No one at Grady Manor has said a single word to me since the incident, including Mrs. Grady. It only took me a week of trying to fit into this new world to somehow make myself a pariah. I got a new journal until I can find out who took the old one, and made a note to myself to never let it out of my sight, or at the very least hide it better.

  When I replaced the floorboard Benny was trying to fix, I noticed something. On the underside of the board was a crude but deliberately carved head of what I assumed was an elk. It had large, sprawling antlers that looked somewhat phalangeal, almost like they were reaching out. I did a pencil rubbing on the first page of my new journal. I had no idea what it could possibly mean, but someone took the time to carve it, so it must have meant something to someone. Someone from the same place as me.

  The library felt like a dead end to me, at least until I knew what it was I was looking for. The next thought I had was to do a little snooping at the bar. If decades of television were to be believed, the bartender might be the best source of information about any given small town’s goings on. I didn’t want to risk getting any deeper into Mrs. Grady’s bad side, so I had to wait until I had a day off from the drive-in. The next one of those I had was Thursday. Until then I went through the motions and kept to myself as best I could. People gave me strange looks all week, as if I could have been the one to hit Benny with my non-car. Granted, weird newcomer present for a gruesome murder, I couldn’t exactly blame them. I didn’t want to risk any fallout from accusing Johnny before I knew the intricacies of Elk Valley social dynamics, so I kept the blue Chevy to myself for now.

  When Thursday came around I skipped out on Mrs. Grady’s PB&J lunch and went to Elk Valley’s premiere, and only, greasy spoon: Starlight Diner. It was fairly dead, which was good for me. Until the whole Benny thing blew over, the less interaction I had with the townsfolk, the better. I ordered the Starlight Burger, which came with perfect crispy fries, and a Coke. The burger was absolutely outstanding. I’m starting to think everything really was better back then, or maybe it was just wherever the hell I am now. Huge juicy beef patty, fresh potato roll, thick slice of gooey cheese, sweet and tangy homemade pickles. Even the beef itself tasted different somehow. It was exceptional, and the ice cold Coke was a perfect accompaniment. I left a generous ten cent tip for Peggy, the chipper diner waitress, and decided I was going to taste absolutely everything they had to offer.

  I still had a few more hours to kill before the bar opened up, so I decided to take a stroll down Main Street to see if I could find anything interesting, or at least something to help me pass the time in lieu of Sopranos or Playstation. I wandered into a small mom and pop electronics store and looked through the treasure trove of vinyl records and record players. My eyes were drawn to an old aqua blue Zenith with a big gold dial in the middle.

  “Caught your eye, eh?” A slightly overweight, balding man in a white short sleeve button-down and pocket protector approached me. “That puppy gave some great years before I upgraded. Have you seen these new transistor radios? They’re so small you could fit ‘em right in your pocket!”

  He pointed me toward a shelf of small plastic radios that certainly could not comfortably fit in a pocket.

  “This right here is the Regency TR-1. Beauty, ain’t she?” He turned it on and I recognized the staticky song as “If I Didn’t Care” by The Ink Spots. Admittedly the radio was pretty cool, and it could be helpful for my investigation, or at the very least, my boredom. However, the $49.95 price tag attached gave me pause. I made about $10 a day at the drive-in, I couldn’t justify a week’s pay on a radio. The man saw my hesitation and gestured back to the Zenith.

  “Of course, the Zenith is still one heck of a piece of equipment.” He turned it on and after a couple seconds The Ink Spots came through, warm and crackly. “I could let it go for, say, $15. She’s still got plenty of life in her.”

  Unfortunately, it was still more than I had on me at the time, but I gave the man my word I’d be back next week for the Zenith. I don’t know what I was hoping to find, but I was definitely curious what kind of stations were available in Elk Valley.

  I walked into Al’s just after 5 P.M., and the familiar smell of stale beer filled my senses. Finally I felt a little more at home. There was already one other customer sitting at the end of the bar near the door, staring into his whiskey. He was tall and slender, with long silver hair and a beard to match. He didn’t so much as flinch when I walked through the doors.

  “Evenin’ pal. What’ll ya have?” Al, I assumed, was a bald, portly fellow with a dirty apron and a rag slung over his left shoulder. I wondered how his apron could be this dirty when they opened not ten minutes prior, but then I figured he probably doesn’t do laundry all too often. I thought about what kind of drink I wanted. It’d been so long, I couldn’t decide. An ice cold beer was always a good option, but then again so was a nice whiskey. But I just had whiskey recently. What about a cocktail? I definitely missed a good dirty martini, or a Negroni would really hit the spot. Oh wait, I’ve got it.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Can I get a mezcal and Montenegro?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Right. Idiot.

