Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (17 page)

Sacramento
,
California

16 APRIL 1997
,
2055 HRS. LOCAL

 
          
The
new waitress quit after only one day—something about how life was too short to
work for a “stressed-out bulldog hyped on speed,” or some such comment like
that—so the owner of the little tavern on the
Sacramento River
near Old Sacramento had to fill in waiting
tables himself.

 
          
It
had been many years since he had had to take drink orders. Still dressed in a
long-sleeve white shirt, colorful “power tie,” Dockers slacks, and black
Reeboks, he zipped from bar to tables to kitchen and back, memorizing drink and
appetizer orders while wiping tables and setting up place settings, all the
while remembering that he had to smile, say a pleasant word, and stay as
cheerful as he could. The original owner had bought the bar after his
retirement from the Sacramento Police Department more than fifteen years
earlier, and he had never seemed cheerful or pleasant. Despite this—or possibly
because of it—McLanahan’s Pub, only seven blocks from police headquarters, had
been one of the most popular cop bars in town. Police, sheriff’s deputies, even
federal agents working downtown in
California
’s capital had regularly shuttled between

 
          
Gillooly’s,
the Pine Cove, and McLanahan’s after duty hours. They’d always gotten good
advice from a seasoned veteran sergeant, a lot of stories, and a litde cajoling
and friendly criticism—but never cheerfulness.

 
          
The
new owner of McLanahan’s wasn’t a cop, and although his younger brother was
slated to start the police academy soon and all of the police photos and
memorabilia were still on the walls of the place, it wasn’t the same popular
cop hangout it had been years ago. Because the clientele was more touristy and
more sophisticated these days, McLanahan’s had changed as well: they served
selections of
Napa
Valley
chardonnays and specialty espresso coffee
drinks as well as cold beer and bourbon. Tourists who ordered cafe mochas and
veggie appetizers expected cool, suave Tom Cruise-look-alike bartenders and
cheerful, trim-and-tan California-cutie servers, not loud, adrenaline-pumped
cops lining the bars being served by gruff, overworked owners.

 
          
The
second-generation owner, Patrick McLanahan, indeed looked as if he might be
more at home in a squad car or on motorcycle patrol than in a bar. Patrick was
a bit less than average height, but his broad shoulders, thick forearms and
neck, and deep chest made him look much shorter. If the blond-haired, blue-eyed
man smiled, which was rare these days, one might almost call him disarming,
like a big, cuddly teddy bear. But no one remembered the last time their
forty-year-old boss had smiled for real, and now it was easy to see a lot of
turmoil going on behind those shining blue eyes.

 
          
It
was Monday night, and the crowd was small and quiet. A few regulars at the bar,
a few cops still hanging around (although shift change was a couple of hours
ago), a few strangers getting out of the off-and-on drizzle outside. Quite a
contrast from table to table. Three guys and a woman, sitting at different
tables, reading the paper or watching the news on TV, all drinking coffee;
Patrick guessed they were U.S. Marshals or Secret Service, still on duty or on
call. A few San Jose Sharks fans were still here, celebrating the hockey team’s
latest victory at home over the Stanley Cup champions, the Buffalo Sabres, that
they had watched on the big-screen TV here at the bar. One big black guy was by
himself in a booth in the corner, still wearing his dark overcoat, watching TV
as well—he looked a litde rumpled and overburdened, maybe a mid-level manager
for the state who had just had an argument with his wife, or a local
businessman worrying about the state of Sacramento’s economy now that all of
the area’s military bases had been closed down. He paid for his Samuel Adams
with a fifty-dollar bill. His only interaction with Patrick was when he asked
him to switch the TV over the bar to CNN, and since there was nothing on ESPN,
he complied.

 
          
In
between serving drinks and wiping tables, Patrick made lots of calls to other
employees, asking for help, and after an hour and a half he finally got someone
to come in from eleven to closing, so he had a bit more time to circulate and
do owner things rather than serve tables. He finally escaped to his office and
plopped down in a spare chair beside the woman seated at his desk, who was
punching numbers into a computer with the speed and ease of someone very
familiar with using a keyboard. “Damn, if I
ever
see another plate of potato skins or another glass of white wine, it’ll be too
soon. My feet are
killing
me.”

 
          
Patrick’s
wife, Wendy, turned and smiled at her husband, and Patrick automatically
extended his hand to her and they held hands as they talked. Wendy was in her
mid-thirties, with short strawberry blond hair and bright green eyes. Bandages
still covered the left side of her neck and her right arm, and her breathing
was noticeably labored, but her smile could still melt Patrick’s heart like
nothing else. Wendy and Patrick were still newlyweds, having married late last
year, but an entire lifetime’s worth of events had interrupted their new life
together, and they spoke and treated each other as lifelong mates. “Think about
that the next time you chop on a server because she’s not going fast enough for
your taste, hon,” Wendy said. She stifled another cough, and Patrick winced
inside as he heard the delicate but raspy noise.

           
“How are you doing, sweetheart?”
Patrick asked. It was the end of Wendy’s first full week of part-time work
doing the books, payroll, and ordering at the tavern. Patrick had seen some of
the country’s toughest professional soldiers in sixteen years in the U.S. Air
Force, and there was no doubt in his mind that Wendy was stronger and more
durable than any of them. Yes, she had lost a lot of weight, and she suffered
shortness of breath if she walked around too much, and she required a two-hour
nap in the afternoon as well as a full eight hours of sleep at night, but she
had been out of the hospital after three weeks and working just a few short months
after her horrible aircraft incident.

 
          
“Don’t
change the subject, hon,” Wendy said with a stern smile. “That was the second
waitress that quit this week. We’re hiring only experienced persons,
Patrick—they’re not butter-bars. You’ve got to let them make a few
touch-and-goes and get some pattern work on their own before you start a
full-scale stan-eval ride on them.”

