Bad to the Last Drop

Copyright © 2009 by Deb Lewis & Pat Ondarko

Langdon Street Press

212 3rd Ave North, Suite 290

Minneapolis, MN 55401

612.455.2293

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
Bad to the Last Drop
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the authors' rich imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Kristeen Wegner

978-1-936782-43-7

Dedicated to the people who walk in the shadows of life and to all those who go to war and return home in a broken state.

It was well after one o'clock when it was finally finished. I couldn't stop a smug, self-satisfied smirk from moving across my face as I glanced about the apartment. Cups and plates were neatly stacked back in the cupboard. The table was wiped clean, and the floor was swept. Even the old scraggly broom was placed in the corner.

"Just right," I whispered. The soft words seemed to echo through the rooms, as if the walls themselves already knew.

Irritation suddenly tightened my chest, as I noticed how threadbare everything around me was — the faded curtains; the stains on the carpet. Even the dishes I had so carefully cleaned were chipped.
All that money going to waste.

And then I giggled.
Well, not
all
of it.

I reached for the knob on the old wooden door, and as I did, I glanced at the room one final time. My eyes flitted from place to place like a small bird, quick and inquisitive, until my gaze finally came to rest on the overstuffed chair, placed in a prominent spot in the room.

"Should I leave the light on? The TV, perhaps?" I inquired brightly. The figure in the chair seemed almost molded into it. "No? I suppose not."

The room was quiet, as a room can get only in winter. Funny how little difference the quiet made. One moment, he had been sitting there raging at me, and the next ...

Now, with hands on hips, I pretended to pout. "Really, you shouldn't have threatened me. It's your own fault, you know." Turning once again to the door, I grabbed the knob in my gloved hand, eager to be gone. I flipped off the light switch and quietly closed the door behind me, the lock making a small click as it moved into place.

What a beautiful winter night,
I thought. Whistling
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,
I made my way home.

On a clear, sunny September morning, Deb Linberg pulled her white Prius into a parking space in front of the Black Cat Coffeehouse. Standing near the front door was Joe, one of the town regulars who frequented the Black Cat—Joe had all but worn a constant path between the Black Cat and his small apartment across the street. Tall and stocky, he was most recognizable by his black eye patch and a lit cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. Deb noticed Joe conversing with Jack Swanson, the mayor of Ashland. As she got out of the car, Deb wondered what scheme Joe would tell her about this time. As soon as he saw her, Joe turned from the mayor and smiled broadly.

"Hey, Deb, how are you doing? It's a great day! Want to know why?" Without waiting for an answer, Joe continued all at once, hardly stopping to catch his breath between sentences. "Because I'm definitely going to win the lottery today! No doubt about it. And when I do, I'm kissing this place good-bye forever. I'm out of here! I'll be moving to Florida with five beautiful Russian women, and we'll be spending our time on a boat, loaded with nothing but brandy! And you won't be seeing me any more!"

"Hey, that sounds really great, Joe," Deb replied politely, more than a little bemused. Though many people seemed frightened or intimidated by Joe's overt friendliness and his odd appearance, Deb never had that concern; Joe simply appeared to have an insatiable desire for human contact. Joe opened the door to the coffeehouse and followed Deb as she stood in line to order coffee.

So he's on his lottery kick today,
Deb thought.

"Guess what I did yesterday?" Joe asked without preamble.

Here it comes,
she thought.
I know where this is going.
Still, she played along, even though she was slightly irritated. "I don't know. What did you do yesterday?"

"I called the CIA to tell them what I thought about their eavesdropping. It took me at least ten tries to get through, and then the SOBs didn't even want to talk to me!" Joe replied; his voice was loud enough for everyone at the Black Cat to hear.

The few patrons seated in the big front room pointedly turned to their newspapers or their private conversations. Deb, as usual, tried to listen politely. Sometimes, Deb tried to encourage Joe out of his paranoia—there were times when Joe was lucid and that made for interesting conversation—but today was not a day when Deb had the energy to try to engage with him. Today, her response (or lack of one) didn't seem to matter to Joe.

Turning from Deb, Joe smiled at an elderly gentleman in line behind him and repeated the same fantasy about winning the lottery. The man ignored Joe and blew past him without acknowledging his presence.

Poor Joe,
Deb thought.
His time in 'Nam really messed him up.
She walked out into the sunlight, leaving Joe to work the room like a politician.

Pat Kerry put her feet up on a chair and gave a happy sigh as the first sip of hot Italian roast warmed her right down to her toes. It had been a frosty autumn walk to the coffeehouse in this northern Wisconsin town—one of many walks since her recent move here—but it was worth it.
A little exercise never hurt anyone,
Pat thought.
Emphasis on "little."
She looked across the table at her best friend, Deb Linberg.

"Well, I just felt we should
do
something," Deb said as she read the
Daily Press.
"So I wrote a letter to the editor about Joe."

