My beater Ford Galaxie swerved across Wilshire as I fought to keep it between the white lines. I probably shouldn’t have driven. It was late—after midnight—and I’d already had a few too many. Though that’d never stopped me before. The car groaned as I jerked the wheel back to center. Missed the sidewalk but might’ve taken someone’s mirror with me.
Impossible to know for sure. Didn’t feel too bad about it either way. People knew the risks parking in LA.
At least I’d made incredible time. Threw the jalopy into park just past Fairfax and stared at the neon sign for my favorite watering hole. The thing sputtered, missing a few letters, but clearly read The Lazy Giant. The street was deserted except for a few homeless catching a wink in the cold. This bar defined dive. And not in a hip way that made it a draw. That’s why I liked it.
Out of the glove box, I grabbed my wallet and cell phone, leaving behind my 9mm. Guess I felt lucky on a couple of counts that night. Checked myself quick in the reflection of the window. Looked like I’d been living out of the car, which wasn’t far from the truth. Straightened my hair, ran my fingers over my mustache, pulled at my sport coat—it needed a press—and made my way across the street. Hopefully my date had low standards.
The Lazy Giant attracted a loyal crowd because of the cheap drinks and friendly pours. But that evening was sparse, even for a Tuesday. Jeff tended bar most nights, though my knowledge of his personal life ended with the name. A big guy, overweight but strong, with a jaw that could crack walnuts—if one ever had the disposition or desire to do such a thing—he didn’t move much behind that bar, no space for it, but he always sweat like he’d just run a marathon. He cleaned a glass in the sink and, when he saw me, tossed a dirty look my way.
“We’re closing up, Raines.”
“But you aren’t closed yet.”
Jeff sighed, grabbed the bourbon bottle, and began mixing my drink.
“Perfect Manhattan on the rocks,” I said out of habit.
“Little dry. Little sweet.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
A couple of the low-life regulars slouched over their cocktails, dead to the world. Some twentysomething grad students in loose-fitting USC sweatshirts played darts in the corner.
Never seen them before. Probably thought it a joke to have date night in a shithole like this. I didn’t see a woman by herself. Let alone one that belonged to the voice I’d heard on the phone.
“Anyone ask for me tonight, Jeff?”
“Nope.” He set the Manhattan on the bar and smirked. “If someone had, I’d have locked the door.”
“Funny.”
My would-be employer went by Madison Andrews, and she’d roused me from the warm embrace of an alcoholic stupor with an unwanted phone call. I didn’t know her. Trust me, I
would’ve remembered that voice. It had a rasp that caught in the back of the throat and sounded like broken glass grinding together in a bag of marbles. Just my type. I felt bad about Carla but she’d abandoned me, not the other way around. That’s always a tough pill to swallow. The rejection, I mean. We should’ve been keeping each other warm in bed. Instead, I’d had a few drinks alone and tried to lose consciousness on the cold linoleum of my run-down apartment in Koreatown. Probably that very whiskey giving me delusions of grandeur about this nightcap with Madison being a date.
Making myself at home in a booth, I got to work nursing my drink. It went down smooth and cool with the ice and settled in my stomach, fortifying with the other bourbons I’d already enjoyed. That easy feel of the buzz slid over me in waves, blurring life’s problems with the incessant throbbing in my head and the spinning sensation of the booze. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the fall.
“You didn’t order me one?” that unmistakable rasp of a voice asked.
My eyes snapped open to meet one dangerous woman. She had dark hair, brown skin, and olive eyes to match her very expensive-looking cocktail dress. My date belonged at the lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel, not this storied establishment. But she couldn’t care less. This lady had confidence to spare, and she’d lowered herself to my level because she needed something from me. And it obviously wasn’t my good company.
What a letdown for you.
Depression took hold as I imagined returning home to my instant ramen and pet cockroaches. I banished that despair with a gulp of whiskey. Madison flashed a fake smile and the entire night felt disingenuous. In an instant, self-pity gave way to a bitter fury I barely recognized as my own. All I wanted was for her to shut her damn mouth and leave me be. But she persisted, you had to give her that.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?”
Vaguely, I motioned across the booth and Madison sat. In her eyes, I thought I caught a glimpse of disdain. Maybe fear. But it disappeared faster than it arrived. I chalked it up to the booze and let it go.
Jeff sauntered over, and she ordered a gin and tonic. I got a refill. We stared at each other for those moments it took the bartender to make the drinks and bring them back. Awkward. We drank in silence until she broke it: “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you got my name over the phone. You haven’t even introduced yourself.”
“My name’s Duster Raines. Raines’ll do. I’m a private investigator. But based on the fact you called me and mentioned work, I assume you already knew both those things.”
“Cute.”
“So, you going to tell me what you want, or we just going to sit here and pretend this is a social call until the bar closes?”
“You’re handsome, Mr. Raines. Bet you’d clean up nice.”
“I’m tall, too. Still doesn’t explain why I’m sitting in this dump.”
“You picked it.” Madison took a long sip of her cocktail. “Most men would be excited to have a drink with me.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. That voice of yours is killer. And anyone can see you’re beautiful. And that dress…” She shifted uncomfortably under my lingering gaze. I chased the crude moment away with more whiskey. “But I see the depression on that wedding finger, and I don’t make a habit of messing with other men’s wives. Usually ends with someone in the hospital.
And it’s never me.”
She rubbed the place where her wedding ring had been. I loved being right.
“You’re a mean drunk.”
“It’s past my bedtime.”
She laughed. “I like you.”
“Well, now we have something in common,” I lied. “So how about you tell me what this is all about?”
“My husband.”
“Where’s the ring?”
“Somewhere safe. I took it off because…”
“You don’t have to explain to me.”
“That’s kind of you.” She downed her drink. Liquid courage. “He disappeared three days ago.”
“Police?”
“What can they do? They have no idea what’s coming. None of you do.”
She stared at me with an intensity I’d only seen matched a few times in my life. And one of those was a dirty little incident from the Gulf War I preferred to forget. Her gaze burned straight through me, as if she’d forgotten we were talking, seeing something beyond this place. A skill I could relate to. Should’ve gotten up right then and left. But I didn’t.
“What do you think happened?” I asked as kind as I could manage.
“That he’s been abducted,” she muttered, snapping back from wherever she’d been.
“Did they leave a note?”
She laughed wildly, which in my experience only happened in bad movies or right before someone shoved a knife in your neck. “No, don’t be silly.” Madison leaned across the table so
her lips nearly brushed my ear and whispered, “Aliens don’t leave notes.”
(From Shadow of the Eternal Watcher by Josh Mendoza, published by Inkshares, January 2025. Reprinted with permission.)
Science Fiction | Dystopian | Mystery [Inkshares, On Sale: January 28, 2025, Paperback / e-Book , ISBN: 9781950301775 / eISBN: 9781950301782]
Josh Mendoza is an award-winning filmmaker known for his post-apocalyptic feature film, What Still Remains. He received a BA in English and creative writing from Stanford University and earned an MFA in Film and Television Production from USC’s School of Cinematic Arts. He has since split his time between the City of Angels and the deserts of Arizona with his wife and two children. Shadow of the Eternal Watcher is his first novel.
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