 
          
Patrick
smiled at all the military aviation jargon. It had been quite some time since
he had heard them. “Yes, ma’am,” he responded, snapping a left-handed salute,
then kissed her hand. She looked at him skeptically, as if afraid he wasn’t
listening to her indirect criticisms. “Hey, I’m just trying to keep things
moving, trying to pitch in. It’s easier for me to notice how long an order’s
been sitting ready to be picked up if I’m just standing by the door. I’m only
trying to help, you know, keep things moving ...”

 
          
“The
only things that keep moving are the servers,” Wendy said. “Let them do their
thing—they feel uncomfortable having the boss hovering nearby all the time. Did
you ever work better with that slave driver Colonel
Anderson
standing over you telling you to... ?”
Wendy paused as she saw Patrick’s eyes drift away and begin staring at faces
and places long lost but certainly never forgotten. “Sorry, sweetheart,” Wendy
said in a soft voice. “I hope it’s not too painful for you when I mention ...”

 
          
“No,
it’s okay,” Patrick said. “I just hadn’t thought about him, or any of them, for
a while.”

 
          
“If
I may so politely and delicately point out: bullshit,” Wendy said, squeezing
his hand. “You think about them all the time. I can see you talking on the
phone or sweeping the floor, and all of a sudden you’ll stare off into space,
and I know you’re on the deck of the Megafortress or one of those other
creations you built, dropping bombs and screaming around at Mach one with your
hair on fire.”

 
          
“Hey,
c’mon, that’s all past me . .. us,” Patrick said. He glanced at his wife
reassuringly, then motioned at the computer screen. “Can you give me a list of
applicants? I’ll call a few tomorrow morning and find us a replacement.”

 
          
“I’ll
take care of it,” Wendy said. She turned his face back to face hers. “We can
talk about it, you know—the service.
I
can talk about it.”

 
          
“There’s
not much to talk about, is there?” Patrick said, a trace of bitterness in his
voice. “We’re out, involuntarily retired. Everything we built is gone, everyone
we know is gone. We’re two grad-school- plus-educated professionals living in a
one-bedroom apartment over a bar. We live off your disability payments, we eat
bar food, drink bar drinks, and watch bar TV because we can’t even afford our
own TV.” He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “Not exactly the kind
of life I wanted to make for you, Wendy.”

 
          
“Maybe
you should soak your head, lover, not your feet,” Wendy said disapprovingly.
“Where did you suddenly get this sad-sack streak from? You took an early
retirement as an Air Force lieutenant colonel—you can’t draw your fifty percent
retirement salary because you’re barely forty years old! You’ve lived more and
done more in the past twenty years than most men would in two lifetimes. You
own an established restaurant and tavern in the capital city of the state of
California, which earns enough to put a brother through college and pay for
your mother’s condo in Palm Springs—we live over the bar because it doesn’t
cost us anything and we’re saving up for the lakeview condo up on Lake Tahoe
you’ve always wanted. You’ve got so many prospects available, you can’t count
them all. Yes, we eat bar food, but we eat pretty darn good bar food, thank you
very much—I don’t see any ribs sticking out your sides, if I may say so, lover.
Why are you suddenly so down on life?”

 
          
“I’m
not down on life, Wendy,” Patrick responded. “I just wanted more by now, that’s
all.”

 
          
“You’re
unhappy because you’re not flying, that’s what it is, isn’t it?” Wendy asked.
“Patrick, you can go flying anytime you want. There’s a bunch of rental planes
waiting for you at Executive or Mather. You can do aerobatics, you can go high
and fast and push the Mach, you can fly a helicopter or a war bird or a
racer—you’re checked out in almost everything with wings. In fact, I wish you’d
get out a little more often, look up your pals in the service, maybe even write
a book.

 
          
“But
you paid your dues as a military aviator, Patrick. Your work is done. You’re a
genuine hero. You’ve saved this nation a dozen times over. You’ve risked your
life, hell, I’ve lost count how many times! For my sake as well as yours, put
that life behind you and start a new one, with me, here, right now.”

 
          
“I
will, Wendy,” Patrick said. He took a deep breath, squeezed her hand, then got
to his feet. “I better see if Jenny’s showed up yet.” “Hey,” she said, pushing
him back to his seat. She held his hands tightly until he looked into her eyes
again. “You know, Patrick, Charlie O’Sullivan asked if he could look over our
books again, and he wants to bring Bruce Tomlinson from First Interstate over.”
She interrupted herself with another short fit of coughing.

 
          
“You
okay, sweetie?”

 
          
She
ignored the question and continued: “He’s really serious about buying the
place. He knew your dad from the force. He’s got the financial backing to turn
this place into a real entertainment spot, bring in big-name groups—we can’t
even afford to get a dancing permit.”

 
          
“I’m
working on all that, too, sweetheart.”

 
          
“But
we can’t afford all the upgrades we need to do unless we mortgage the place
again, and that’s too risky. You said so yourself,” Wendy said. She took his hands
and squeezed. “I’m your wife and your friend and your lover, Patrick, so I feel
qualified to tell you: as a barkeep, you’re a great bombardier.”

 
          
“Excuse me?”

           
“Do you want to be working for a
business that you took on just because you love your father and you couldn’t
stand the idea of your mother selling?” Wendy asked. “You don’t want to be a
barkeep, babe. I have no doubt you could make it if you wanted to, but your
heart’s not in it. You ...” She stopped again, the coughing lasting a bit
longer this time. “Besides, hon, the air quality in
Sacramento
is not getting any better. My company
doctor down in
La
Jolla
says a
change might do me some good—
San Diego
, or
Arizona
, or Tahoe...”