“What’s his name?” Nolan read the EMT’s name tag: Harris. His partner, Garcia, ensured their patient was secure inside the ambulance. It didn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive, with the Fire Station less than five blocks from McMinimin’s.

Nolan shrugged.

“You don’t know the name of your bartender?” Garcia said from inside the rig.

“He was kind of a jerk ta me,” Nolan answered. “Ya ever met the type who doesn’t like to chat. That was this bloke. He was a wee bit of a jerk.”

The bartender was still unconscious, but his heart rhythm was solid, not thready like it was when they arrived. Both men gave him CPR until his heart rate leveled out. Garcia made sure his IV was flowing and put a forked oxygen tube up his nostrils. He still hadn’t come to; not a surprise if he had a heart attack. But they needed to get a medical history and some identification.  

“No I.D.?” A Beaverton cop, Sergeant Keyes, addressed Harris.

“No. We arrived on scene with him,” Harris pointed towards Nolan, “standing over him, holding the cordless phone from the bar.”

“Anyone go inside and check for his I.D.?” Keyes asked his two subordinates. Officer Pierce and Officer Braithwaite shook their heads no. “We were waiting for EMTs to clear us to check his person.”

“We already did that,” Garcia replied, jumping out of the rig. “He’s stable, boss. So,” Garcia looked at Nolan, “You called us? How’d you know it was a heart attack?”

“Saw me uncle have one when I was a wee lad. Maybe ‘bout six, maybe seven years old? I dunno remember much from that day. It was a scary moment, that’s for certain.”

“Are you saying from what you remember as a kid, you figured the bartender was having a heart attack?” Officer Keyes was scribbling notes on a small pad of paper.

“Seemed like it. Yeah.” Nolan answered.

“You went back inside to get the phone, then?” Keyes asked.

“Didn’t have ta’. He already had it out, ready to call you,” Nolan pointed at the officers, “if they didn’t leave.”

A black Ford Probe pulled into the parking lot, and Caitlin climbed out of the driver’s side. “Oh, Sheeshus! Nolan? What’re you doin’ here? And this late?” Running over to him, she gave him a big hug. “Is he okay?” she asked Garcia.

“We need to get him to the hospital, but, yeah. It looks like he’s going to be just fine.”

“I’m sorry, miss, do you know this man,” Officer Keyes asked Caitlin.

“Sorry, Officer,” Caitlin squinted at the name tag, “Keyes is it? Yes. He’s a coworker of mine. I’m Caitlin Barrett, the general manager. His name is Kyle. Kyle Peterson.”

“Kyle. Peterson,” Keyes scribbled on his notepad. “Gotcha. Good. Ms. Barrett? Can you go get Mr. Peterson’s identification for me, please?”

“Yes, sir. I can do that,” she said, grabbing Nolan’s hand and dragging him behind her. “Come with me,” she whispered. Nolan rolled his eyes and sighed. He’d been in Beaverton longer than he wanted for what should’ve been an uneventful Friday evening.

Once inside, she stepped behind the bar and snatched his wallet, lying directly under the bartop. “Figures. The one day I have off, and I have to close now because Kyle,” she pointed out the ambulance, “decides tonight would be a good night to have a heart attack!” She handed Nolan the wallet. “Here. Take this out to Keyes for me. I gotta start closin’ ta place down. But you come on back inside. You can help or watch. It makes no difference either way. But I’d like ta have the company, if’n you know what I mean.”

“Sure do,” Nolan answered, nodding, accepting the wallet, and heading out the door. “Be right back, then.”

“Fair enough,” Caitlin replied, walking through the bar and turning off each monitor. “What in the name of the Almighty is all this crap!” she shouted, staring at a mess of pitchers and glasses, all from the table where the two young men were sitting less than two hours ago. Nolan heard her exclamation and quickly spun back around. “Go on! Take that out to that copper, Nolan. Sheesh. If that man ain’t dead from the heart attack, I’ll kill ‘em myself when he gets out! Leavin’ all this mess for me to clean up!”