Post by crossrecoba on Jan 11, 2020 7:48:37 GMT -8
The whiskey swirled slowly around the tumbler as it had done since it had been placed in Christian’s hand. He tried to get his bearings but everything in the place was off but he couldn’t quite place how or why.
When he’d first received the text asking to meet Cross at this bar he’d done his due diligence. He’d Googled it and found the address, he’d checked for any news stories that might hint at any sign of a trap and had found nothing. Being truthful, the only sign of anything amiss was that their TripAdvisor reviews hinted that they might water down the liquor, and that wasn’t something that he was going to take too much umbrage with.
It was ultimately the normality of the place that was getting to him. He could count on his hands the number of times he’d frequented a place like this. No need for memberships or guest lists, the closest thing to a wine list was a blackboard sat on the traditional wooden bar advertising a two-for-one offer on prosecco.
The clientele was a mixed bag. He’d overheard two guys discussing a merger as he walked in the door, then found the resident drunk propping up the bar. With all that said, he still couldn’t shake that feeling of unease as the scotch continued to churn around the glass.
“Just so you know, that’s one of your tells in poker.” the words struck Christian out of his fugue. They were delivered with neither a taunt or jibe implied, spoken matter of factly.
Cross sat across the table, for every bit anxious that Christian felt he looked he saw the opposite reflected in Recoba. He found his eyes tracking to the briefcase that sat on the table and wondering what the contents could be.
“Why here, Cross?” The words fell out of Christian’s mouth before he knew he’d said them.
Cross sipped from the pint of pilsner, his fingers drummed idly on the briefcase.
“Look around you…” Cross lazily waved a hand, “...everyone who comes here has a story. I told you before I went to Egypt, I’m not in the business of killing people - this is a place that a few of us use to talk about things that we don’t want others to know about, it’s quiet but public, it’s not extravagant without being exclusive, it’s a place for the everyman.” Cross stopped drumming the seemingly random beat as he shilled for the bar.
“Everyone has stories….what?” Christian had picked this detail to obsess on and stop his hand from instinctively twirling the scotch.
“You see the guy at the bar?” Cross rolled his eyes towards a man in a button-down and slacks.
Christian nodded.
“That’s Bacon…” Cross began.
“Why do you call him Bacon?”
“I forget what his real name is, to be honest I’m not even sure I was told it in the first place but ‘Why Bacon?’. He grew up in poverty, got involved in all kinds of things that’ll lead to Juvie. His biggest talent was his worst enemy, he never got charged - so, legend has it, one of the old timers said that he spent so much time at the police station he must be a cop...hence Bacon. He’s one helluva talker but, even after he’s proved he’s a trusted guy he still can’t shift the name.” Cross studied Christian’s reaction but he remained a mixture of shook and impassive.
“Okay, try this one - you see the guy you passed on the way in, nearest the door, real nice suit, tailored. He holds all his meetings here, not for the reasons I got you here, the guy is a grade A soak. I’ve talked to him before, served in the army, saw no end of atrocities, did ten years fighting for his country and did that turn him into a raging alcoholic? No. He told me that when he got back and landed himself a stressful, all hours of the day job that still didn’t do it. When he came home early to his wife, the mother of his children, he heard her in their bedroom screaming the house down. He went upstairs and saw she was riding another man...that still didn’t do it…”
Christian took a long glug from his scotch.
“He realised it was his own father, in one moment he’d lost his wife and his father. His kids had lost their mother and their grandmother and still, he told me, that wasn’t what broke him. What did it was the fact she turned round, locked eyes with him, like full on eye contact - that...that was what did it for him. That every time he gets full clarity he can’t unsee that. He’s never drunk when working but he’s never totally sober, just buzzed enough that he can get his job done and blur out that one life-defining moment.”
“What’s this got to do with me, Cro-” Christian was cut off by Recoba’s cell going.
Cross covered the speaker.
“Look after that briefcase, will ya? Don’t open it though. You’ll get the wrong kind of attention.”
Cross walked out the door, the phone glued to his ear. Christian didn’t know why he did it but he put his ear to the case. Why did his first instinct lead him to check for ticking?
“Same again?” The words startled Christian as his head bolted back to see a barmaid who’d been around the block a few times hovering over the table.
“What?... Yes, please.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than a generous four fingers were placed into the tumbler.
“You know that guy well?” The barmaid asked the inferred tone suggested he didn’t.
“Yeah, we’re friends.” Christian wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.
“I overheard him telling a few stories but not his own.” The barmaid began, “He’s never mentioned it to me, I was here first hand to hear it from his own uncle. He’d pop into town every few weeks and, like these places have a habit of doing, we’d go from pleasantries to asking about the family. One week he came in and I couldn’t work out if he was proud or intimidated when he told the story, still can’t now, if I’m being truthful.”
Christian’s mind had snapped out of the fog and she had his full attention.
“His uncle, he walks in and normally he was a beer with a vodka chaser guy, he sits down at the bar and this time he just cuts out the beer, orders three double vodkas and nails the first one immediately. Right then I knew he had something to tell me, and you know, it’s my job to hear everything and know nothing. So I ask him what’s wrong…”
Christian tapped on the now empty glass for a refill. The barmaid pours as she continues.
“Your buddy there, he’d been told that everyone had to pitch in with cash where they could to make ends meet - his father just upped and disappeared one day. So, he takes it upon himself to go down to the big high school football game, gets there early and pitches up with a sign saying ‘Parking, five bucks.’. Most the people, they like the kid’s spirit, he musta been ten if a day. One guy turns up in this huge van and drives straight past him and parks. As he gets out the van, your friend approaches him and tells him he’ll look after his car for five bucks…”
The barmaid notices that Christian has drained the second of the scotches and tops him off.
“You know, his uncle was on his third vodka by this point too. Anyways, he’s a grown man, he tells the kid - “I’m alright, I’ve got two rottweilers in there”. Now this, this is where his uncle’s eyes grew wide when he told me. He pulled out a lighter, spun it round his fingers and replies “Oh, put out fires can they?”.”
Christian swallowed audibly.
“Sorry, tell you what, that last one’s on me. But I’ve not seen you here before, always best in this place to know who you’re drinking with.” Christian palmed her a twenty as she walked off.
Cross walked back into the bar, he wore the same smile he did when he won a big hand. The phone was now back into his jacket pocket, instead, he twirled a zippo absent-mindedly as he walked to the table. Christian stood up and extended his hand.
“Sorry, Cross, Blythe’s called. Can we discuss this later in the week?” Cross met his hand as he apologized.
Cross watched him leave the bar before picking up his beer and drinking the last remnants from it. As he approached the bar he slid two C notes to the barmaid and walked out onto the sidewalk.
*****
