A Soft-Shoe Shuffle
The weather was turning cold fast tonight. Too cold for this far south. But he was closing in on the origins of that violent outburst that had been consuming him across the city. Still he needed to warm himself a bit before pressing forward on a madman's errand. Even if he would only warm the shell of his cold heart. It was a start.
He knew where to go for oen of the few friendly faces he knew and quick bit of liquid warmth. The dimly lit sign served as his momentary beacon, his oasis in a nightmare that was called his life. Standing just a bit straighter he pressed into the cramped business taking in what was before him.
A scent of death of laced the bar choking out the stench stale booze and burnt tobacco that had hung about the drab little shelter like a celestial wreath. It was the second thing Mike noticed when he forced upon the antique door, its cracked and warped rose-hued glass distorting the bleak images cast by the few occupants of the dive called Grady's. She was the first.
Mike stood in thrall of her callous beauty, damn she was better than I remembered. The world began to fall away for him. The bruises and forget-me-nots left by his last associates were fast becoming a distant memory. Those blonde curls and dimples, her ample cleavage, the tight fabric of her violet dress, she was a goddess given life. A chill wind blew around him calling the self-absorbed to forget their own pity long enough to start a grumble about the tiny business.
"Close the door ya fool!" barked the aging barkeep setting down the chipped glass he had been feverishly cleaning for no patron in particular, "Think we all wanna freeze in 'ere?"
He almost apologized to the man that should have been Grady. The old codger looked like Grady. Tall with a slight slouch. A wild patch of curly black hair ringing his bald pate. Still, the sunken eyes, the limp fingers, his lack of sway after beeing up on his feet for so long on a night like tonight. The door slid from Mike's loose grasp, as it closed taking the fresh air Mike knew Grady wasn't Grady anymore. He caught that ever present whiff of fatal change in the air.
That blonde witch broke the poor old fart. His mind returning to the woman he had fallen in and out of love with again just by entering a room, "Sorry man, rough night."
Never breaking the guilt-ridden stare at his lost fem-fatale Mike claimed the bar's center stool, running a hand across his head to squeeze out a bit of release from his ever fraying nerves Mike felt the dried blood and filth of a day poorly spent, "G, could I get a bourbon and a wet rag?"
Sizing up the last paying customer of the day, the man they were politely calling Grady let out a sigh and set about pouring a drink, "It's a dollar for taking the drink and leaving the stains."
With a mostly mumbled "whatever" Mike pulled a couple of bills off of his dwindling roll and dropped them on the aging wood. He'd be collecting it all soon enough. Joe couldn't be the first, but Mike was certain that the dock-rat wouldn't be the last.
Tagging out a cigarette from its crumpled pack and palming one of the bar's matchbooks he lit his newest addiction and took a long drag. That was pleasure. In the drawn out quiet of the bar, Mike knew that it was beginning. The few others lost to society that clung ot this shallow pocket of pergatory were all staring at him, without actually doing it.
Fuck'em was all Mike could muster to himself at the moment. Was he wearing the old man's mark?
No, more likely the old man had put out a mark on him.
If so, that's going to attract a lot of bottom feeders tonight. He hated having to clean. He had given it up years ago. Made a big deal of it, pawned his .45 for drinking money to celebrate. Of course drinking wasn't so legal back then, but hell, niether was cleaning.
Still it did pay well. He thought about that goddess with the silver deringer that must have been pointed at him by now.
"Been a long time Lace."
"Too long Mike, you broke my heart when you moved to Jersey," hearing the lilting sultry tones of her voice, just hinting at a southern accent sent chills dancing across his spine.
Drawing another long hit of his cigarette, "As I recall I broke your heart, but you broke my arm and four ribs," then watching for the ideal moment to cut off her denial he added, "Seemed fair to me at the time."
Lace tried to look hurt, but pain was something that she was never able to wear, not even if the job called for it. "Listen honey-bear, you have to know he'd be here tonight. Its the one night he's willing to make a house call. You got to leave," she almost seemed concerned about him though, that was something new for both of them to experience, "You shouldn't have gone looking..." It seemed like she wanted to say more but just didn't have the right words. That wasn't it though. It wasn't the words. It was the feelings. She never had the right feelings.
"I'll leave. But not til after the new year gets started," he was scanning her from beneath half closed eyes. He didn't know how far she would take it. And she had the guns. He hated playing the short stack, still he knew Lace and that was something.
"Dammit you stubborn jack-ass, why can't you understand what- who he is?" She had let too much of the concern in. Her walls might be cracking. Lace remembered why she hated this particular SOB so much.
