Murphy's Bar

It took me a while to find the place Catty’s directions wanted me to go. What he’d neglected to mention was that the bar Sara worked at wasn’t on the street itself, but was a tiny hole in the wall kind of place located in an alleyway behind the address he’d given me. I spent over half an hour wandering around the Chicago streets at night in the freezing cold because of that. Thanks, Catty.

The sign above the doorway claimed the place was called “Murphy’s.” Well, not really; the paint on the sign had been so washed away that it really said “M ph  s,” but I’m assuming there was supposed to be a u, r, and y in there. The bar was fairly empty. Only three customers inside, counting myself, and neither of the other two seemed like the sociable sort. I could see why people would avoid this place. Calling it decrepit would be elevating it to a status it doesn’t deserve. The décor looked like someone had just scattered the cheapest furniture they could get from a garbage dump all over the ground, and I spent a good chunk of my time there being distracted by the concern that the cracks on the walls were a sign of serious structural problems. Sara was behind the bar, halfheartedly watching some old 80s movie on a small cracked TV hanging from the wall. Her face lit up as I sat down.

“Hello!” She said, clearly happy to see a new customer in this place. “What can I get you?”

Through chattering teeth, I managed to say, “Something warm.”

“I can whip you up an Irish coffee, if that alright?” She said.

“Irish what?”

“Hot coffee, Irish whiskey, and sugar mixed together.”

At the time, that sounded like the most heavenly drink that had ever been imagined. “Yes. That.” I got out as I tried rubbing some life back into my freezing hands.

Sara got out a glass and started mixing my drink. “Have you come in here before? You look familiar.” She said, looking over my face with curiosity.

Thankfully my attempts at warming myself gave an excuse to avoid answering her question immediately. With that bought time, I desperately tried digging through the remnants of my memory. Had I been here before? It’s possible, but I couldn’t find any recollection of it.

“I remember now!” She said as she gave me my drink. “You helped us out when we had that big magical dog monster stalking the building last year.”

“Right, that.” I said vaguely as I picked up the glass and savored the warmth of it on my hands. I was really wishing I could access my case files there, because I had no idea what she was talking about. To buy some time, I started drinking. The heat from it was like drinking pure, wonderful fire. Even with the whiskey, I managed to finish the whole thing much faster than I’d planned.

“You probably don’t remember me from that.” Sara said. “My hair was green back then.”

Perfect! “Yes, that must be it.” I said, grabbing onto that lifeline and trying not to show too much relief at the excuse. “What have you been up to since then?”

We made small talk for a while. I think Sara was happy to have a customer who wasn’t determined to drink in stubborn solitary silence. That was fortunate for me, as it made it easier to guide the conversation along. I found out quite a lot about Ms. Sara Valentine. She’d been a student at School of the Art Institute of Chicago, but had dropped out two years ago to work as a bartender. She hasn’t been in touch with her family since high school. Bartending wasn’t a job she’d ever dreamed of doing, but once she’d started she found she enjoyed it. She has a boyfriend who’s still enrolled at SAIC, focusing on traditional painting. She’s been trying out a new hair color every year for the past four years, but she thinks she’s going to stick with dark blue.

I like it when people talk a lot about themselves. They’re too busy to ask any questions about me.

During a lull in the conversation, I said, “Sorry, I need to head out for a smoke. I’ll be back in a minute.” It wasn’t a lie. There have been a few times where I’ve tried going without cigarettes while at work. All I ever got out of that was feeling sick and miserable.

“I was just about to take my break.” Sara said. “I’ll be out right after you.”

There was a slight trace of assertiveness in that statement that hadn’t been in the conversation before. I suspected that she wanted to discuss something beyond casual small talk. I may have followed that line of thought further, but at that moment I stepped outside and was punched in the face by the cold. Metaphorically. Oh, the sacrifices we make for tobacco. At least my drink had given me enough warmth that I could pull out my pack of cheap cigarettes without dropping them everywhere. Matches were another issue entirely, though. The first one I lit blew out in seconds. With the second I almost got it to my cigarette before it blew out as well.

“Need a light?” Sara had just come out, wearing a heavy coat and holding a lighter. I accepted the offer without a word and gratefully inhaled.

Sara pulled out a cigarette for herself and lit it up. “Those things will kill you.” I said in dry jest.

“Whatever you say mom.” Sara said as she took a long drag. “You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever seen use matches for a light. What’s up with that?”

“You need an ID to buy a lighter.” I tried waving the question off.

“Oh yes, I’m sure someone as youthful as you gets carded all the time.” She replied back quickly. I feel as if I should have been mad about that, but I can’t get upset at someone who’s that fast with the comebacks.

Both of us stood against the alley wall, enjoying the moment. Sara broke the peace by hesitantly saying “So… are you still doing that… weird supernatural job kind of deal thing?”

I could already predict where this conversation was going. “Yes,” I replied guardedly.

“Can you….”

I cut her off before she went any farther. “I charge $3,000 upfront, and an additional $200 for every hour I work on a case.”

Her face fell as she heard that. “Do you….”

“I don’t offer discounts. I sometimes will accept goods and services of equitable value in lieu of cash, but I doubt you have anything like that.”

That statement seemed to kill any trace of optimism that she might have had walking out here. I did feel bad for her. People don’t try to hire me for things they don’t think are important. But I can’t go risking my life without some kind of compensation. If I ran off doing every charity job that came up, I’d either be destitute or lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Probably both. At least Sara seemed to be taking it better than other people I’ve dealt with. She looked at the ground dejectedly, and said, “Well, it was worth a shot. I guess I’ll just….” Her words started to slur together and then trail off, and her cigarette fell from her fingers.

Then she collapsed onto the ground.