The Frighteners by Michael Jahn Page B

Lucy’s ear, screamed, “Bitch!”
    “If he were still here, I’d tell him that I knew that nineteen-year-old aerobics instructor was teaching him more than cardiovascular conditioning.”
    “Oops,” Ray said, and sat back down.
    “A lot of good that did him, anyway. I was always faithful to the man,” Lucy said. “And there he was running around behind my back with that tramp from Portland.”
    “You’ll be okay,” Frank said.
    The tears had started to run down her cheeks. Bannister brushed them off.
    “Don’t touch her,” Ray yelled at him.
    Getting to his feet, Ray swung wildly at Frank’s wineglass, sweeping it off the table and into his lap. Lucy looked up as Frank grabbed a napkin and rubbed his trousers.
    “I’m sorry,” he said.
    He got up and, when he was sure no one was looking, wound up and smacked Ray in the face with a right jab. Ray staggered backward, wailing and clutching his nose.
    “You bastard,” he swore, making his way toward the door. “I can make your life miserable, Bannister,” he yelled. “You better watch your back.” With that, he stormed out of the restaurant.
    Bannister turned back to Lucy and, brushing off his pants, said, “Excuse me . . . I’ll just clean up.”
    “Sure . . . go ahead.”
    He pushed his chair away from the table and walked across the dining room to the back of the restaurant, where he located the men’s room between the cigarette machine and the coffee station. The men’s room was done in white tile that had been decorated with small, pink gondolas, Leaning Towers of Pisa, and Roman fountains. A basket of brightly colored plastic flowers sat atop the marble countertop next to a potpourri dish that contributed a scent of lilac to balance the odor of cleaning fluid that permeated the room.
    Frank stepped up to the counter and ripped a handful of paper towels out of the dispenser. He used them to rub the wine out of his trousers.
    “Jesus, a guy goes to all the trouble to get his suit pressed to impress a girl, and this is what happens,” Frank complained to his image in the mirror. “It’s another example of Murphy’s Law—if I left the suit rumbled and dirty, no one would have spilled wine on it.”
    At that point the men’s-room door opened and in stepped a snappily dressed man of around forty. His brand-new Italian suit cost more than Frank made in a month, and he smelled of expensive cologne. He hurried to the urinal, grinning at Frank as he unzipped.
    “Good band, huh?” he said.
    “At least it isn’t Isaac Hayes,” Frank replied.
    “Who?”
    “Some disco singer who wore a lot of gold jewelry.”
    “Disco, huh? I’m afraid that goes back before my time.”
    Frank was certain that it didn’t, but if the man wanted to play younger than his years, that was fine. Frank knew better than most that nobody lived forever, so they might as well get as much mileage out of their lives as possible.
    It was then that Frank noticed that tattooed on the man’s forehead was the number thirty-eight. It was printed there in ugly raised welts—exactly as the number thirty-seven had been tattooed on Ray’s forehead before he died.
    Frank stared at the man’s forehead, trying to figure out what was up. Then the fellow noticed him watching and turned away. Frank sneaked another curious look at the designer-dressed stranger through the washbasin mirror as the man zipped up and waited for his turn to wash up.
    At that moment a cubicle door silently swung open. Frank saw it and expected it would naturally be accompanied by the sound of footsteps. Instead silence reigned, and then, looking in the mirror, Frank saw a tall, dark, hooded figure glide out. He couldn’t see a face, only that whatever it was, the creature was sinister, predator-like, and definitely not human, moving as it did in a pool of blue-black light.
    It was the Grim Reaper, the same otherworldly figure that Old Lady Bartlett had tried to fight off when it emerged from the walls of