It was just after 6:00 pm, and I'd unlocked the doors for potential patrons no more than five minutes prior. Karla Bonoff was serenading me over the speakers with "Somebody's Eyes" from the Footloose soundtrack. The original film with Kevin Bacon, not that totally unnecessary remake.

I was behind the bar setting out small piles of cocktail napkins when a slick, expensive, black (and completely inappropriate for this neighborhood) SUV pulled up to the curb right outside The Imp's Bottle.

A trio of people emerged from the luxurious vehicle, two men and a woman, all wearing pristinely pressed black suits, white collared shirts, black ties, and black sunglasses. None of them carried bags or anything else that could hinder their erect posture and efficient movements, though the woman did have a burgundy folder in hand.

Okay... What the hell?

To my shock and awe, they approached the pub and one of the men held the door open to allow the others to precede him inside.

There had to be a joke about this. Right? A completely ridiculous and probably not funny joke about how "three suits walked into a bar." But I couldn't think of it. Or much of anything, thanks to a sudden onset of social anxiety. Was I going to have to talk to these people?

The suit-clad trio removed their sunglasses (almost in sync) and stalked up to me at the bar, their movements robotic. An image of Agent Smith and his cohorts in "The Matrix" popped into my head. Was I about to be interrogated for poking around on the dark web? That was one time!

"Good evening," the woman said. Her voice didn't betray any emotion or noticeable accent, but her physical features made her appear to be Armenian or Israeli. "Are you the bartender of The Imp's Bottle?"

"Uh, yep," I said.

"Are you here most nights?"

"Yes, ma'am," I answered. I wasn't about to correct this woman by saying 'every night.'

"I'm Special Agent Madani," she told me. "These are agents Hugo and Weaving." She pointed to the two men respectively.

"From what organization?" I asked, my throat suddenly dry.

"That's classified," the man designated as Agent Weaving said, his eyes hard.

I swallowed. If they were law enforcement or FBI, I would have seen a badge by now. That meant they were something more covert. Something scarier. Maybe CIA, NSA, MI6, or even Mossad. Or maybe they were freaking agents from the machine world and I was about to be told the Matrix was real...and then silenced. Forever.

I said nothing.

"We're looking for a man who has been spotted in this area within the past few months," Agent Madani told me. "Our sources say he has come into this bar."

"Has he done something wrong?" I asked.

"That's classified," stated Agent Hugo.

Agent Madani opened the burgundy folder, holding it so that I couldn't see inside, and took out a photograph. "Do you recognize this man?" she asked, setting the photo on the bartop in front of me.

I looked. It was an official military photo, but based on the quality and composition, it was old. Maybe early 1990s. The man featured in the photo had a square face, wide brow, and steely eyes. Like all men in such photos, he was clean cut and clean shaven, his shoulders straight and angular in his uniform. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn't even begin to place what it was.

"This photograph is outdated," Madani said, the pinch of her brow betraying her irritation. "He is fifty-four years old at present. May be balding, or shaggy. Could currently have facial hair. Could have gained some weight. Take your time. Really look."

I considered what she'd said. Older...possibly with a beard...maybe a receding hairline...or maybe...

I jolted where I stood. It was Red Dog. The retrospect transformation made him almost unrecognizable, but that was him, alright. No mistake. So, he had been military. I'd suspected, but never known for sure.

My shock got the better of me, and I spoke without thinking. "Uh, yeah!" I blurted. "That's um... I don't know his name, but yeah, he comes in here. Sometimes. It's random."

"This man," Madani said, pointing to the photo. "You're certain?"

"I'm certain."

Agent Madani took the photo back and slipped it into the folder, out of sight. "Has he ever talked to you?"

"Sure," I said. "But only to order. Say thanks. That type of thing."

Agent Madani exchanged a look with each of her cohorts, then turned back to me. "Has he ever mentioned his time in the service or what he did afterward?"

