She recalled one time when a young infantry sergeant had finished off a bottle of Jack before coming in and apparently felt the need to test the bar owner by ordering a drink. Wenk, recognizing the condition of the sergeant, refused to serve him and poured him a coffee instead. In a fit of anger, the drunken soldier grabbed a beer bottle, broke it on the counter and proceeded to try to hop over and stab Wenk. As big as he was, pretty much the same size he was now, he had little trouble dodging the attack and knocking the bottle free from the man's hand.
The young sergeant had, for all intents and purposes, tried to stab the bar owner, but Wenk maintained a poise that could only be acquired by somebody who has faced enemy gunfire. He knew, even though the circumstances were intense, that this young soldier was not in his right mind. And instead of treating him like the enemy, he treated him to a quick punch to the stomach.
As the man doubled over, instead of continuing the beating, he caught him before he hit the ground and carried him like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. He took him outside to the fresh air. Hatch remembered seeing Wenk go back in, get one of the soldier’s friends who had been at the bar with him, and kindly ask him to take their friend home. Wenk never called the police. He went right back to pouring drinks for the other patrons as if it had never happened.
That was just one of many times. Hatch saw the bar owner handle an unruly incident with total control. Wenk was not the same size and shape of his youth, but he carried with him a deftness and a depth of character that she found in few others. And seeing him here now reminded her of all that, all those memories, and she smiled back. It felt good seeing him again.
"My God," he said, "Rachel Hatch in my restaurant? And to what do I owe this honor?" He added a pantomimed tip of the hat.
"It looks more like a bar than a restaurant," Hatch said.
Wenk laughed. This was their running joke. He always tried to make his food what people came for, but at Snake Eaters, the drink always outweighed the meal. "What brings you here?" he asked.
"I'm supposed to meet up with Bennett. Hasn't been by, has he?" Hatch asked. She was also gauging whether Bennett had come and done his own precursory recon before the agreed upon meeting.
"I haven't seen Chris in here for a while. Figured he was out saving the world," Wenk said. "Well, look at you, though. You don't look a day out of uniform.”
Hatch again rubbed the scar tissue through her shirt. Although it was warm, she still wore a lightweight Lycra long sleeve shirt. She wasn't sure when her self-consciousness would let her expose what was underneath that sleeve, but she'd exposed it to very few and had always been guarded when out in public. As confident as she was, the damage to her right arm caused not only the strange looks, but always brought up the question of how she got it also. That how was a very difficult and private thing to share, the resulting damage of which cost some of her teammates their lives. And the image of the mother and girl that had detonated the bomb that burned her flesh still haunted her to this day. She did her best to tuck that memory down deep.
"Well," Hatch said, "I'm definitely not the same person I was. I guess I'm still kind of finding my way in this civilian world. But hell, you know better than me about that journey."
Wenk smiled. "You're right about that. I've been out for thirty-plus years, and I'm still trying to figure it out. So, if you do before me, please let me know how we're supposed to adjust to normal life after the things we've seen."
Hatch appreciated the man for his experience, his kindness, and more importantly, the fact that even since her separation, in his eyes, she was on equal ground with the other soldiers in the bar. Hatch eyed the private section of the bar and said, "I'm going to take my drink over there."
Wenk nodded. "What'll you be having?" he asked.
"Well, it's 10:30, so maybe just a Coke. You know what?" she added, "Why don't you put a little splash of rum in there?"
Wenk smiled and reached back for a bottle of Captain Morgan's and gave a healthy pour, not eyeing or measuring the shot that he put in the drink. If Hatch were to wager a guess, it was probably closer to a shot and a half, maybe two. But her nerves had gotten the best of her, and she figured maybe she'd try to calm them a little bit. Although she didn't typically rely on liquid courage, the meeting with Chris Bennett was putting her in an awkward position.
Filling the rest of the glass with Coke, he slid it over to her.
Hatch reached in her back pocket to pull out her money.
"Not here. Not today, Rachel. It's been too long. This first one's on me.” Another wink. “It's good to see you."
Hatch thanked him and took her drink over to a reserved seating area on the right side of the restaurant. In it, there was always one glass set in front of an empty chair at the far end table. Every day, Wenk made sure he poured two fingers of his drink of choice for the day into that tumbler. It was set for the soldier who would never be able to take that drink. Wenk began the tradition when he had first opened the joint.
Hatch sat near the table and, with her back against the wall, faced the door where any moment Chris Bennett would be coming in.
Two
Hatch sat and took a slow sip from the rum and coke Wenk had made. It was strong, as she expected, having seen the pour he made into the glass before filling the rest of it with Coke. The soda softened the blow a little bit, but she knew to pace herself. As the liquid hit her stomach, she felt the warmth rush over her. It'd been a while since she'd had a day drink, and although it felt right when she’d ordered it, it also felt out of place and out of character for her.
She was angry at herself, not for deciding to have the drink, but more because she felt the need to take the edge off. After all the things she'd experienced in her life, a meeting with Bennett was unnerving her. Alcohol was seldom the refuge she sought. Hatch had accustomed herself to physical punishment in the way of a hard workout or a long run. Those were the ways she took the edge off or eased her anxiety, or in some cases, tried to forget some of the past. But today was not one of those days, and the workout she had put herself through earlier in the morning hadn't depleted her to the point where the anxiety didn't touch her. So, the drink had now found its way of working a little bit of magic and alleviating some of that stress about her pending encounter.
As she sat there in the bar she had frequented during her years of service, she noticed that one of the soldiers eating a burger in the corner with a few of his friends began eyeing her. At first, she felt maybe he wasn't looking at her directly, but seeing as there was no one else around in the secluded reserved area, it only took a moment for her to realize he was, in fact, giving her the eye. He whispered something to his friends and then stood. Hatch thought to herself, Well, this isn't going to be good.
The young man, with his ginger hair tightly shaped in a high and tight, approached in somewhat of a huff. He walked directly to the table she was sitting at, and placed both hands firmly in front of her, jostling the drink, and causing the ice cubes inside to rattle against the glass.
Hatch slowly looked up and then took a sip, silently dismissing whatever this was about.
The ginger looked back at his friends, who nodded, and then turned to her and said, "This is reserved seating. Operators only. I think you might be a little bit lost."