murder on the rocks: a mack's bar mystery

8/14/2019 Murder On The Rocks: A Mack's Bar Mystery

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Murderon theRocks

Allyson K.Abbott

KENSINGTON BOOKShttp://www.kensingtonbooks.com



was born were fascinated because I was more interac-tive than any other newborn they’d ever seen. In hind-sight, it may have been my condition that accounted for that, but no one could have known it at the time.

Anyway, Dad was not a man easily deterred and hemanaged to pass along his name by putting Mackenzieon my birth certificate and calling me Mack for as longas I can remember. Over time we became known asBig Mack and Little Mack, and Dad’s future plans for

the bar moved along.My mother died right after I was born, so my father

brought me to work with him every day, sharing mycare with any number of patrons who came into the place. As a result, I had a handful of “aunts” and “un-cles” who had no claim to me other than the occasionaldiaper change or play session. I’ve lived my entire lifein the bar. I took my first steps there, uttered my firstwords there, and did my first pee-pee in the big girl’stoilet there. I knew how to mix a martini before I knewhow to spell my own name. During my school years, Ispent every afternoon and evening doing my home-work in the back office, and then helping Dad out front

by washing glasses or preparing food in the kitchen.He always sent me to bed before the place closed . . .easy to do since we lived in the apartment above, butthe bar itself was the place that really felt like hometo me.

It has been my home for thirty-four years, thirty-three of them very good. Dad died ten months ago soit’s just me here now. It’s been a struggle to go on with-out him, though he prepared me well by teaching meeverything I’d need to know to take over running the bar. Everything, that is, except what to do with a dead body in the back alley.

Milwaukee is no stranger to dead bodies turning up

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in unexpected places, but my neighborhood, which islocated in a mixed commercial and residential area built up along the river that runs through downtown,isn’t a high crime spot. Despite that, this isn’t the firsttime someone has died in the alley behind my bar. Myfather has that claim to fame after being mortallywounded by a gunshot just outside our back door this past January, though if you got right down to it, I couldn’tsay for sure that anyone really died in the alley. My fa-

ther’s death occurred in the hospital a short time after his attack, and I had no way of knowing where this sec-ond person died. All I knew for sure was that there wasa body next to my Dumpster.

It was a little after nine in the morning on an unusu-ally hot and humid October day, the sort of strangeweather that has people nattering on about globalwarming and Armageddon. I’d gone down the private back stairs to toss my personal trash before readyingthe bar for opening. Because it was pickup day, theDumpster was overflowing and extremely ripe in the sti-fling heat. The smell hit me as soon as I opened the back door and I had to force myself to mouth breathe.

As I drew closer to the Dumpster the stench grew, be-coming a palpable thing, something I not only smelled, but saw.

The combination of the heat and the olfactory over-load triggered a reaction that might seem strange tomost people, but is all too familiar to me. My mouthfilled with odd tastes and I heard a cacophony of sounds:chimes, bells, tinkles, and twangs . . . some melodious,some discordant. My field of vision contained flashinglights, swirling colors, and floating shapes. I struggled to see past this kaleidoscope of images and that’s whenI saw the arm—small and pale—sticking out from under a pile of torn-down boxes beside the Dumpster.

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My first thought was that it wasn’t real, that perhapssomeone had tossed out a mannequin. After blinkingseveral times in an effort to see past the weird stuff, Irealized this thought was nothing more than blissfuldenial. The arm was real. Then it occurred to me that itmight belong to someone who was sick or injured. Itwouldn’t be the first time I found a drunk passed outsomewhere outside my bar. Just in case the person wasmore than ill, I grabbed a baggie from my personal

sack of trash and used it to raise a corner of the cardboard without actually touching it.

I tried to see what lay beneath but my visual kalei-doscope swelled into something so big and encompass-ing it blinded me to all else, forcing me to drop thecardboard and stumble-feel my way back into the bar.

Once I was inside with the door closed, the smelldissipated and the air cooled. The images, sounds, and tastes began to fade. I made my way down the hall, pastthe bathrooms to the main lounge area, where I nor-mally would be getting things ready in preparation for opening the doors to my lunch crowd: my neighbor-hood regulars and the hardcore drinkers who provide a

source of steady income for me at the expense of their own livers.

I grabbed the bar phone since my cell was still up-stairs and dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1 operator. Do you have an emergency?”I felt weak in the knees and leaned against the back

bar. “There is a dead body in the alley behind my place.” I relayed my name and address to the operator,who instructed me not to touch anything. Too late for that.

“I’m dispatching officers there now,” the operator said, and then she started asking questions, some of

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which I couldn’t answer. “You said the body is out-side?”

“Yes, it’s on the ground beside the garbage Dump-ster.”

“Is it male or female?”I hesitated, struggling to interpret what I’d seen when

I lifted the cardboard. I knew the arm was small and not muscular, and I thought I recalled a hint of femi-ninity in the edge of a sleeve. “I think it might be fe-

male,” I told her.“But you’re not sure?”“No.”“Is the body mutilated?”“I don’t know. There’s cardboard piled on top of the

body, so I couldn’t see the whole thing, just part of anarm.” This was a tiny lie but with any luck, no onewould know I’d lifted the cardboard.

“I see,” said the operator in a tone that sounded skeptical. Realizing our conversation was likely to getmore confusing if it continued, I prayed the cops would arrive soon.

And just like that my prayer was answered. Some-

one pounded on the front door and a male voice hol-lered, “Milwaukee police.”

I hurried over and undid the locks, letting in twouniformed male officers. “The police are here,” I told the operator. I relocked the doors, disconnected thecall—thus ending my inquisition, though there would be plenty more to come—and switched my attention tothe officers.

“You have a dead body here?” said the taller one,whose name pin read P. Cummings.

I nodded. “It’s out back in the alley, by the garbage.”“Male or female?”

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“I’m not sure.” I repeated my covered-with-cardboard lie as I led both cops to the alley door. As soon as Istepped outside I switched to mouth breathing to try toforestall another reaction. I stopped several feet fromthe Dumpster and pointed to the pile of cardboard where that one pale arm protruded.

Both officers were wearing gloves and Cummings’s partner, whose name pin read L. Johnson, walked over and lifted the cardboard. Instinctively I clamped a hand

over my mouth, a fatal mistake since it forced me to breathe through my nose.

The heat and smell hit me full force, triggering a ca-cophony of sound. The kaleidoscope of images blinded me again and some weird tastes followed. I found my-self wishing for a drink as alcohol tends to minimizemy reactions. And with the way things were going, thiswas starting to look like a four-martini day.

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murder on the rocks: a mack's bar mystery

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