Northern Lights

found in the spring thaw, he decided not to argue the point. Or mention the law against carrying open containers of alcohol in a vehicle or the dangers of drinking while operating heavy machinery.
    Bing turned his massive shoulders. Nate could see nothing but his eyes, squinting between watch cap and scarf. "See for yourself." He shoved the bottle into Nate's hand.
    It didn't seem like the moment to mention he wasn't much of a drinker. More politic, he decided, and companionable to take a slug. When he did, his head exploded and his throat and stomach lining burned to cinders.
    "Merciful Mother of God."
    He choked and, when he inhaled, swallowed shards of flame rather than ice. Through the ringing in his ears he could hear laughing. Unless the sound was the howl of some giant, maniacal wolf.
    "What the fucking fuck is that?" He continued to wheeze while tears streamed out of his eyes and froze on his face. "Battery acid? Plutonium? Liquid fire of hell?"
    Bing took the bottle back, took a chug, and capped it. "Horse turd whiskey."
    "Oh perfect."
    "Man can't handle his whiskey ain't no man."
    "If that's the criteria, I'll be a woman."
    "I'll take you back, Mary. Done all can be done for now."
    "Praise the tiny Baby Jesus."
    There was a crinkling of the skin around Bing's eyes that could have indicated a smile. He reversed, turned around. "I got twenty in the pool says you'll be packing your bag before the end of the month."
    Nate sat still, his throat burning, eyes stinging, his feet like icebergs despite two pair of thermal socks and boots. "Who holds the pool?"
    "Skinny Jim, works the bar at The Lodge."
    Nate merely nodded.
    He didn't know where Bing got his sense of direction but decided the man could've guided Magellan. He zipped the machine along in the blinding snow and arrowed it straight to the curb at The Lodge.
    Nate's knees and ankles wept when he jumped down. The snow on the sidewalk reached those frozen knees, and the wind blew it rudely in his face as he gripped the rope guide and pulled himself toward the door.
    The heat inside was almost painful. Clint Black rolled out of the juke and replaced the humming in his ears. There were a dozen people seated at the bar or at tables, drinking, eating, holding conversations as if the wrath of God wasn't blowing on the other side of the door.
    Lunatics, he thought. Every one of them.
    He wanted coffee—blistering hot—and red meat. He'd cheerfully eat it raw.
    He nodded as people called out to him and was fighting with snaps and zippers when Charlene hurried over to him.
    "Why you poor thing! You must be frozen solid. Let me help you with that coat."
    "I've got it. I—"
    "Your fingers will be all stiff."
    It was too weird, too surreal, to have the mother of the woman he'd bedded that afternoon undoing his snow-coated parka.
    "I've got it, Charlene. Could use some coffee though. Appreciate that."
    "I'll get it for you myself, right away." She patted his cold cheek. "You just sit right down."
    But when he'd managed to strip off everything but his shirt and pants, he walked to the bar. He pulled out his wallet, signaled to the man they called Skinny Jim. "Here's a hundred," he said in a voice loud enough to carry. "Put it in the pool. It says I'm staying."
    He stuck his wallet back in his pocket, then sat beside John. "Professor."
    "Chief."
    Nate angled his head to read the title of the current book. " Cannery Row. Good one. Thanks, Charlene."
    "Don't you mention it." She set his coffee down. "We've got a nice stew tonight. Warm you right up. Unless you want me to take care of that for you."
    "Stew would be great. Have you got rooms if some of these people need to stay here tonight?"
    "We always got room at The Lodge. I'll dish you up that stew."
    Nate swiveled on his stool, sipping coffee as he checked the room. Someone had plugged an old Springsteen into the juke, and The Boss was singing about his glory days while pool balls thudded into pockets. He recognized all the faces—regulars, people he saw nearly every night. He couldn't see the pool players from his angle but made out the voices. The Mackie brothers.
    "Any of these people going to get drunk, then try to get home?" he asked John.
    "Mackies might, but Charlene would talk them out of it. Most will clear out in an hour or so, and the die-hards will still be here in the morning."
    "Which camp would you be?"
    "That depends on you." John lifted his beer.
    "Meaning?"
    "If you take Charlene up on her offer,