it. Been several years now. Don't need to dwell on it."

"I'll have the cheese burger, cheddar, please."

"Regular burger, hold the onions."

"You got it."

"Unbelievable."

"But here they are. Question for you. How did they get up there?"

"I guess this is how they get there."

"Maybe."

"You sound like you don't believe it."

"Do you?"

"Sure. Pictures, this brochure promising an uplifting dining and imbibing experience."

"Let's play a little game then. You game?"

"I guess."

"I'll have another two, thanks."

"You haven't finished your first."

"You're going to help me with one. And one will be all you get. You won't get crazy with one beer. I'm not drinking alone."

"Okay. It's called Believe It or Not."

"Like Ripley's."

"Something like that. You tell me a story and try to convince me it's true. It can be or not. I decide at the end which it is, and if I get it right, I have a point. Got it? If I win that round, it's my turn. If not, then you go again."

"Okay. I'll go first. Hmm. The American quarter horse gets its name from the fact that it runs the quarter mile the fastest among horses. Believe it or not."

"That's a pretty short story. I don't think the rules allow that."

"Hey, you didn't say how long the story had to be. I could make up some BS about the first time they called the horse a quarter horse, but I deal in simple facts and simple falsehoods."

"Fair enough, Detective. So you want me to tell you if it's true? Maybe I have to prove to you if it is or not."

"Fair enough."

"Okay. It's false, not true. I don't believe it for a second."

"Come on, Johnnie. Every cowboy knows this. Just ask one, like over there, that guy. He looks the part."

"Every cowboy may know that, but cowgirls know better. The American quarter horse gets its name from its hind quarters. They have a great set of cheeks, pardon the expression. I mean their rear. Muscular, built for propelling them forward, thus fast over short distances."

"I don't believe that, some cowgirl's fantasy."

"You may one day regret a wiley, sober woman fessing up in a bar."

"I'll take my chances. Besides, you're not the fesser-type and we can't prove your story here. No cowgirls. Look around.

"My turn still."

"Don't get cocky."

"This one is simple and simple to prove. This brochure is true. This is what happens here and how the bras get on the ceiling."

"That's it? Geez, another short one. You really believe that propaganda?"

"Not propaganda. I have this brochure and the photos all around here prove it."

"You have to be more detailed or specific in your story. New rule, based on your deviation from the first round. You have to tell a tale."

"A picture says a thousand words."

"You're not going to spin that story out, are you?"

"It's enough. Get outta this one."

"Nothing to get out of. Not true and I can prove it."

"How can you say--I've already proved it."

"Are you sure you are going to maintain that how these bras got up there is represented by the pictures you see in this place and the brochure, more like a flyer?"

"Yep."

"Okay, buddy. You asked for it. Take a good look at the girls in the brochure."

"Yea, so?"

"They're all the same girls. Now go out and do your research. Look at the pictures on the walls and take a good look at the bartender, Barbora by name. Come back and tell me you have your proof."

"Well, there is something fishy going on 'round here."

"Fishy hell, downright ole deceptive marketing. Even in the sticks."

"But wait. Who is this person here in this picture. Doesn't look the same. Long legs, and the bartender, she's pretty short."

"All you gotta do is look around again. See anyone who might be the same girl in that picture? Take a gander at the girl with the two guys standing to the left at the bar. Go and have a good look and tell me what you see. Focus on the legs--if you can."

"I think she's a prostitute or something."

"Bingo. And she's the one in the picture. She's a friend of the bartender and works across the line in Nevada. Work alias Trixie. Cute, eh?"

"How do you know that?"

"You lost that time. You concede?"

"Not yet. How is this deceptive marketing?"

"These two girls cooked up this idea to increase business. They're friends. Oh, they are ready to go through the motions with a real customer, give 'em a T-shirt and all that for parting with, you know; but all the pictures, I believe all of them, are those two acting as if it's always party-time and customers can expect some titillating entertainment. I won't apologize for using that word by the way."

"Would you take off your shirt and undergarment and pin it to the ceiling?"

"Have more beer. It's my turn at this game, the one we're playing, the Believe-It-or-Not one. My turn."

"I want more proof. I don't believe you."

"Do your eyes deceive you? Go ask them then."

"I'm not that drunk."

"You lose. My story is about me. Hey, detective in there, listen up. You have already admitted you wanted to know more stuff. Let me have a sip of this before I start.

"You changed the game we were playing. I was planning a longer story, but I take your lead. I have a short one. Believe it or not: I don't know who killed Edgar and I certainly didn't."

"Bingo."

"Right, that has been the real question all along, hasn't it?"

"You know it has."

"The cheddar cheese burger?"

"Here."

"Thanks."

"Enjoy."

"Well, do you believe me?"

