It was Tuesday, a typically slow night. Jace was just grateful he didn’t work Friday nights anymore when all the college kids were swarming around, three quarters of them too young to drink, all of them drunk off life as it was.

A regular called for another beer. He was very likely an alcoholic, Jace knew; he drank beer on weeknights and tequila on weekends, he sat in the same spot every night from seven until closing time, paid for each drink individually as it came and Jace didn’t even know his name. He had always thought bartenders led interesting lives, giving useful advice to desolate and heartbroken young men, listening to old men talk about the war, mixing drinks and getting to know their regulars more intimately than their wives did…

Now that he was one, he knew that it was like any other job he could have had: tedious, unfulfilling and a temporary means of making money while he was in graduate school. Just occasionally, though, he wondered if the fact that he didn’t give advice and know his customers meant that he was a crappy bartender.

As long as I’m making enough to live on, he thought, pouring a beer for the probable alcoholic. Despite himself, he was concerned for the poor man, or at least for his liver. What, Jace wondered day after day, could be so terrible about his life that he escaped here every day?

Well, he probably wouldn’t ever find out, so it didn’t matter.

The doors flew open, bringing in a gust of frigid wind and a man built like a refrigerator. Jace knew he was a police officer, either in plain clothes or off-duty. There was something in the way cops carried themselves, with authority and at the same time braced to react instantaneously to danger. Plus, as Jace could now see, he carried his gun and a badge on his belt. He had come in last night and had ordered a single Bloody Mary, sipping it carefully all night while looking all around the room. He and the regular were the only two customers in the bar last night; Monday was always the slowest.

“What’ll it be, of—sir?” Jace caught himself in time.

“Bloody Mary,” the officer said, eyes darting around the room. Jace brought him his drink but he didn’t touch it. He seemed to be waiting for someone.

Customers filed in and out, but the alcoholic and the police officer stayed put. The officer hardly touched his drink, instead absently swirling the celery around and around. Nothing interesting happened for the majority of the evening, except for an already drunk girl teetering on high heels asked Jace for a spiked watermelon. She burst into hysterical laughter when Jace asked her for her I.D. and was escorted out by her friends, who were hardly more sober than she was.

People hooked up together all the time after meeting at bars, Jace mused. This wasn’t the first time he had wondered whether bartenders did so with their customers.

The police officer was talking quietly on his cell phone. He was covering his mouth with his hand as he spoke, presumably so no one could read his lips. He had nothing to worry about. Jace couldn’t read lips as it was, and the regular was preoccupied with his drink.

Jace began cleaning the glasses. There wasn’t much else for him to do anyway. His mind turned again to the regular, who was on his—what was it?—fifth, sixth, maybe seventh beer. Even Jace had lost count. Regardless of how many beers or shots the man had, however, he never seemed to get drunk. He walked in with a stoic expression and walked out with a stoic expression, never wobbling or falling over like most people did. For all Jace knew, he might even have driven home. The only indication that he was drunk was the permeating smell of alcohol about him.

He was a fairly young man, now that Jace came to think about it. He probably wasn’t much older than Jace was. He was a tall man, thin and with black hair that made him look as though he had been electrocuted.

He drained his glass and said, “One last one.”

Jace poured it and, as the man was reaching for his wallet, Jace told him, “I see you here a lot. Here’s one for free.”

“Thank you,” the regular replied, his expression not changing. Jace turned back to cleaning glasses. The man took a couple of sips and said, “I’ve seen you around campus.”

Jace turned to him, a little surprised. He had never seen him at school, and said so.

“I’m not surprised,” the man said, smiling faintly. “I’m not a student, but I’m there often.”

Something about this statement struck him as not right; a sixth sense set off alarms in his brain. It was a perfectly normal statement, and yet…

He shook it off. It wasn’t his business, and in any case he didn’t believe in sixth senses. Hard facts, that was what was important, what got things done, not intuition.

The police officer paid for his drink and left. Jace and the regular were now the only two people left in the bar. All the nearby stores were closed; there was absolutely no one else around. This realization gave Jace a prickly feeling at the back of his neck. Adding to his trepidation was the sound of distant sirens filtering into the silent bar. Still, he knew, if anything went wrong, there was always the gun taped underneath his side of the counter. He fumbled under the table for its brief, reassuring touch. Not that he thought the man would do anything. He never did, except drink. And now he was still smiling faintly at Jace.

“Bartender,” he said, addressing Jace directly for the first time. “Can I ask you something?”

Jace nodded, but the man never had the chance to ask, because at that moment lights, blue and red, filled the windows. Jace’s chest seized up; his heart seemed to stop. Armed officers burst in, aiming directly at Jace’s regular. Instinctively, Jace backed up against the wall. Bottles of liquor rattled behind him.

The man didn’t look surprised in the least, not when the officers arrested him, handcuffed him, read him his rights and dragged him roughly out of the bar.

“Son,” one of the officers addressed Jace. It was the same officer who had been there earlier. “We’re going to need to ask you some questions.”

Jace nodded his head. His mind was reeling. Everything seemed surreal, like a dream. The sirens hadn’t been on when the policemen drove up to the bar, but now they screamed through the night. He was vaguely aware of the officer addressing him.

“Do you know that man who was just arrested?”

“Yes,” Jace found himself replying. “Yes. I know him. But I don’t know his name.”