Harley’s Tap. Smelled just like you’d expect. Spilled beer. Ambition lost somewhere around 1987, sighing deeply and asking for another round, please.

Dale Pruitt sat at his stool, the one third from the end, worn and comfortable like a pair of broken in Levi’s, nursing a glass of Budweiser and holding court the way he did every Thursday afternoon.

“It happened. Just like I’m telling you,” Dale said, pointing at his head, speaking to nobody in particular, “the raccoon? It was wearing the freakin’ hat. I swear, hand to God, it’s all true. Still had it on when they finally found it.”

“Raccoons don’t wear hats, Dale.” Merv Derringer was seventy-one and had stopped being surprised by Dale roughly forty years ago. Merv swirled the ice around in his glass, watering down the cheap vodka. Once, Smirnoff was top shelf. Today it sat between Grey Goose and Popov, the joke being Popov was the black sheep of the Smirnoff family. “They wouldn’t hear anything, skittish as they is.”

Dale turned to face Merv, sitting six seats away, at the opposite corner of the bar. Harley’s Tap was a big square bar, meaning you could put lots of space between you and other patrons. It was the place to be Fridays and Saturdays. Until the early 2010s, when microbreweries and top shelf drinks were all the rage. Somehow Harley’s managed to keep the lights on, with live music Saturday night, drawing in more than a few hundred people. It kept Carla, Suzi, and J.B. moving. Here, the drinks were cheap, the music good. And Carla wasn’t about to worry about food. It was a freaking bar. Nothing more. Always had been. Even when her daddy owned it.

“I’m telling you, Merv. This one did. A child’s Cardinals baseball cap. Bright red. Sitting right on top of its head like it belonged there.” Dale took a long swig. “Fish and Wildlife. There’s a report.”

“They did not write a report.”

“Merv. I seen the report.” He finished his Bud, Carla setting another one down, without being asked. Merv rattled his ice and she poured more vodka, straight into it. She knew she shouldn’t have, but Merv was harmless.

Carla worked here, bartending at Harley’s for sixteen years. She had a talent for tuning out Dale while simultaneously tracking every word. Daddy taught her that trick. “You don’t have to listen to everything, darlin’,” he’d say. She never forgot.

“What about the Buick?” said a younger guy at the end — Todd Marston, who’d only been coming in for two months. He was young and still made the mistake of encouraging Dale. Carla warned him a few days ago not to.

Dale’s eyes lit up. “Oh.” Dale snapped. “That’s right. I almost forgot. The Buick.” He set his beer down with ceremony. “So.” Carla paid close attention to Dale. When he started talking, his hands moved as fast as his mouth. Sometimes, it was highly entertaining. “The raccoon — same raccoon, mind you, or at least we think it was the same raccoon — that sucker somehow got into Ray Clemmons’ unlocked Buick. Ray gets in, starts it up, gets halfway down Orchard before he realizes something is breathing on his neck.”

“No,” said Todd.

“Breathing. On. His. Neck!”

Merv stared into his glass.

“So what had happened was Ray? He drives the dang Buick into a ditch, hits his head on the steering wheel, the raccoon jumps out stage right, through the passenger window, still wearing — and I cannot stress this enough — still wearing the Cardinals hat.” Dale spread his hands like a man who has delivered a sermon and is waiting for the congregation to respond.

The door creaked open, spilling sunlight inside Harley’s Tap, Phil Gettner walking inside. The door shut, Phil looking the color of a fresh piece of school chalk. He was a good man, working at the county assessor’s office, coaching youth soccer, and was, by all accounts, the most level-headed man in Clakus County. His shirt was untucked, a leaf embedded in his hair. His hands were shaking when he put them on the bar, a thin film of sweat on his upper lip.

“Carla,” he said. “Double whiskey. Please.”

Carla poured both shots before he finished the sentence.

Phil drank the first one, slamming the glass on the bar. Then made quick work of the second. He was staring out into the middle distance, past Carla.

“Phil.” Dale leaned over. “You okay, buddy?”

Phil turned slowly. His left eye twitched once.

“There was a raccoon,” he said, “in my car.”

The bar went quiet.

“Phil.” Dale’s voice was almost gentle. “Was it wearing a hat?”

Phil looked at Dale for a long moment.

Then he looked at Carla.

“Another one.”

Carla was already pouring, the bar silent.