"I have some theories as to whether or not to consider you a prime suspect. For example, you might not have known who did the actual killing, but that doesn't preclude your having planned it."

"Now, Detective, I have merely posed the question in the form of a statement which is clear as clear can be. I claim I did not kill Edgar by any means, including stratagem."

"Fair enough. But you had a motive. You inherited property that was Edgar's and Helen's. Maybe you did 'em in to strike while the iron was hot, to take advantage of their affection for you."

"We're talking here of Edgar. His death precedes Helen's. Helen could easily have changed her mind about me before her untimely death. I don't think your theory in this instance holds much . . . beer. I don't believe you even think this angle promising. So, proceed to your judgment if you can. I mean about my lying or not."

"I didn't say you were lying."

"Yes you did. You don't believe me. You have theories or hunches or whatever you dicks call them to pin something on poor--well, sorry, not so poor--innocent girls."

"You're hardly a girl."

"What would you call me? In my youth I played the gender-bending card before but not with you. Are you referring to my short hair and boyish figure? Do I have to take off this shirt and pin my bra to the ceiling for you to see who the person is you are accusing?"

"I'm sorry. I don't like the ways this conversation--"

"It could have fessed earlier, but I saved you from that embarrassment, out of your esteem for me as object of your fantasies, I guess not me as a person. I don't know which. And because you seem like a nice guy. But you don't seem to get the clues. 

"Let's go ahead and eat.

"One more thing. The apartment you got with Edgar's help."

"What about it?"

"Well, how did it come about that he got that for you?"

"I told you. You don't pay attention, or you see things that aren't there. We've established that. The distressed property I bought, Edgar's role in that was just to alert me to that investment; you can call it my personal financial decision. Besides, he had nothing to gain by steering me to invest. He acted out of, I think and like to think his care for me, which I never questioned. He was, is a dear man. Like a father I never had. He even hugged me with no ulterior motive, believe you me. I can't say that about any other man or boy. Helen did also. Game over."

"Game over?"

"Yes. I'm hungry. And I warned you, I can become a harpy when I drink, and you have committed the tort of over-serving an individual who by her own admission can't take a drink."

"What about the flirting phase. I didn't see that."

"You won't, smarty pants. You're leaving tomorrow and I don't do one-nighters. Let's eat.

"Edgar had pancreatic cancer. He knew he was going to die soon, probably in the hospital after suffering for some while. He didn't want to go that way. He talked of having assistance in dying. I listened while he and Helen talked about it. She already had cancer and was undergoing treatments. They talked about their affairs and what they should do about this and that. There was no one on either side, family, to turn to or to bequeath. I excused myself early in their talk, because they began talking with me as if I was their closest. I dismissed the notion and said there were other very needy people who could use some help if they wanted, or some cause they could give to. I told them I had lots of money and was due to inherit more. I mean I had lots of money and when I turn thirty, I get more than I can ever use personally, maybe. Actually maybe not cash, but all the same. We talked about how I could be the one recipient, young and healthy and loving--they even knew my story about my lost years. The bad, the confused, the troubled times. They even know about when I was a whore. They said I could carry the standard. They had done some things in life. It would now be my turn with their small contribution. Did you check out what they did with their money while they were living? He was a reasonably well paid civil servant and she was a model. Got paid well during her day, although not like models now."

"Whore?"

"Believe it or not--gotcha. 

"So I'll give you this final clue. Check them out before going any further with your theories. Your investigation should focus on them not me."

"So I er--"

"Anyway, that is as it should be I guess. Edgar was taken suddenly, on the street, which in a way was a blessing. It was terrible for Helen. But like so many others who are closely related, she went soon afterwards. I hope they have peace and no discomfort or pain where they are. I suspect they are there trying to help still, in whatever ways one can from the other side. I like to think they are helping me now, before I make more mistakes. Before I won't have time for talking or thinking back like this."

"I defer to your wisdom."

"Oh, I'm not wise, but it seems you have a tendency to see things not as they are but as you might like them to be. Is this a character thing or occupational tendency?"

"Both I'm afraid. I'm not technically a rookie but I am on probation. Plus there are a lot of distractions around here."

"You mean Barb's bras."

"Mostly. Like your hair short by the way."

"Detective O'Connel, why I think you might be softenin' on me, as one of your more eligible richbitches. How many of us do you know? and how dangerous we can be?"

"Might be--although you're the only rich, not a bitch, no way. I'm interested in you."

"I'm flattered."

"Don't you care who killed Edgar, whether it was an accident or not?"

"No. He was dying. This way he didn't suffer. I like to believe that. Catching a criminal or some hit and run weirdo, that doesn't matter now. And your efforts to find out, well, it's rather pointless too."

"You haven't touched your burger."

"You either."