The Bucket List

5 The Pickle

"And then his security guard pulled a gun on me."

From her perch atop the ice box, Gabby gasps. "What?"

"Kidding." I hold up a finger. "Kind of."

Gary, one of our regulars, tilts his head to the side—no doubt eavesdropping on our conversation. We probably shouldn't be gossiping like this, not while we're on the clock, but the bar's been slow all night. Besides Gary, there's a group of thirty-somethings horsing around over at the pool tables. And then there's Rhonda, another regular with a bad perm and razor thin lips. She's been trying to catch the eye of one of the younger men for the last hour now; Gabby and I already placed bets on how her gamble will pay off at the end of the night.

Come on, Ronda. I've got ten bucks riding on this. Bust out the Cougar Special.

"How does someone kind of pull a gun on you?" TJ asks, skeptical. He and Gabby are shoulder-to-shoulder, listening rather dubiously to my dramatic rendition of the morning's events.

"Let's not get into semantics." I down the rest of my beer, smacking my lips gratuitously. TJ just shakes his head.

I consider reaching over to flick his nose when the front door slams open. We glance up in unison, hopeful. A hope that's quickly dashed.

"Hey, Trevor," TJ calls, smiling at the middle-aged man with a gap in his teeth who comes in here every Wednesday night. Like clockwork.

"Alright?" Trevor asks, nodding good-naturedly as he pulls up a stool down at the front.

"Good to see you again, Trev," Gabby says, sliding off the ice box to throw together his usual—a basket of fried pickles and a dirty martini, extra dirty, on the rocks, in a lowball glass. We memorized the order the seventh or eighth time he made an appearance.

TJ mumbles something about spending some quality time in the bathroom (gross) when the door opens a second time. I look up from my phone, only half-interested.

"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, sliding my phone in my back pocket.

Nicholai Ivanov quietly assesses the state of the bar, disgruntled. As if he can't imagine how he ended up here, of all places. Let alone twice in the same week.

I plant my hands on my hips. "Well?" I ask, drawing his attention. "What is it?"

The question seems to amuse him. He strolls to my end of the bar with an arrogant swagger. "Good," he says, pulling out the stool directly in front of me. "You're here."

Further down the bar, Gary watches our exchange with all the discretion of a trumpeting elephant. I sigh. "Where else would I be?"

Nicholai considers our stock while I consider him. "Vodka," he says, ignoring my question entirely. "Straight up."

"You are a walking, talking cliche. I hope you know that." Before he can answer, I grab a glass—and our most expensive bottle, because he can afford it—and start pouring. "There. Vodka, for the Russian. How original."

He rolls his eyes and grumbles something under his breath. "What was that?" I ask.

He repeats the phrase in a language I can't understand. I throw a plastic straw at his chest and laugh when he flinches.

"That is assault," he tells me, affronted.

"That," I correct him, "is a straw. You can use it to suck my—"

"Don't mind her," Gabby interjects to my right. I watch, aghast, as a sultry smile curls her lips. "She's a grouch."

"That she is," Nicholai agrees. Gabby winks at him before wandering back over to her station, hips swaying. He stares after her, openly curious. The urge to snap my fingers in his face nearly overwhelms me.