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Gangster.
I avoided the hood and tossed the homeless guy a couple of ones. Not that he seemed to notice. I passed him by and headed towards my local bar, Drake’s. Rough but quiet, I’d been there a few times and the locals mostly ignored me, perhaps sensing what I was.
A young woman walked past, looking at me with hooded eyes, her hips swaying. I winked, and she smiled.
I had to walk a couple blocks and cross the road to get to the bar. Apparently, it was named after the owner, a rough guy of few words who mainly grunted when you ordered a drink. He looked like he could handle himself. I liked him instantly.
I walked in the main door, swinging the heavy door back effortlessly. My eyes scanned the bar. The usual suspects were there— two old guys sitting on stools at the bar which stretched across the back of the building, with bathrooms either side. There were a couple of other regulars dotted about on the faded red leather booths that ran down either side of the building. The space in the middle of the bar was filled with wooden tables and chairs, all slightly mismatched.
The locals barely paid me any attention as I walked past the tables and chairs to approach the bar. One of the old guys nodded at me, and I nodded back in greeting. The owner seemed to notice the exchange and looked my way. “Whiskey on the rocks?” he said, in a gravelly voice.
“Yeah,” I replied. “And a round for the bar.” The old guys on my right raised their glasses and nodded muttered thanks. The other guys behind me in the booths toasted me a bit more vigorously.
Well, I guess that’s my initiation, I thought. Just one of the locals now. I guess they like that I don’t say much, don’t cause any trouble, and can handle my drink.
“Thanks,” I grunted, picking up the whiskey that had been placed in front of me. I opted for a bar stool on the other side of the bar as the two old locals. Usually, that earned me a frown or two, but now that I’d risen to the rank of initiated local, I wasn’t even glanced at.
As I took my seat at the bar, the door opened loudly behind me. I heard voices in a heated exchange, arguing about whose round it was, it seemed. The voices approached, piercing the silence in the bar with crude conversation.
Just what I fucking need, I thought as I took a swig of whiskey. And I was starting to relax.
Without turning, I could smell trouble. These new arrivals were already drunk and sounded up for a fight. I’d been around enough drunken idiots in my time to know when they were out looking for trouble. Why they’d walked into a bar for old men though, I had no clue. All I knew was that they’d chosen the wrong time to come because considering my mood, I wasn’t afraid of knocking a couple heads together, if it meant peace and quiet. And since I’d just been initiated as a local, I doubted anyone would object to my attempt to restore the peace.
The two guys approached the bar, quieting for a second to debate over who was paying.
“Get us two beers, with whiskey chasers,” one said once the quiet debate was over. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the one who’d sp
oken was the smaller of the two, probably the brains. The guy to his right was big, half-fat and half-muscle.
Drake didn’t say a word as he begrudgingly prepared the drinks for the two, taking twice as long as he would for a local. His gaze was fixed intently on the two rough men in front of him, although he didn’t look fazed at all.
Probably got a shotgun under the bar, I mused.
The two guys resumed their heated conversation, but this time the big guy boasted to his friend about how he had recently bedded his colleague’s wife.
“Yeah, after the party, we had to celebrate finishing the last job, you know. The apartment block.” He paused to take a huge swig of whiskey, followed by half of his bottle of beer.
Construction. Explains the equal ratio of fat and muscle.
His friend laughed loudly, patting him on the shoulder before the big guy continued his boasting. “You know Mike’s wife, Shelley? Gagging for it, she was. Said he wasn’t up to the job and she needed someone big to take care of her.”
I stopped listening and pretended to watch the small TV above the bar behind Drake. I shifted on my seat and drained the rest of my whiskey in one go, sliding the empty glass over towards the barman. He refilled my glass obligingly and was rather generous with the measure. I nodded at him slightly, an intense look on my face meant to convey that these two knuckleheads were no problem, and I could handle them if need be.
Catching my drift, he nodded back and resumed his stance at the center of the bar.
One of the old guys on the stools said something to the other, and the other laughed.
“What’s that, old man?” the big guy said, turning to face the old drunks, his back now turned to me. “Got something to say?”
“Yeah, say it so we can all hear,” his sidekick chimed in.
“Right.” The big guy gestured with his beer bottle. “Ain’t polite sayin’ things about others under your breath.”
The old guy sat silently, taking a long drink from his glass. In fact, he seemed to be pretending he hadn’t heard anything at all and was doing a damn good job of it.
The two thugs exchanged glances, and the smaller guy raised his eyebrows. The big one then smiled meanly and together, they turned to face the old man.
“We’re talking to you. Don’t you go pretending you’ve suddenly gone deaf. I ain’t afraid of teaching you a lesson in manners, old man.” The big guy stepped forward and poked a sausage-like finger into the old man’s chest.
