"It's so funny to be seeing you after so long"
-- Elvis Costello, Allison

The Anchor could best be described a bar that wanted to be a dive. They served passable, if uninspired, fare and inexpensive, uncomplicated drinks. On weekends there would be live music -- mostly local bands. The whole place had a hard rock feel, but it wasn't so threatening that you wouldn't see a few office workers who would stop off on the way home. The place wasn't that far from the last address I had for Becks. There was a time when you could have counted on her to be there two or three nights a week. The next day would be the beginning of the working week. It wasn't likely she'd be there tonight, but I was fairly sure I'd find someone.

The approaching night was cool and the skies clear, which was a contrast to the inside of The Anchor. There it was dark and smoky. The window was plastered with the flyers of the bands that would be playing in the next month or two. I didn't bother checking if anyone was on tonight. Judas Priest, Out in the Cold, was on the jukebox as I stepped in. I took the headphones off, and wrapped them around my fingers, then coiled the end around the middle so they wouldn't tangle and stowed them and the radio in my pocket. My eyes had adjusted enough to make out the direction of the bar. I waited for the bartender to take notice of me.

"What do you want?" The bartender said.

He was tall, bald, and just barely on the right side of being overweight. I couldn't quite remember his name (Jeff?), but I remembered he co-owned the place. I pushed down the desire to get up and leave.

"Do you have any single-malts?" I asked.

I prefer my alcohol uncomplicated and strong. I'll drink the occasional beer, but it's not really to my taste. That's something of a heresy in the Northwest. Oregon is known for a handful of things: coffee, rain, a wide-ranging selection of beers and microbrews, and more strippers per-capita than any other state.

"It's you," he said.

"Afraid so." I replied.

He (Jim?) looked through me for a bit, and then he put a shot glass in front of me. He reached under the bar and pulled out a dusty bottle of Oban. It was about half full. They used to keep a bottle of it on hand for me here. For all I knew, it was the same bottle. He wasn't going to refuse to serve me, but he was going to give me the most expensive thing he had and not ask if that was what I wanted. If I was going to sit in his bar I was going to pay.

"You back?" He asked.

"It does appear so." I replied. I looked down at myself for effect.

"Has Becks been around?" I asked.

The bartender (Jerry?) looked like he was trying to decide if I was worthy of an answer, when the music suddenly changed. The place served up a fairly consistent soundtrack of metal and hard rock. Nothing too new -- a song would have to prove it's worth before it could earn a slot on the jukebox here. The melancholy opening notes of Elvis Costello's Allison were out of place. I turned around and saw Ray leaning against the Jukebox.

"Ray," I acknowledged.

Becks' sociability would wax and wane, but if someone watched her long enough, they would have found me, then Ray. He and Becks had a classic tumultuous relationship. In the years I'd known her, they had connected and broken up a number of times. Sometimes it would be brief and fiery, other times it would be a slow burn, but it never lasted. Most of the time I'd kept silent about it, but I'd never liked the way he treated her. He could be sweet and loving when he wanted too, but he could also be callous and casually cruel.

"I'm looking for Becks, " I told him.

"I don't think she wants to see you," he said. He didn't move from his position up against the jukebox. It was all for affect.

Since he had so nicely delivered himself to me, I was going to play this out. I had nothing to lose with him.

"Isn't that for her to decide?" I asked.

His response was little more than a grunt. If he pressed me, I'd back down. I didn't want to sour my chance of getting anything out of the bartender. There would be plenty of time to get in a pissing match with Ray later. I got up and walked over to him.

"Look," I met his gaze, "I just want to know that she's OK, right?"

There was a flicker in his face when I said that. If we were playing poker that would have been his tell. His show cards might have been good, but he didn't have the hand.

"What is it Ray?" I pressed. "Is she OK?"

"Yeah," he said.

He raised himself to stand straight up, he was just a little taller than me, but he knew how to look intimidating. It wasn't working on me, but not because he wasn't doing a good job of it.

"So you can go now," he said.

I let my eyes narrow like I might rise to his challenge. I never took my eyes off of him, and then I let it all wash away with a smile. This kind of thing I could handle. It's like playing a part. It's not really me, but some actor I'm directing, and I can tell him how to act.

"That's good enough," I said, "for now."

I turned on my heel and walked back to the bar. I picked up the shot glass and sniffed the amber liquid, and drank it in a long sip, letting it slip over my tongue. It warmed my throat as it went down. I held the last bit in my mouth, under my tongue, letting the alcohol absorb directly into the membrane. I held on to the remainder for a moment tasting it. It's not a trick to do with bad scotch -- the results can be foul. Oban isn't bad, and it had mellowed nicely in the bottle. I could taste the smoke and wood. I took a breath in though my mouth, and felt a tingle in my mouth that bordered on pain.

I was holding the glass by two fingers down at the base. I loosened my grip and let the glass flip upside down. I then put the glass down on the bar. In that moment, the repetition of a familiar action, in a place I used to feel comfortable in, the name of the bartender came back to me. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a large bill, folded it in half and weighed it down with the glass.

"George, " I said, using the name I finally remembered, "Save the rest of the bottle for me, would you?"

"You gonna be back to drink it?" He asked.

"It's a sin to let something good go to waste." I said.

He nodded, then leaned forward and took the glass and bill.

"Not seen her in about a month." He said it soft enough that I would be the only one to hear it.

I nodded my thanks and headed out. Ray stepped up and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Don't hurt her again," he warned me.

"Yeah Ray," I said levelly, "I know the lyrics to that song. I've sung that tune too, remember?"

I leaned forward to see if Ray would pull back. If he did, it would be easy to let him and bring the elbow back meet him. I had no desire to take it there, and neither did he apparently. He let his grip slip, and I walked out.

I walked down the block and rounded the corner. I slumped against the wall and took several long slow breaths, in through the nose out through the mouth. I let my body relax, and the bravado drain from my system. I knew more than I did before I went in. Becks was still here, but hadn't been to a regular haunt for more than month. I doubted that Ray and she were still a couple, but I didn't think that all of his display was him being territorial about her.

I pulled the notebook out, and noted what I had learned, and my suspicions about Becks. If she had not been at the Anchor, then it was less likely she would be at Reno's. Hopefully I would be able to find someone who was a little more helpful, or at least not as hostile towards me. I doubted anyone thought much of me at all -- they were being protective of Becks. I couldn't say I blamed them. Pity the man who is unworthy of an angel, and I hoped I wasn't that man, but it was not up to me.

I'd wait a day or two before I'd talk to George the bartender again, preferably without Ray around. I should be able to find out more then. In the mean time, I'd stick with the plan. Stop for dinner, and then go off to Reno's and see what else I could discover.

I made my way downtown and ate at Al Amir -- a Lebanese restaurant I used to be quite fond of. I wasn't recognized, but it's not like I'd been a regular. It was a quiet, understated place. I lost myself in hummus and pita, and a grilled chicken dish and tried not to think. It's a hard thing to consider yourself beyond redemption, but still strive for it anyway.

The walls were lined with pictures of Lebanon before the wars. Back at a time when it was a place for tourists to go, where there were beautiful beaches, clear water, and fine dining. Where you could walk down the road from your hotel and feel like James Bond in Casino Royale. I never knew that Lebanon. The one I knew was after the dark days of the 80's when the fighting and the bombings left it a shadow of its former self. You could still walk the streets and feel like a spy, but a much darker and grittier one. Less Ian Fleming and more Robert Ludlum. I ate my meal and looked at the pictures, and drank lemonade that was flavored with rose.