Her eyes were piercing. I felt like they were drilling a hole into my brain. Thank goodness the truth was simple. "No, nothing like that," I said. "He's never said much of anything, to be honest. Keeps to himself. Usually has a beer or two, then leaves."

"Pays in cash?"

"Yeah, always."

"When'd you last see him?"

I though about it. "A week...maybe a week and a half ago?"

Agents Hugo and Weaving exchanged another look. I tried not to fidget.

"The next time he comes in here, you are to call this number," Agent Madani said, handing me a black card of business stock. It contained her surname, a phone number, and nothing else. "When I answer, you say: 'The imp is in the bottle.' Understood?"

Jaw hanging slack, I nodded. "The imp is in the bottle."

"Good," Madani said. "Thank you for your time. We were never here."

"'Course not," I said, my mouth still agape.

Donning their sunglasses, the trio of agents left the pub. They got into their sleek SUV and drove away, leaving me staring out the front windows like a lobotomy patient.

There could be no weirder start to my Sunday shift.

『▪』

At least Sundays were habitually uneventful. After my bizarre encounter with Agent Madani and Friends, any other surprises would have been too much. For once, the lack of patrons seemed a blessing. A few passed in and out, but none hung around. Red Dog wasn't among them, which caused me an indecent amount of relief. I had no idea what would happen when I called Agent Madani, but I knew it wouldn't be good.

It occured to me that I hadn't seen Russkie since the night she'd told me to take K on a date. That gave me a strange kind of solace. Maybe she'd left her cheating husband and didn't need The Imp's Bottle anymore.

At 11:34, I received my second trio of the night. Clad in sequined halter tops and short skirts despite the chilly outside air, three dancers from The Glitter Hut paraded through the door. Two familiar, one stranger.

Usually I didn't see dancers until 1:00am or so, but in honor of 'religion and other sacred stuff' (direct quote from one of the dancers about a year ago), the strip club closed early on Sundays. I wondered whose idea that had been.

The two dancers I recognized were the bottle-blonde called Shimmer (who always looked like the artificial sun had put too much pigment in her skin and took too much out of her hair), and the curvy redhead (red of the box-color variety, not natural like K's) called Glitz.

The girl I didn't know was a scrawny brunette with large eyes that were guarded and flirtatious in equal measure. At first glance she looked twenty-five, but my guess was (under all the makeup and glitter) she was barely twenty-one. She looked around the pub's interior with a mild expression, most likely noting how much cleaner it was than her place of employment.

A trail of rainbow glitter littered the floor behind the trio — something that would take me extra time and effort to sweep and mop up come closing time.

The dancer triplets took seats on the barstools in front of me. Shimmer and Glitz, who had been chatting animatedly since they'd come in, continued their conversation about men's roaming hands and other disturbing topics. The new girl stared at me, her head cocked slightly to one side. Appraisal shone in her eyes, and I could almost feel her assigning me a number. I hoped I was at least a five.

"What can I get for you?" I asked her. Only her, because the other two hadn't even glanced in my direction yet, let alone paused their conversation.

The new girl didn't answer for a long beat. When she finally opened her over-glossed lips, she said: "You look like my next mistake."

Huh?

"What's that mean?" I asked.

She propped her head up with her hand, the bones in her wrist jutting out precariously. All strippers were malnourished, I swear.

"What's your name?" she asked me.

She answered a question with a question. Okay.

"Tate," I said. "What's yours?"

"Sparkle," she answered. She smiled with pride, but her eyes hardened by a fraction.

That gave me pause. "Wait, wasn't there already a 'Sparkle'? At The Glitter Hut?"

"They recycle the names," she said with a shrug. "Only so many words sound like they belong with 'glitter.' Gotta stay on theme, you know? The last Sparkle got fired for turning tricks. The one before that got pregnant."

"I...see," I said. That was a surprise. "With all due respect, is it that big of a deal when a girl at The Glitter Hut turns tricks?"

