THE HIDEAWAY

THE HIDEAWAY

It took almost six months to get The Hideaway up and running.  First he had to close on the building, since the owner was divesting himself of his properties in town and was not interested in leasing, regardless of terms.  That meant he had to secure loans for the building as well as the renovations.  That took almost three months.  Then there were the renovations, most of which he did himself, but there were things he did have to hire out.  The design of the pub’s interior had to be done professionally, and that was one of his largest costs, though he almost had a heart attack when he found out how much the mahogany bar, by itself, would cost.  It was one of the few appointments in the pub that he couldn’t build himself or find in the resale market.  He wanted the pub to be able to offer live music, and that meant reserving space in the rear for a one-step platform wired for the electronics contemporary bands needed.  The architect he hired did a fine job laying out the interior spaces.  There were booths, high round tables with stools, a small section with dining tables for customers who wanted fast food, and the row of stools along the length of the bar.  He had a capacity for sixty people at any one time, not counting standups at the bar, sufficient, he thought, to earn a decent income after expenses.

     The Hideaway was going to be his favorite venture when it opened.  He had his fingers in so many enterprises in town that one could hardly avoid running into him any day of the week.  He owned the town’s only taxi service; he also owned a limousine service to take townspeople to the airport.  He owned the laundromat and dry cleaners on Maine Street, a boarding house two blocks up, a stationers/coffee house across from the Laundromat, and now The Hideaway.  The man didn’t spend much time at home with his wife and four kids.  Home was where he slept.  Now, he was anticipating spending nights and early mornings in The Hideaway, serving drinks, listening to music, and gossiping with friends and other town leaders whom he expected to visit frequently, which meant spending even less time at home. 

     He gave no thought to these concerns.  Inga his wife was a good housekeeper and an excellent mother.  She managed the money he provided so well that she built up an amazing savings account for the kids’ schooling.  And she was a great cook, though the only meals he had at home were breakfast, which he made himself, usually before anyone else was up, and the Sunday afternoon meal with the whole family.  That was, in fact, the only time he spent with the family all together, and he thought of it as a sacrifice he was willing to make for the kids’ sake.  

     He was prosperous, entirely self-reliant, except for the bank loans, and growing, with new prospects he relished taking charge of.  Life was good to Al Leipzig.  When he thought of the future, he imagined as yet unimaginable enterprises coming his way, and he saw himself striding a fortune, though his ideas about fortunes were rather modest.  He was not a greedy man.  But he was the kind of man who could not sit still, the kind whose energy seemed boundless, and whose capacities surprised even him.  Mostly, he consigned the “fortune” to Inga’s care.  She could deposit it, invest it, or use it as she saw fit.  He trusted her entirely, for in these matters she was wiser than him. 

     And so time passed and the work on The Hideaway got done and opening night approached.  He had hired several people already.  Jim McBride, an old friend who worked for him as both a taxi driver and repairman in the laundromat, would share the evening hours with him behind the bar until closing time, and Hector Ramirez, a young man from Puerto Rico whom he helped get settled in town and found work for, would work the kitchen during the early evening hours and then work in the later evenings keeping the bar supplied with necessities, keeping the storeroom inventory, and doing the routine tidying up.  In addition to Jim and Hector, he hired two women for the morning hours to do the heavy cleaning.

     He had asked around town what kind of music people might prefer, what might draw them in particular to The Hideaway.  He realized as he talked to people that the kind of music he provided would actually determine the type of clientele he might expect to frequent his place.  He could appeal with rock and country music to the young, to twenty-somethings especially, who would want to dance and get loud and often drink too much.  Or he could appeal to the more sophisticated adult audience with a jazz combo, keeping the lights low, making an intimate atmosphere for lovers to tryst in some dark corner, of which there were plenty in The Hideaway.  He decided that he himself would prefer the jazz and the intimacy, so he sought out those local groups who played informally around town and also at weddings and anniversaries and who jumped at the chance to earn a few extra bucks.  Because they were well known, they would be naturals to draw people in.  

     They would open Monday through Saturday at 7 p.m. and close, according to state and local ordinances, at 2 a.m.  On opening night, everything was ready.  The lights over the little stage in the back were lit.  A man dressed casually in jeans and a crewneck sweater was tuning a bass fiddle, a saxophonist was wetting the reed in his mouthpiece hitting notes, a drummer was tapping on the cymbals, and a guitarist was fingering his chords.  The low cacophonous sounds seemed like they were wafting from far away to Al as he smiled at Jim McBride and Hector. 