"Good idea," Pat responded. Smiling, she took another sip of her coffee, avoiding Deb's eyes.
Good old Deb,
Pat thought.
A woman of action
.

"What are you smiling at?" Deb asked, looking up over her glasses. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No ... well ... maybe a little," Pat conceded. "I was just thinking that when we're ninety-two years old, we'll still be sitting in the Black Cat, drinking coffee, and deciding what our latest cause will be."

"For your information, Joe is
not
a cause," Deb retorted focusing on the paper once more. "He's dead; he can't
be
a cause. I just think someone should remember him."

She sighed. "No one should just die and not be missed for four whole days—and then to be found by the kid who works the coffee counter, for goodness sake!"

Just a few days earlier, Sam, the barista, had wiped the long wooden counter during a brief reprieve from his early-morning rush hour of regulars. As he caught his breath, Sam noticed that Joe had not yet made his customary appearance.
Strange,
Sam mused.
Joe wasn't here yesterday or the day before that, either. Come to think of it, it must be at least three days since I last saw him in here.

Sam tried to recall any conversations he'd overheard that made mention of a trip. Usually, Joe talked endlessly and loudly whenever he made plans to go anywhere. Every customer who would listen was informed—in great detail—of any changes to Joe's usual restless routine of pacing back and forth and in and out of the coffee shop. Joe was a predictable fixture in the place, as much a part of the scene as the aroma of good coffee and the art on the walls displayed by local artists. The Black Cat Coffeehouse was one of those small-town places where the regulars were like an odd family, where everyone—but especially Sam—looked out for each other.

Something just doesn't seem right,
Sam thought.
If Joe doesn't show up by the end of my shift, I'll call someone. Let's see ... what did Joe tell me about his family? Something about a brother and two sisters. The brother was local... Jake, or something like that. No ... Jacob. I'll see if I can find a number in the book when I get a minute.

He looked up with a smile as a biker came through the door. "Can I help you?" Sam asked.

Later that afternoon, with still no sign of Joe, Sam started digging for Joe's brother's phone number. After several tries, he finally reached Joe's brother, Jacob Abramov in Hurley, who said he had not heard from Joe for a week. "That's not all that unusual," Jacob had said, "since Joe only calls every few weeks anyway."

Sam sensed a lack of support from Jacob, so without mentioning his reason for calling, he simply said, "Thanks. Good­bye." Then he hung up and made a decision to call the police.

They'll think I'm crazy if this turns out to be nothing more than Joe acting impulsively and taking a quick trip south without telling
anyone. Still, this is a small town, after all, and a place where people still look out for each other.

Brushing aside his nagging doubts, Sam dialed the Ashland Police Department non-emergency number.

Pat took another sip of coffee, enjoying the idea of being able to sit as long as she liked—every day, if she liked—even more than the taste of the strong brew. Idly, she wondered if anyone would offer to do a memorial service for the indigent man or if maybe she should.
Nope,
she told herself, sternly,
I've taken a year off from ministry in the Lutheran church for a reason
,
and I refuse to get pulled back into it all, even if it's for a good cause. No exceptions. Do one funeral, then someone else will find out and pretty soon I'll be doing weddings in the p ark and funerals for people without a church affiliation, and then someone's aunt will need a cheerful visit at the hospital.
She reached for her bagel
. Nope, I will not bring it up.
She put an extra dab of cream cheese on for good measure and took a big bite—after all, she had walked all the way from her house—and then took the paper from Deb's outstretched hand.

"Funny," Deb said, as she put down the paper, "that he died now, isn't it? He was only fifty-seven, the paper says, and even though he was a character, he didn't look sick or anything."

"I'm sure they'll do an autopsy, but he
was
a crazy, all his talk about calling the CIA and the army," Pat countered. "Who knows what meds he was taking or what he was mixing it with? You know how he talked about drinking brandy. I have to admit, I will miss his coming in here every day, stopping at every table, talking to everyone. Truth is, if you wrote about a character like him in the mysteries I read, with his eye patch and crazy talk, it would be unbelievable."

"Judging the book by his cover again, Pat? Besides, even paranoids are sane part of the time."

"But you have to admit he is—was—an interesting character. All his stories about what he'd do when he won the lottery—he was going to buy an island. And bring five—what was it?—oh, right, five Russian women to live with him and drink brandy all night long. You know, I'm sorry I never asked him why five? I mean, why not three ... or ten? And he didn't just come in the Black Cat. He walked all over town, going in the bank and the stores, doing the same thing. He thought there were conspiracy plots everywhere. The school board was stealing the education money. Someone at the bank was changing the amount in his account." Pat shook her head as she glanced briefly around the brightly lit room of gathered coffee drinkers. "But you're right, he wasn't crazy all the time, just a few days before he ... well, he got to talking about Shakespeare, and I really couldn't believe how lucid he was. And that same day, as he was going out the door, he said, 'I see your husband is finishing painting the south side of the house, finally.' I'll bet he knew more than one secret about the people in this town."