Midnight by Dean R. Koontz

You’re a dour bastard, he told himself. Too grim by half.

Experience had made a pessimist of him. The traumatic course of his life to date precluded grinning optimism.

Tendrils of fog slipped around his legs. At the far edge of the darkening sea, the pallid sun was half extinguished. Sam shivered and went into the tavern to get a drink.

Of the three other customers, none was in a noticeably upbeat mood. In one of the black vinyl booths off to the left, a middleaged man and woman were leaning toward each other, speaking in low voices. A gray-faced guy at the bar was hunched over his glass of draft beer, holding it in both hands, scowling as if he had just seen a bug swimming in the brew.

In keeping with its name, Knight’s Bridge reeked ersatz British atmosphere. A different coat of arms, each no doubt copied from some official heraldic reference book, had been carved from wood and hand-painted and inset in the back of every barstool. A suit of armor stood in one corner. Fox-hunting scenes hung on the walls.

Sam slid onto a stool eight down from the gray-faced man. The bartender hurried to him, wiping a clean cotton rag over the already immaculate, highly polished oak counter.

“Yes, sir, what’ll it be?” He was a round man from every aspect a small round potbelly; meaty forearms with a thick thatching of black hair; a chubby face; a mouth too small to be in harmony with his other features; a puggish nose that ended in a round little ball; eyes round enough to give him a perpetual look of surprise.

“You have Guinness?” Sam asked.

“It’s a fundamental of a real pub, I’d say. If we didn’t have Guinness … why, we might as well convert to a tea shop.”

His was a mellifluous voice; every word he spoke sounded as smooth and round as he looked. He seemed unusually eager to please.

“Would you like it cold or just slightly chilled? I keep it both ways.”

“Very slightly chilled.”

“Good man!” When he returned with a Guinness and a glass, the bartender said, “Name’s Burt Peckham. I own the joint.”

Carefully pouring the stout down the side of the glass to ensure the smallest possible head, Sam said, “Sam Booker. Nice place, Burt.”

“Thanks. Maybe you could spread the word. I try to keep it cozy and well stocked, and we used to have quite a crowd, but lately it seems like most of the town either joined a temperance movement or started brewing their own in their basements, one or the other.”

“Well, it’s a Monday night.”

“These last couple months, it’s not been unusual to be half empty even on a Saturday night, which never used to happen.”

Burt Peckham’s round face dimpled with worry. He slowly polished the bar while he talked.

“What it is—I think maybe this health kick Californians have been on for so long has finally just gone too far. They’re all staying home, doing aerobics in front of the VCR, eating wheat germ and egg whites or whatever the hell it is they eat, drinking nothing but bottled water and fruit juice and titmouse milk. Listen, a tipple or two a day is good for you.”

Sam drank some of the Guinness, sighed with satisfaction, and said, “This sure tastes as if it ought to be good for you.”

“It is. Helps your circulation. Keeps your bowels in shape. Ministers ought to be touting its virtues each Sunday, not preaching against it. All things in moderation—and that includes a couple of brews a day.” Perhaps realizing that he was polishing the bar a bit obsessively, he hung the rag on a hook and stood with his arms folded across his chest. “You just passing through, Sam?”

“Actually,” Sam lied, “I’m taking a long trip up the coast from L.A. to the Oregon line, loafing along, looking for a quiet place to semi-retire.”

“Retire? You kidding?”

“Semi-retire. But you’re only, what, forty, forty-one?”

“Forty-two.”

“What are you—a bank robber?”

“Stockbroker. Made some good investments over the years. Now I think I can drop out of the rat race and get by well enough just managing my own portfolio. I want to settle down where it’s quiet, no smog, no crime. I’ve had it with L. A.”