An Undesirable Customer

By J. R. Lindermuth

“Who is he?” Donovan whispered with a jerk of his chin toward the elderly man seated at the end of the bar.

“You don't know him?” Lanigan asked. Incredulous.

“Should I?”

“Name's Brennan.”

“Him? He's the one?”

“The same,” Lanigan told him, nodding his head.

“Jeez.” Donovan made a pretense of wiping down the bar while he took another quick glance at the old man who was quietly nursing the same beer he'd bought when he came in twenty minutes earlier. It was one of those quiet nights that rankled Donovan's parsimonious soul. Sleet or freezing rain. Foul weather destined to keep trade down. The only customers Lanigan—who practically lived in the place anyhow—and the man named Brennan.

Donovan stepped up close to Lanigan again. “He don't look like…”

“What?”

“You know—they say he killed his wife.”

“Went to prison for it, didn't he.”

“But they never found her body.”

“Guess they didn't need it. Had enough other evidence. How come you didn't recognize him?”

“It was a long time ago. I remember the stories in the paper but…”

“He used to come in here. You know, back before it happened.”

“Did he?”

“You don't remember?”

Donovan shrugged. “Trade was better in those days. I was so busy. No way I'd remember everyone who came in here then. Unless they was regulars.” He squinted down the bar. “Truthfully, I don't remember him. Maybe he looked different.”

Donovan coughed.

Brennan looked up.

“I getcha anything else?” Donovan asked him.

“I'm good,” the man said in a gravelly voice.

“How about you?”

Lanigan shook his head. He drained his glass and picked up his change and cigarettes from the bar. “Nah. I think I'm gonna head on home before the weather gets any worse.”

“You're gonna leave me alone here with him?”

Lanigan gave him a crooked grin as he pocketed his change. “Hell, the man just got out of prison. I don't think he's anxious to go back. Besides, you haint done nothin' to him, have you?”

“No. It's just…”

Lanigan grinned again, shaking his head. He took a moment to light a cigarette, then shrugged into his coat. “If he gets out of line just call your old lady. She'll put him in his place.”

Donovan grimaced but didn't reply. Just because a man's wife was outspoken didn't give the world right to use it as catalyst for jokes and snickering behind his back and, sometimes, even to his face. Donovan busied himself washing glasses and restocking bottles in the cooler after Lanigan left. Now and again he glanced at the old man who was silently smoking a cigarette.

His tasks completed, Donovan leaned with his elbows on the bar and whistled a few short notes. Brennan turned in his seat and squinted at him through the smoke of his cigarette. “No call to stare at me,” he said.

Donovan swiveled round to face him. “Haint.”

“Was. I seen you when you thought I wasn't lookin'.”

“Just seeing if maybe you was ready for another beer.”

“Wanted I'd ask.”

Donovan jerked his head in a nod. “Meant no harm.”

Brennan glanced at his mug. “Guess you could refill it you haint too busy.”

Relieved, Donovan made his way down and took Brennan's mug. “You're hungry I could make you a sandwich.”

Brennan's head snapped up and his eyes scoured Donovan. “Just the beer,” he said.

“Was tap, weren't it?”

“That the local?”

“Yeah. Yuengling. But I got Bud, Coors, some others…”

“The local. Glad to see you haint pushin' none of that Yuppie microbrew stuff.”

Donovan drew the lager and carefully scooped off the foam. He walked the beer back to Brennan and placed it before him. “You know about microbrews?”

Brennan looked up at him. “Just because I been in prison don't mean I haint kept up with news.”

“Yeah. I didn't mean no offense.”

“None taken,” Brennan said and grinned.

Relieved, Donovan nodded. “You haint tried none of those microbrews?”

“Now when would I have had the chance?”

“They haint all bad.”

Brennan quaffed from his mug. He wiped his lips with the back of one big hand and smiled. “Well, I'll stick with this.” He picked up his cigarette pack from the bar and stuck a finger in it. Empty. He crushed it in his hand. “You got cigarettes?”

“Sure. Carton or pack?”

“Pack. Camels if you got ‘em.”

Donovan brought the smokes and watched as Brennan fumbled open the pack. The old man drew one out, tapped it firm on the bar, struck a match and lit up. Donovan was near enough to hear the crackle of the old man's breath as he inhaled. He shuddered imagining what Brennan's lungs must be like after years of harsh, unfiltered smoking. He was glad he'd given up the habit.

“You're wondering, haincha?” Brennan asked, squinting at him through a screen of smoke.

“Huh?”

The old man chuckled, deep in his throat. “You haint the first, you know. It's okay. You can ask.”

“Whadya mean?”

“You're wondering did I do it.”

Donovan shrugged. Nervous. “Not my business.” Shrugged again. “You went to jail for it.”

Brennan took a swig of his beer, another puff on the cigarette. His eyes fastened on Donovan, unwavering. “Don't mean I did it.”

Donovan found the courage to return his gaze. “Did you?”

Brennan laughed. “Would you believe me if I said I didn't?”

“Lots of men claim they're innocent.”

“Lots of innocent men go to prison, too.”

Donovan swallowed. He didn't want to have this conversation. He wished the man would leave. Picking up his rag he wiped down the bar in front of Brennan. Smoke swirled between them. Moisture dripped from the tap.

“They never found her body,” Brennan said.

Donovan glanced at him. “Said they had other evidence.”

Brennan smiled. “Circumstantial. Nothing solid. But I got to hand it to him, the prosecutor was good. He convinced that jury. They returned a verdict of guilty of second degree murder. But without a body the judge wouldn't go for a maximum sentence. I served time, was a good boy and got me a pardon.”

“And you're saying you was innocent?”

“You married, sonny?”

Donovan grinned at the idea of this man who wasn't all that much older treating him like he was a boy. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You and your wife always get along?”

Donovan shrugged, thinking about his wife and her ways. “Well, no. Like every couple, we sometimes have our spats?”

“But she don't hate you. There aren't times when you feel like wringing her neck?”

“No. Nothing that bad. We just disagree sometimes.”

“My old lady was never satisfied with nothing I ever did. I suppose at some point we must have had feelings for one another, else we wouldn't have married. But that got shut out over the years by our differences and time came we didn't have nothing left but spite for one another.”

He paused to gulp down his beer, pushed the mug over for a refill. “I guess her spite ran deeper than mine. She had enough of me and just took off. In her spite, she left the evidence convicted me.”

“Wait a minute. You're saying she's still alive? How come nobody…”

Brennan grinned again. “Easy for a plain woman like her to disappear. Nobody in particular looking for her. Most wouldn't even recognize her if they did see her. Just another plain old woman.”

“You claim that's what happened? She just walked off?”

The old man drained his beer. He laid cash on the bar and rose, shrugging into his coat. “Maybe,” he said.

“Whatdya mean by that?”

“You know what I done before I went to prison?” he asked, smiling.

“Sure,” Donovan said, remembering now the news stories. “You was a pig farmer.”

“Uh, huh. Hogs will eat most anything. They gobble things up and leave nothing behind—bones, hair, clothes. It's all the same to them. Real disposal critters, hogs.”

Donovan blanched. “So which is it? Did you kill her or not?”

Brennan crossed to the door. There he glanced back over his shoulder. “Believe what you want. I served my time. I'm a free man either way.” And he went out the door.

Donovan came around and locked it behind him. This was one customer he hoped never came back.