Tom

The matchbook was from a bar just outside of Blackstone. A seedy little joint called The Picket Fence. It faced an old gravel pit and adjoined the local scrapyard. The taste of rusty dust clung to his lungs with every tired breath. It wasn’t the kind of place he expected to find Rodney. A kid that fastidious, always disinfecting everything, at a dive like that?

There must have been a personal connection. Tom knew Rodney’s biological parents were long gone, but maybe a foster parent?

He parked towards the back of an open, unpaved lot. His rusty muscle car might have been shit, but it didn’t need any more dings in it.

The pictures of the bar hadn’t done it justice; it was far dingier than the internet had prepared him for. A squat, off-peach box which would have made for a small house, let alone a business. Its ancient roofing was hidden under a carpet of thick, browning moss. Though most concerning of all, the windows were completely black, darkened by thick curtains or covered in crate paper.

It looked like a front for a meth lab, or the home base of a biker gang… but neither option seemed quite dismissive enough.

Jeez, now I could use a strong disinfectant.

But there was no time to waste; even a bar like this would be busy soon enough, and he wanted to leave before the local goblins started arriving.

As he stepped through and into that dark, smoke-filled cave, he realized it was too late. The place was already infested.

At least a dozen greasy old men turned to look at him. Their milky, inebriated eyes wobbled in their sockets as they swayed upon a collection of assorted wooden chairs.

Christ sake, it’s 7 pm on a Wednesday.

Luckily, they began rotating back into place almost as fast as they had turned, their drinks taking far more of their attention than any misplaced teen could.

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Tom made his way to the bar, where a heavyset man was eyeing him suspiciously. The man wore a ratty denim shirt and pants combo and was so profoundly tattooed it was difficult to tell his approximate age, let alone his ethnicity.

“You ain’t getting a drink here, kid,” he said, glowering at Tom. “I don’t care how good your fake ID is.”

The heavy Midwestern accent wasn’t hiding the bite behind his words.

“I’m not looking to drink,” Tom said, bridging the distance between him and the bar. “I’m looking for my friend, Rodney.”

Friend was a stretch, but as he pulled his phone out to show him a picture, he saw the man’s features lighten. It turned out Rodney had friends after all.

“How do you know him?”

“We work together. Or at least we did.”

“Funny, he never mentioned anyone worth befriending at the convenience store,” the man said, baring his chipped teeth.

Tom tried to sigh, but the smoke-filled air turned it into a ragged cough.

“I could have been better to him.”

“That sounds more like the kids he talked about. I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

“Come on, man, I have his stuff. I just want to make sure he’s alright and give it back.”

“And why should I tell you anything?” the bartender asked, busying himself with some glasses behind the counter. “You’re no cop, and you’re certainly no friend.”

“Because I think I’m the only one even looking for him.”

The words lingered there in the smoke as the bartender studied him.

“You’re not wrong,” he said, glancing down at the floor. “Since the cops came in here the other night, no one else has even asked about him. They’re happy to say he took off, let him disappear into the island with the rest.”

“I’d rather not let him become another statistic.”

The rough man smiled.

“Well, I doubt you’re working with the pigs…so what’s the harm? He used to work here.”

“Really?” Tom asked, eyeing the bar. “He’s 18.”

“Don’t get judgy with me, kid. He never worked with the booze; he just helped, lifting stuff, cleaning up. An extra pair of hands.”

“Under the table, then?”

“Had to be; it was enough of a risk even letting him in the door. Williams thinks cracking down on underage drinking will appeal to his base…like that little shit never drank at a party.”

Mayor Williams had made a real push to appear as centrist as possible in his run-up to the election. But once he was in, he went back to fundamentals.

“Why risk it at all?”

“Because orphans gotta look after each other,” he said, hard eyes softening. “Poor kid must have knocked on every door he could walk to, just looking for enough to eat.”

“Why didn’t he ask for help from—”

“The system already fuckin failed him, what was he supposed to do? Go back to the ones that beat him, or the one he ran away from? The one he wouldn’t even talk about. No, he had seen enough to know he was on his own.” The bartender sighed, a long, heavy sound that fluttered in his chest. More regret than exasperation. “When that peckerhead was elected, we couldn’t make it work anymore. But I still checked in, you know, helped where I could.”

“Then help him now. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” the man said, eyes back on the dirty floor. “He hasn’t answered since the police called, and when I checked in person… nothing.”

“So you know where he lives.”

“Yeah, but he isn’t there.”

“I’d like to check.”

The man laughed, but his glassy eyes still gave him away.

“Okay Sherlock, you think you’re gonna find him with the fucking cops couldn’t?”

It was time for a calculated risk.

“And you’re gonna trust they even tried? Like you said, they just want to forget about him. ACAB, am I right?”

A slight smirk cracked the bartender’s hardened face.

“Fine, I know you’re trying to play me, but fuck it…” he said, taking out his phone and awkwardly scrolling over the shattered glass with his middle finger. “If you want to give it a try, he used to live at 67 Morton, number 25. He might still be there for all I know.”

“Thanks,” Tom said, typing it into a search. “I’ll let you know if I see… mind double-checking that address? This can’t be right.”

“Oh it is,” The tattooed man said, hardness falling back over his brown eyes. “And if you find something…keep it to yourself. If he aint texting me back…”

Tom nodded.

“If I see him, I tell him to call you.”

The man turned back to his work.

“I ain’t holding my breath.”

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