27

"Hit me again, Ray," Rusty Puckett said to the bartender at the Crow's Nest.  He slid his empty glass across the bar and shoved a five-dollar bill after it.

"Enough's enough, Rusty," said Ray.  "Go on home."

"Hey!  I put a fuckin’ fifty down there, and said lemme know when I worked my way through it."  Puckett pointed to the jumble of bills beside the ashtray.  "I ain't halfway there yet."

"Watch your mouth!" Ray said.  He put his hands on he bar, and leaned close to Puckett.  "Happy hour's come and gone, Rusty; there's people here for dinner, they're not interested in hearing your cock-and-bull stories.  Do us both a favor:  pick up your change and head on home."

Puckett turned around on his stool and gazed glassily at the room.  Ray was right:  the bar had filled up, and there was a line of people waiting for tables in the dining room.  When had all this happened?  He looked at his watch, closing one eye to sharpen the numbers on the dial.  Christ!  He'd been here three hours.

He noticed a few people staring at him, and guessed they'd been listening to him while he was telling Ray about what he'd seen.  To hell with them, he didn't care, it was true, every bit of it.  He winked at one of them, a not-bad-looking woman, and he saw her blush and turn away.  She was probably interested; maybe he'd go have a talk with her.

Something funny popped into his head.  He turned back to Ray and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "you don't dare shut me off, Raymond; the fuckin’ place’d go broke.

Ray didn't laugh, in fact he looked kind of pissed off, and all of a sudden he raised the fold-back panel in the bar, came through and grabbed Puckett by the scruff of his shirt.

Puckett felt himself lifted off the stool, felt Ray's hand jam a wad of money into his pants pocket and found himself being frog-marched out the door.

"You can come back when you sober up and stop hallucinating," Ray said.  "I'd worry if I was you, Rusty.  You're in the grip of the goddamn DTs."

Puckett heard the door close behind him, and Ray's voice saying, "Sorry, folks."

He stood on the street, bewildered, swaying slightly.  A couple got out of a car and gave him a wide berth as they made their way toward the restaurant.

He put a hand on the side of the building to stop the swaying.  Then he started down the street, keeping his eyes on each foot as it landed in front of the other.

What the hell did Ray mean, ‘cock-and-bull stories’?  Ray knew him well enough to know he didn't make up fairy tales.  And he wasn't in the grip of any DTs, either.  He knew damn well what he'd seen, what had almost killed him, and he hadn't exaggerated anything.

It sounded stupid, impossible.  But it was the truth.  He'd seen a fuckin’ monster.