23 May 2008

Story of the Day - Installment 2

You can tell a lot about a guy by his clothes. The giant had nice ones. Pants and shirt were tailor-made. Shoes matched the belt - both were patent leather. His overcoat was nice too, a hell of a lot nicer than mine. And warmer. He moved comfortably in them. He was well-healed. Had been for a while.

"I need a drink. You?" I ask as we pause at the lip of the alley.

"Whatever. Just make it warm," the giant replies. "And clean." Apparently fastidiousness is a fetish for this guy. As we walk I noticed a slight limp. It doesn't seem to faze him. Probably forgot about it long ago. It looked like the type of injury that a comfortable guy like this got playing prep football.

"In here," I motioned him into the second bar we passed. I walked in like I owned the place. But I didn't know the joint. I make it a rule never to meet business contacts at bars I frequent. That's one thing the stories get wrong. The place looked clean. The barkeep had on a tie. The waitresses were good-looking but not young. They knew their business. Despite the rain, the bar was well-lit. Another advantage when meeting with unknown informants. Especially giant ones.

I lead us to a table in the corner and take the seat facing the door. It always seems like a good idea to face the door. Except when you get pinned in by a giant. If things went bad, I'd have to get past the brute. Bad planning. I blame the adrenaline. It's still pumping and I'm consciously keeping my breaths measured. The waitress watches us sit down and then walks over to the table. All business.

"Scotch, neat," I say before she can ask. She looks at me. She looks around. Her rolling gaze forces me to look around too. That's when I notice the detail. The place isn't just nice - it's spectacular. Her eyes stop on the bar. I get the picture. "Whatever's cheap." She rolls her eyes and looks at the brute. She takes in the clothes and the man in a glance. Her expectations rise. "Same," he says, and then adds with that incongruously high voice "with a coffee, black." The eye roll is even worse this time. She saunters off without a word.

While waiting for the drinks, we take each other's measure. I leave my hat on and project quiet confidence. The giant takes his hat off. Pulls out a handkerchief and wipes down his face. The clothes and voice don't match the face. This guy's seen life. The bad part. It's not that he's ugly. Or scarred. But his eyes have seen stuff that make him cringe. Perpetually. It's a haunting look. I look down. Can't meet his eyes. That doesn't happen often.

And then I notice the hands. Fighter's hands. Not recently, but at some point the brute broke people. Noses, jaws, probably ribs. The adrenaline starts up again. I sit up straighter. Look him in the eye. No fear.

"What do you got for me?" I throw out. All business.

1 Comments:

Blogger Justin said...

Shaping up nicely my friend. It's got a good tone that sounds of Hammett - it's all in the eyes.

I'm impressed you write so crisply from one day to the next. Keep it going! I'm waiting for the naive, moon-eyed, midwestern sweetheart to walk into the office;)

4:00 AM  

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