     “This is it,” he said to them.  “Time.” 

     He strolled towards the door with his hands in his pockets.  Just before reaching for the large curved handle, he looked around.  He sniffed to take in the aroma and noticed the shadows and how soft and appealing the lighting was.  With a sense of gladness and of mission, almost, he opened the door at 7 p.m.

     There was, of course, no crowd milling around on the sidewalk waiting for the door to open.  It was still bright out, though the sun had fallen behind the buildings across the street.  Al stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked up and down the block.  He shrugged his shoulders, turned toward McBride, who was standing in the doorway holding the heavy oaken door open, and said, “Well, give it time, Jim.  They’ll come.  They’ll come.”

     And they did.  By eight o’clock The Hideaway was buzzing.  The little jazz combo, playing “All the Things You Are,” filled those specially designed dark spaces along the walls and in corners with an air of intimacy, the people in them leaning toward each other, whispering, leaning back and listening.  Men and women sat at the bar, keeping their voices low, and Al ranged up and down the length of it, serving drinks, ringing up the tabs, and gossiping with the friend or acquaintance here and there who managed to wedge in or take a stool. 

     The combo now began to play “A Foggy Day,” and Al stepped out from behind the bar to a table where a middle-aged couple had just taken seats.  He brought a menu, but they only wanted drinks.  When he returned and put their drinks on the table, he noticed how they looked at each other.  Al smiled.  “Damn,” he thought, as he walked back to the bar, “I never figured it, but The Hideaway’s gonna bring its share of babies into the world.”

     As the night wore on, Al had to keep after Hector to supply the bar with garnishings from the kitchen.  Olives, lemon and lime slices, orange slices, cherries, little white onions—all seemed to vanish in moments.  Hector also had to help Al serve the booths and tables.  McBride kept the bar going well enough.  Al was surprised how many people McBride knew, how he talked and talked and still managed to keep up with the drinks. 

     On this first night Al had no idea how the evening would flow, nor had he any notion of the scale of business he would do.  At eleven o’clock the combo finished up with “My Funny Valentine,” and packed up their instruments.  With their departure, the pub became still and somber, and people’s voices now sounded loud and rude.  But with the departure of the musicians, the pub began to empty, and by half passed eleven, Al and McBride stood alone behind the bar sipping their first drink of the evening. 

     “We made a hell of a lot of money tonight, Al,” McBride said.  “That register is stuffed.  You should put that cash in the safe now, while the place is empty.”

     “Yeah, Jim,” Al replied as he rinsed suds off the glasses he had washed, “we sold a lot of booze tonight.  I’ll have to ask Hector how many bottles we went through.”

     Between then and closing, at 2 a.m., only a few people came in, and those people had already had too much to drink, though Al served them anyway.  McBride wanted to turn them out, but Al refused.  “Business is business,” he said.

     There was one thing about running a bar that Al didn’t know, that he didn’t consider finding out about, and that would cost him many a sleepless night, and that was understanding how to compare the amount of liquor dispensed during operating hours with the cash in the register.  He just assumed it was a straightforward matter, so many dollars in the register should mean so much liquor sold, and so exactly that much needed to be replaced from the storeroom, and then the storeroom restocked by the same amount.  Basically, all he needed to do was compare the receipts to the cash, and if they balanced, that was it. 

     It took only a month for Al to discover that there was a serious imbalance in these accounts.  He was buying far more liquor than he was taking in in cash, even though receipts and cash balanced.  At first, he thought the problem was in his pricing.  But a quick visit to other taverns and bar and grilles proved his own pricing was right.  What was wrong?  A mystery was afoot.  Al was both intrigued and angry.  For the first time in his life he felt inadequate.

     He talked with Jim McBride about it, but he only scratched his head and said, “Huh! Ain’t that the pits?”

     Al shrugged and told Jim that he wanted him to pay particular attention to the number of bottles opened during the night, and the number of kegs replaced.  Jim said he thought he already did that, but for his, Al’s, sake, he would begin writing it down.  He went out to the stationer’s and bought a  small yellow pad and put it with a pencil beside the cash register.  This pacified Al for the moment.  But he continued to ponder the problem.  He thought he might visit some other bars and talk to their owners to find out how they dealt with the problem. It turned out to be a fairly simple calculation.  The number of ounces of each fifth times the going price per ounce for that type of liquor.  The same for kegs.  He set to work.   What he found astounded him.  He was taking in only half the value of each fifth and tap.