  “What do you have on draft?”

  “Olympia, Schlitz, Budweiser,” he pointed to each tap.

  “I’ll take an Olympia.”

  The man poured me a glass and I put the requisite nickel on the weathered wooden bar. I looked around. There were a few tables against the wall opposite the bar, each of them with two leather dining chairs. There was a longer table at the other end of the bar, in front of an unused wood stove. The stained wood walls were adorned with promotional signs for the beers they had on tap, all coated in a thin layer of dust.

  “You’re the new guy, Emmett is it?” Al placed the overfilled pint glass on the bar in front of me and I took a long, hearty sip. Shit, even the beer tasted better. What was it about this place? I nodded, and gulped down my aggressive sip.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Word travels fast in Elk Valley. We don’t get too many newcomers out here. Where you from?”

  Where am I from? Shit, where WAS I from? My mind reeled and I started to spiral. I couldn’t seem to remember the name of the city where my home was. I could picture it, I just couldn’t conjure the name. Palm trees, beaches, hills, smoothies. Angels, why does that keep popping up?

  “Los Angeles! I’m from L.A.” I said that with far too much vigor.

  “Miss it that much, huh? Can’t say I blame you. Especially since you’re staying at ol’ Mrs. Grady’s place.”

  I chuckled at that.

  “Yeah, she’s a real piece of work. Say,” I started, adopting the parlance of Elk Valley, “you wouldn’t happen to know what happened to the tenant before me, I think his name was George?”

  I tried to play it cool as best I could. The man at the end of the bar coughed. Al turned his back and started to polish glasses with his dirty shoulder rag. Two was a coincidence. Three is a pattern. Something happened to George that no one in this town wants to talk about.

  “Where’d you hear that name, kid?”

  “Oh nowhere, I’m just staying in his old room, I guess. Forget it.”

  Al turned back around and planted his hands on the bar.

  “Listen kid, he had some trouble with Elk Valley, but he’s gone now. Best not to talk about it.”

  I nodded. The man at the end of the bar signaled for Al and he topped off his whiskey. That was that I guess, for now at least. This seemed like a thread I didn’t want to be pulling. At least not just yet.

  I decided to keep drinking at Al’s for the night, as I had shit else to do, and who could pass on these prices? About an hour and six Olympias in I heard a car pull up into the gravel lot out front. A few moments later my good friend Johnny walked through the door, laughing with one of his, well, I’ll call them his goon.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, clearly already a couple drinks in. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders and I tried to ignore him.

  “What, no hello for your old pal Johnny?”

  I gave a look to Al, hoping he could help me out of the situation.

  “Hey, look, Johnny, let’s not have any trouble tonight, huh?”

  Great. That’ll show him.

  “Oh of course, Al! I just wanted to have a little chat with my good friend Emmett, here! You know what? We’ll go outside.”

  He grabbed my shirt and lifted me off the stool.

  Fuck.

  I’ve never been in a fight in my life, let alone a bar brawl with a greaser straight out of The Outsiders.

  “Hey listen, Johnny, I don’t want any trouble.”

  He grabbed my arm and started pulling me out the door.

  “Ohh! He talks! Now the conversation won’t feel so one-sided.”

  He threw me onto the gravel outside. My palms stung where I used them to break my fall. His henchman cheered him on as Johnny landed kick after kick to my midsection.

  “What did I say about Elsie, huh?”

  Another kick.

  “I asked you a question!”

  Another kick. I spit up a glob of blood.

  “Well?”

  I braced myself for another kick, but it didn’t come.

  “What the fuck are—”

  I looked up at Johnny just in time to see a whiskey glass smashed into the side of his face followed by an immediate headbutt enshrouded in silver hair. Johnny stumbled back into the gravel, wiping blood and whiskey from his face. I cracked an involuntary smile as Johnny stumbled back reaching for the door of his car, his henchman climbing into the passenger seat.

  “You’re gonna regret this, old man. Both of you,” he spit one last time before getting into the blue Chevy and peeling off.

  The old man reached down a hand to help me up, which I graciously accepted. My freshly healed ribs ached as I stood up. The taste of copper and bile filled my mouth, and I threw up a bloody, thin, mess.

  “Thank you,” I said to the old man, who was leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette. “I’m Emmett.”

  I held out my hand for him to shake, which he didn’t accept.

  “Word of advice, Emmett? Keep your head down. Take up a hobby.”

  He started walking back into the bar.

  “Maybe start hiking.”

  - Emmett Brewer, punching bag