The Barkeep by William Lashner Page A

And again. Loud knocks. Bang. Bang.
    “Who is that?” said the attacker.
    “I don’t know,” said Justin.
    “Say ‘Go away.’”
    “Go away,” Justin shouted.
    Bang. Bang. “Mr. Chase?” came a man’s voice through the door. “This is the police.”
    In an instant, the attacker was off Justin’s back and charging toward the rear doorway that led to the small fenced backyard and then to Panama Street. Justin didn’t have any desire to run after his attacker like he would have just a few moments before, when he was twisted dark by his anger. Instead he lifted up his head and turned his neck so he could catch sightof the man just as he reached the back of the house—a darkly clothed figure with short legs and broad shoulders, his wide back hunched and powerful, running quite quickly despite a slight limp, ripping open the door with massive arms, tearing out into the light, glancing back with a quick twist of his huge neck before jumping like a cheetah over the fence.
    Bang. Bang. “Mr. Chase? Justin Chase?”
    Justin, still on the floor, rolled over, put a hand on his bruised cheek, and said, “Come on in.”
    The door opened and the police officer stood in the doorway. He was an older African American, grizzled, squat of figure, with big hands and a curious tilt to his mouth. And curiously familiar. He stepped up to Justin and stared down at him on the floor for a long moment, as if trying to figure out what he was seeing.
    “Yoga?” said the cop finally.
    “Not quite,” said Justin.

13.
    ZOMBIE
    M ia’s worst fears about Justin Chase were confirmed with a single glance. If she hadn’t known who he was, she would never have recognized him.
    The nervous law student with his pale skin and worried eyes, his soft face and body, his uneasy stammer, had been replaced by something far harder. It was the kind of physical transformation she had seen sometimes in meth addicts. His body fat had been reduced enough so that his cheekbones were sharp as scythes. With his dark flat eyes and long hair and aggressive sort of calm, he indeed looked more like a drug dealer or a motorcycle madman than the anxious, ambitious kid he had been. And the dark-red bruise on his cheek, speckled with fresh blood, made him seem all the more dangerous.
    Dangerous enough to have killed Timmy Flynn to keep his father in jail?
    “What happened to your face, Justin?” said Mia.
    “I fell.”
    “Detective Scott said that what he heard on the other side of the door sounded like a confrontation of some sort. Like there was a fight going on.”
    “I was mad at myself for falling,” he said evenly.
    “And then I heard footfalls,” said Scott. “Like someone running away from the police.”
    “Who was running away, Justin?” said Mia.
    “That was just me, pounding the floor in frustration,” he lied. And he lied with such a perfect calm that Mia felt a shiver roll down her spine. Was he as accomplished a liar even before this sad transformation—like, say, when he came into her office that first time to point the finger at his father? “What is this all about?” said Justin.
    “Timmy Flynn.”
    “Uncle Timmy? He just died. So?”
    “How did you know Mr. Flynn died, Justin?”
    “My brother told me.”
    “Frank?” she said, surprised. She remembered how bitter the feelings had been between the two brothers at the time of the trial. Frank fully supported his father, while Justin was convinced of his father’s guilt. The scenes in the courthouse between the two were brutally tense, once almost coming to blows. “Do you see Frank often?”
    “Not really. But he found me the other night and told me about Uncle Timmy. The funeral is tomorrow.”
    “Are you planning on attending?”
    “I haven’t seen the guy in years, and he was sort of a loser.”
    She looked at Justin and said nothing, trying to pull out more with her silence.
    “The drugs, I mean,” he said.
    “What about your drug use?”
    “I don’t,” said