     He now became convinced that either Jim McBride or Hector Ramirez or both were stealing and not just stealing but swindling him personally.  Over the years, he had been more than just a benefactor to them, he had been their friend, and they did so much together.  He was paying them good salaries now, and they were ripping him off?  Big time?  He got hot over the thought of it.  When Al lost his temper, he lost it—he became like a madman, and watch out whoever got in his way. 

     He considered the manner by which each might be robbing him.  Jim had to be pocketing cash at the register, manipulating the receipts to hide what he was doing, and Hector had to be pilfering from the storeroom.  The sheer volume of cash he was losing meant that they were robbing substantial amounts every evening, and he had been blind to it!  Well, no more.  He informed the police about what was going on.  He needed only to catch them at it, unmask them, and he would have them in jail.  And then he’d have the book thrown at them.  His bile was up.  Rage was bubbling in his guts.  He felt so betrayed, so preyed upon, that he could hardly think about it without screaming out loud, without feeling violated and the heat of revenge whelming up in him.  No, firing them would not do.  He had to catch them at it.  Only that could counteract the bile he felt poisoning his life.

     So, Al kept an eagle eye on McBride, watching every transaction.  Biding his time, he also put in unannounced appearances at the storeroom during the busiest times when Hector had to be there, keeping a watchful eye on him, who always greeted him with a smile and a sweaty hand.  Days passed, then weeks, and his accounts were continuously out of balance and he never discovered how the two managed it.  He calculated that so far they had swindled him of more than twenty thousand dollars, and he had begun to fall into arrears, making a late payment on his loan the week before, and now being unable to take a salary for himself.  This was getting serious.  He thought about what to do, but nothing he tried was working.

     So he began to visit taverns like his own in neighboring towns, always in the daytime, to ask advice from people more experienced than himself.  It took numerous visits to places all over the county before he found a man who was willing to help and to teach.  What he learned filled him with confidence and with expectations that he would soon wreak his vengeance on his despoilers.

     The trick to catching them was to stop watching them.  Their knowing that he was suspicious only drove them into greater subterfuge—his suspicion didn’t stop them.  That, his mentor at the Huntington Depot told him, was the key to catching them.  On the next night, after closing, when McBride and Ramirez finally left for home, he had a team of technicians come in to install a video security system.  It was so well hidden that the two would never suspect they were being watched.  The plan, urged by his mentor, required him to take a long holiday and leave the place in their hands.  Because they were so brazen as to continue stealing in the face of his vigilance, this turning of the pub over to them for a whole week would prove irresistible, and thus their methods would be unmasked and they would be made to pay. 

     “I’m going to visit my brothers and sisters in California,” he said to McBride as they closed up The Hideaway the next night.  “My brother Henry is really sick.  They say he isn’t going to make it, Jim.  I have no choice.  I have to go.”

     “Go, do what you have to do, Al.  I’m here,” McBride said as Al locked the front door.  Then Al took care of the register, putting the night’s take along with the receipts into the safe.

They walked to the back of the building together.  They kept their cars behind the building so as to not take up parking for customers in front or in the small lot on the side of the building.  The rear exit was from the storeroom.

“I’ll handle things while you’re away.  If I need help inside, I’ll ask Hector to come in.  He’ll have his little brother take his place in the kitchen and the storeroom until you get back.  Don’t worry.”

“What’s this?” Hector said as he neared them, coming from the stacks where the liquor was shelved, still wearing his apron.

“Al’s got to go to California because his brother’s not doing well.  I told him not to worry, you and I can handle things while he’s gone.  Right, Hector?”

“Sure, Al.  We can handle things,” Hector reassured him.

     “I was hoping you’d say that, Jim.  I don’t know how to thank you both.”

     He opened the narrow gray metal door of the circuit box and began pushing the switches, shutting down the lights.  When the place was dark, only one neon sign remained lit, the one in the window that said The Hideaway over a Budweiser sign.

     “What’re friends for, hey, Al?  You’ve always been good to me.  My turn now.  When’re you leaving?”

