Chapter Four

Chapter Four

All of the next day, Declan was feeling uneasy. His life had always been in a state of flux, but his personal life was getting…complicated, in ways that he didn't want to admit to Charlie. Declan had trouble focusing and even abandoned his Saturday work-out. By the time he finished dinner, he'd decided that the best way to calm his overactive mind was to make his way to sanctuary—Bar-None.

Declan drove over to the bar and walked through the door. Mickey the bartender looked up and smiled, then his brow wrinkled. He held out his hand and without being asked, Declan dropped his car keys into it. Declan had once joked that Mickey should have been in a circus sideshow as a mind reader.

Mickey had said, "I am in a sideshow. Just look around. Beautiful freaks and con-men everywhere."

Declan decided he would sit at the bar with the old-timers who didn't want to bother wasting their time walking all the way from their table to order their next round of Mickey's Magical Memory Erasure. This was precisely where Declan belonged.

Mickey brought him a double vodka. Something was different about Mickey tonight. His hair had changed from its previous blue tones to bright shades of orange and amber that somehow managed to complement his dark eyes. It was like a halo of fall leaves had crowned his head, and on Mickey, it looked good.

After drink two—or was it three?—Declan began to feel his thoughts start to slow down. A young black man in his early thirties sauntered over to the bar. He wore a black mesh shirt that revealed his muscular torso, and tight red jeans that flared at the bottom. He sat beside Declan, who looked at his face through vodka-soaked eyes. The young man had a military buzz-cut and a clean-shaven face. His cheekbones were sharp enough Declan could cut himself on them. And his eyes…he must have been wearing contact lenses because nature didn't make eyes that shade of green.

"You're Declan Hunt, aren't you? Can I buy you a drink?" he said.

Declan nodded his approval.

The man looked down the long bar and raised his hand. Declan knew that guys this beautiful didn't have to go through the motions that mortal men did, just to get a bartender's attention. Eyes were always on them.

The man turned back to Declan. "I wanted to thank you. You may not remember me, but you helped out a friend of mine on a case of a rather personal nature, and it made a huge difference to his life."

The man placed his hand on Declan's thigh and started to slide it up until he reached the detective's crotch.

Declan looked at him.

The man massaged Declan into a rock-hard mass in spite of his drunken state. Every part of Declan's body was telling him to drag this guy to the washroom, throw him into a stall and ride him like a cowboy.

Just then, on the bar in front of him, Declan's phone chirped with a text. He glanced down and could just make out the words. It was from Charlie.

Sorry I was so angry last night. See you on Monday.

Declan stood and, without saying a word, left the building. He staggered out onto the street, and was narrowly missed by a passing cab that blared out from the darkness and sent him reeling back onto the sidewalk.

He made his way to nowhere in particular.

A voice rang out in his head. You're doing it again. Sabotaging yourself, just like you always do when things are looking good because you know that you don't deserve good things to happen to you. You don't like when your emotions aren't under control. Bad things happen when you get out of control.

A panhandler on the street asked Declan for a cigarette.

If you do something good, then it undoes the bad.

Declan reached into his pocket and pulled out a bunch of bills and stuffed them into the guy's hand.

"Thanks, buddy," the guy called out, his voice barely penetrating the fog of Declan's mind as he stumbled along his way. His feet took him along the well-worn path that led to momentary release and, in the end, sadness. He looked up at the front door of The Greek—Calgary's biggest gay bathhouse. It was like a mythical siren that called to lonely, miserable men like Declan Hunt, and crashed them among the rocks.

* * * *

Mickey's cell phone rang. It was two in the morning—closing time. He glanced at it and knew the number.

"Hey, buddy. What's up?" he said.

"I…I need help, Mickey."

It was Declan and he sounded worse than he had in a long time.

"You certainly do, my friend. Stay put and keep your phone on. I'll be there in a few."

Mickey disconnected. He killed the music that was playing over the bar's speaker system.

"Okay, listen up. The joint's closing for the night. Everybody pay what you owe to The Kid here behind the bar. And don't forget to tip him good. He's been slaving all day mopping up your piss and tolerating your grubby hands on his ass."

He looked over at The Kid. "You up to this? I've got an emergency to take care of."

"I got it, boss. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. And don't forget to lock up, turn on the alarm and head out through the back door."

Mickey took off his apron, went out to the parking lot and hopped into his broken-down army-surplus Jeep. He knew where he'd find Declan.

As he pulled up at The Greek, he spotted his friend sitting on the steps to the bathhouse with Mateo, the night manager. Mateo had probably dialled the phone for Declan.

Mateo waved and said, "Mickey, thanks for coming. I found him sitting out here. He's been on the steps all night. He wouldn't come in. He keeps saying that something's wrong and he feels like he should never go in again. He said he needed your help. He also kept mumbling something about Michael?"

"Thanks, Mateo," Mickey said.

"Do you want a hand?"

"No. I think I have it. Come on, my friend," he said to Declan. "Let's get you off the street."

Mickey wasn't large, but he was strong. He manhandled Declan into the passenger seat of his Jeep. He pulled the seatbelt around him and fastened him in. Declan drunkenly swung his head around to look at him. His eyes were red.

"Man…" Mickey said, "you've got to quit doing this to yourself."

Mickey drove to Declan's apartment and got him upstairs to bed. Before he left, he put a note on his bedside table.

Talk to Michael. Then get off your ass and talk to Charlie. He deserves to know.