The newest Sparkle shrugged again. "It is if it's done in the office during business hours."

My eyebrows shot up. "Whoa."

"Yeah."

She stared at me, and I pointedly stared at the bartop. 'Sparkle the Third' was making me uncomfortable. The only girl I wanted staring at me like that was K. And not even like that. Lust wasn't a thing K often felt (no idea why, but I was sure of that), unless it was for a good novel or a rock album. My eyes darted to the glass tip jar that I now kept beneath the bar. (It had never seen much action on the bartop.) The "K" keychain sat inside the jar, oblivious as ever to my pain.

"So...you single, or what?"

Sparkle again. Her question brought my mind back to the present moment. Shimmer and Glitz abruptly fell silent and looked over at us. It seemed info about my personal life was juicy enough to cork the flow of gossip.

"Um, yes and no," I replied, scratching the back of my neck. "What would you like?"

Sparkle the Third seemed amused that I hadn't really answer her question. She held my gaze for several seconds longer than I would have liked. I noticed her false eyelashes were beginning to peel off. It looked painful, but she didn't so much as flinch. "Sex on the Beach," she said.

She was looking for a dramatic response. However, thanks to Ali Cat and her band of lemmings, I knew that Sex on the Beach was a drink. I even remembered how to make it. "Sure," I said, unfazed. "ID, please."

Her penciled eyebrows bounced up and down, and she seemed almost impressed that I'd asked for it. She handed her driver's license to me with a dramatic wave of her hand.

I studied the picture; it was definitely her. The ID appeared to be authentic, and much to my surprise, she was twenty-one. Barely. I handed the license back to her, realizing I hadn't noticed her name beyond confirming that it wasn't "Sparkle."

"Okay," I said. "One Fornication in the Sand coming up."

With a good-natured shrug, I went about collecting the ingredients needed for a textbook Sex on the Beach. Sparkle, Shimmer, and Glitz giggled, teetering on their stools.

"Don't bother Tate," Glitz teased, swatting Sparkle on the arm. "He's saving himself for the Virgin Mary."

"Another girl who got pregnant! Like old-old Sparkle!" Shimmer declared, wagging a skeletal finger.

"It's his own fault, looking like Heath Ledger when I'm already buzzed," Sparkle accused.

I smirked to myself. I didn't look like Heath Ledger. Well, maybe the hair. And the chin. A little.

"Isn't Heath Ledger dead?" Shimmer asked.

"Yeah, but who cares?" Sparkle retorted. "He was hot in 'Ten Things I Hate About You'."

I brought over the peach-colored concoction that was Sparkle's Sex on the Beach and set it on the bartop in front of her, spearing the frothy liquid with a straw.

Naturally, she made a show out of drinking from the straw. "Mmmm, sooo good," she hummed.

"Glad to hear it," I responded.

"Like you need more alcohol tonight," Glitz said, swatting Sparkle's arm again. "Hey, Tate, can we get a couple waters?"

"Yeah, of course," I said. "Glasses or bottles?"

"Glasses," Glitz and Shimmer chorused.

With a nod, I filled two glasses with ice water and silently applauded the dancers for choosing water over booze.

Shimmer looked at me, the caked layers of mascara on her lashes giving her a raccoon-esque look. "Hey, could we..?" she trailed off.

"Have a sandwich?" I finished for her.

Her head bobbed up and down like an excited toddler. "Yeah!"

"No problem," I said, motioning to her and Glitz. "Two?" I glanced over at Sparkle. "Or should I make it three?"

Sparkle stared back at me with a blank expression, so Glitz answered for her: "Three. Definitely. And get her a water, too. She needs to drink it."

"Sure," I said. "Ice water and three sandwiches. Tate's Hangover Cure coming right up."

Some people had stray cats. I had strippers. And creepy agents from an unspecified government organization looking for a homeless guy. Just a normal day.

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