     “I got my plane tickets already.  I’m off in the morning.  I didn’t know if I was going to shut the place down or what.”
     “I guess you better give me the keys, hey, Al?  Don’t leave with them in your pocket.  That’d be disaster.”

     Hector laughed, and Al looked at him.

     “Hey, Al, don’t worry.  I can see you look worried.  We’ll be fine, right Jim?”  He tossed his apron into a bin on the floor. 

     “Right, right,” Al said.  “I’m that upset over Henry I wasn’t thinking of the keys at all.”

They had stepped outside into the dim yellow light of the lamp pole in the alley across from the store.  Hector carried out the cut-up cardboard of the boxes he had emptied when shelving bottles and dropped the pile in the dumpster.  Al locked the door and stood hesitantly for a moment, then handing the keys to Jim said, “Here,” shooting as hang dog a look as he could make in the lamplight.

     “Hey, Al.  Cheer up.  Maybe you’ll get good news when you get there.  Let me know, OK?  We’re gonna be thinking of you here.  I’ll tip one for you and your brother each night you’re gone.  Me and Hector.  It’ll be good luck for you.  Cheer up, Al.”

     “I’ll let you know how things go.  Good luck with the place.  Keep a sharp eye on things.  Thanks guys.”

     They got in their cars and he waived to them as he backed out and nosed into the alley heading home.  Jim came out behind him, and Hector followed last.

Early each morning about an hour after Jim and Hector locked up the pub, he let himself in with his spare key and replaced the disks he recorded during the night with new ones and in the morning took the recordings to Ben Bradley at The Huntington Depot.  They examined them together.  On the first three nights, what they saw surprised them.  Nothing.  McBride and Ramirez did nothing at all suspicious.  There was no sign that they pilfered even so much as a free drink.  So conscientious were they, that each time they toasted Al and his brother, they both actually paid for the drinks, and McBride rang them up and put the bills in the register.  At the end of each evening, after locking up, McBride emptied the drawers of the cash register, leaving a few bills in each one, took the whole evening’s receipts, and deposited both in the lockbox, put the box in the safe under the counter beside the cash register, and shut the door.

     “I don’t get it,” Al said to Ben Bradley.  “Are they that good that we can’t see them hitting the place even while they’re doing it?  Is that possible?”

     “No.  We should see how they’re doing it.  They’re not taking nickels and dimes.  They’re taking large amounts of cash.  So far, all we can say is they haven’t done it yet.  But they will.  You’ll see.  Be patient.  Maybe tomorrow.”

Al unlocked the back door of The Hideaway and stepped into the dark.  To avoid being seen in the place by a passing policeman, he didn’t turn on lights or use a flashlight but felt his way to the wall where the recorder was hidden.  He removed its cover, pulled the two disks, put two others in their places, and touching the wall for guidance made his way back to the storeroom.  It was three o’clock and dead silent.  This was the last night of recording.  According to the plan, he was supposed to return home today on a morning flight from LAX and get in about four in the afternoon.  Jim and Hector expected to see him at The Hideaway in the evening.  So far, he and Ben Bradley had found nothing on the tapes to implicate the two men in any wrongdoing.  In fact, to all appearances, the men worked hard and kept their promise to take care of everything while he was gone.  He shook his head as he got into his car, thinking that, after all his precautions, and all the additional expense, he was going to come up empty.  He didn’t know whether to admire McBride and Ramirez for their skill at robbing him or condemn them.  He was reaching the point where he just wanted to ask them how they were doing it, just to see if they would admit to it, and then fire them both whether they admitted to it or not.  At least he would be rid of them.  That would give him the peace of mind he needed.  Though they have sunk him into such debt he might not be able to hold onto the pub much longer.

     He got home, put the disks on the dresser in his bedroom, undressed and put on his pajamas, then crawled into bed beside his sleeping wife.  The bed was warm on her side, and he scooted close to her, feeling let down and disappointed, and feeling certain that he and Ben Bradley would find nothing on the last two disks.  Well, he said to himself as he closed his eyes, if I have to give up the place, then I will give it up.  So?  But it was the betrayal, the losses, and the violation that made his stomach sink.  He felt warmed beside Inga, and that helped him to fall asleep.

     Next morning, he left for The Huntington Depot, and arrived before nine.  Ben Bradley was there, eager to see if they would catch the thieves on this last night.  He had told Al that this was the night, that the two men would reveal themselves for certain on the disks.  It just didn’t make sense for them to wait until he returned to rob him again.  Neither of them seemed that cynical, or that much of a gamesman, that they robbed him for the sport if it.  No.  They would catch them on these last disks.  He was certain.  Al was certain they wouldn’t. 

     They watched the disks together, and in spite of the close scrutiny of every recorded action by McBride, they saw nothing.  McBride had put the night’s take into the lockbox, stowed the receipts, locked up everything as usual, and ten minutes later the place went dark.  It was now about two-fifteen on the disk.  It would continue to record until Al came in at three.  Ben Bradley and Al let it run as they turned away to talk about the week’s worth of recordings, about coming up empty, and about how to handle the two men when he “returned” from California.  But just then Ben Bradley caught motion on the screen. They fell silent and watched, astonished, as a figure moved in the near dark, lit only by the neon Hideaway sign in the window across the room, and stealthily slipped behind the bar.  They could not make out the figure stooping there.  It seemed like a shadow.  But as the figure stooped, it turned on a little flashlight, and a very slight glow illuminated the figure’s head.  Seen from behind and above, Ben Bradley could not tell anything at all about the person.  But Al gasped.  Even from that perspective he could tell who it was.  He was astonished.  Ben Bradley looked at him, puzzled, and lifting an eyebrow said, “Who is it, Al?”

     “It’s my wife!  It’s Inga!”

     “Your wife?” Ben Bradley said.  “Your wife?  Are you sure?  Doesn’t make sense.  Al?  What’re you gonna do?”

     “I’m gonna get answers,” he said, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.  “I’m gonna find out why,” he said, his voice filled with disbelief.  “That’s what I’m gonna do.”  

     Ben Bradley was right.  He was right about everything.  The security camera would catch the thief, and it would catch him on the last night.  Everything he said was right.  Only, it wasn’t who they thought it was.  He suffered from that sinking feeling when he went to bed this morning, the sense of betrayal, the sense of violation.  Now, that feeling was sinking him worse, it was sinking him for good.  It was one thing to be betrayed by McBride and Ramirez, but it was something entirely different to be betrayed by Inga.  This was violation.  He felt his face turn red as he thought and felt this sense of violation.  As he drove  home, his face reddened and actually felt hot.  Clinging to the wheel, he could barely breathe.  His life was changing, and it was changing in ways he never imagined it would, in ways that seemed utterly tragic to him.  He could stand losing The Hideaway.  He couldn’t stand, he knew, losing Inga.  But what else could happen? 

     He pulled onto the drive.  Everything seemed so familiar but so strange at the same time.  He turned off the engine and sat behind the wheel for a long time.  Finally, he sighed heavily, opened the door, and slid out.  He walked around the garage to the back door, which was his customary way of coming and going from the house.  He climbed the steps, pulled open the door, and stepped in.  It was terrible.  The house seemed so alien to him.  Inga seemed alien to him.  He didn’t know how he was going to do what he had to do, what he was going to say, how he was going to say it, whether he should sit, get close to her, or keep her at a distance.  He thought of saying, “Inga, I have proof you have been stealing cash from The Hideaway in the middle of the night.  I’ve seen you doing it.  What have you got to say for yourself?”  But he knew he couldn’t say it.  He came into the kitchen and Inga wasn’t there.  The light was off, though the room was bright with sun from the bay window that looked onto the back yard.  The sink and the counter area around it were in deep shadow, and he looked for a moment as though he expected to see Inga’s shadowed form move silently there.

     He left the kitchen and crossed to the living room, peering into the dining room as he passed it.  Then he took the stairs up to the their bedroom, and not seeing her there, he took the next flight up to the kids’ bedrooms.  She was not there, either.  He felt relief, as though he had skirted some serious peril, and turned on his heel, tripped down the stairs, and went back into the kitchen.  He opened the refrigerator and looked for leftovers to pop into the microwave.  There was a container with some corn beef and cabbage in it.  He took it out, removed the lid, and popped it into the microwave.  He did feel hungry.  He felt, in fact, starved, which was the case.  Being so nervous, he had eaten neither breakfast this morning nor his evening meal last night.  When the microwave beeped, he took out the container, emptied it into a dish, sat at the table, and ate in silence.  The table in the kitchen being beside the bay window, he ate in silence illuminated by the sun.  His hair shone black as he bent his head to the fork.  The meal took away his anxiety.  He waited calmly for Inga to get home.