Mike took another hit, the red tip flaring up, its caustic glow serving as good a resonse as any words he might have conjured up if the door hadn't been hammered open by one solid bang.
Everyone and everything still in the bar turned to look at the door.
The metallic click was only a whisper in the room's haze.
Mike was the second to react; damn, a beat cop.
He knew where to go for oen of the few friendly faces he knew and quick bit of liquid warmth. The dimly lit sign served as his momentary beacon, his oasis in a nightmare that was called his life. Standing just a bit straighter he pressed into the cramped business taking in what was before him.
A scent of death of laced the bar choking out the stench stale booze and burnt tobacco that had hung about the drab little shelter like a celestial wreath. It was the second thing Mike noticed when he forced upon the antique door, its cracked and warped rose-hued glass distorting the bleak images cast by the few occupants of the dive called Grady's. She was the first.
Mike stood in thrall of her callous beauty, damn she was better than I remembered. The world began to fall away for him. The bruises and forget-me-nots left by his last associates were fast becoming a distant memory. Those blonde curls and dimples, her ample cleavage, the tight fabric of her violet dress, she was a goddess given life. A chill wind blew around him calling the self-absorbed to forget their own pity long enough to start a grumble about the tiny business.
"Close the door ya fool!" barked the aging barkeep setting down the chipped glass he had been feverishly cleaning for no patron in particular, "Think we all wanna freeze in 'ere?"
He almost apologized to the man that should have been Grady. The old codger looked like Grady. Tall with a slight slouch. A wild patch of curly black hair ringing his bald pate. Still, the sunken eyes, the limp fingers, his lack of sway after beeing up on his feet for so long on a night like tonight. The door slid from Mike's loose grasp, as it closed taking the fresh air Mike knew Grady wasn't Grady anymore. He caught that ever present whiff of fatal change in the air.
That blonde witch broke the poor old fart. His mind returning to the woman he had fallen in and out of love with again just by entering a room, "Sorry man, rough night."
Never breaking the guilt-ridden stare at his lost fem-fatale Mike claimed the bar's center stool, running a hand across his head to squeeze out a bit of release from his ever fraying nerves Mike felt the dried blood and filth of a day poorly spent, "G, could I get a bourbon and a wet rag?"
Sizing up the last paying customer of the day, the man they were politely calling Grady let out a sigh and set about pouring a drink, "It's a dollar for taking the drink and leaving the stains."
With a mostly mumbled "whatever" Mike pulled a couple of bills off of his dwindling roll and dropped them on the aging wood. He'd be collecting it all soon enough. Joe couldn't be the first, but Mike was certain that the dock-rat wouldn't be the last.
Tagging out a cigarette from its crumpled pack and palming one of the bar's matchbooks he lit his newest addiction and took a long drag. That was pleasure. In the drawn out quiet of the bar, Mike knew that it was beginning. The few others lost to society that clung ot this shallow pocket of pergatory were all staring at him, without actually doing it.
Fuck'em was all Mike could muster to himself at the moment. Was he wearing the old man's mark?
No, more likely the old man had put out a mark on him.
If so, that's going to attract a lot of bottom feeders tonight. He hated having to clean. He had given it up years ago. Made a big deal of it, pawned his .45 for drinking money to celebrate. Of course drinking wasn't so legal back then, but hell, niether was cleaning.
Still it did pay well. He thought about that goddess with the silver deringer that must have been pointed at him by now.
"Been a long time Lace."
"Too long Mike, you broke my heart when you moved to Jersey," hearing the lilting sultry tones of her voice, just hinting at a southern accent sent chills dancing across his spine.
Drawing another long hit of his cigarette, "As I recall I broke your heart, but you broke my arm and four ribs," then watching for the ideal moment to cut off her denial he added, "Seemed fair to me at the time."
Lace tried to look hurt, but pain was something that she was never able to wear, not even if the job called for it. "Listen honey-bear, you have to know he'd be here tonight. Its the one night he's willing to make a house call. You got to leave," she almost seemed concerned about him though, that was something new for both of them to experience, "You shouldn't have gone looking..." It seemed like she wanted to say more but just didn't have the right words. That wasn't it though. It wasn't the words. It was the feelings. She never had the right feelings.
"I'll leave. But not til after the new year gets started," he was scanning her from beneath half closed eyes. He didn't know how far she would take it. And she had the guns. He hated playing the short stack, still he knew Lace and that was something.
"Dammit you stubborn jack-ass, why can't you understand what- who he is?" She had let too much of the concern in. Her walls might be cracking. Lace remembered why she hated this particular SOB so much.
Mike took another hit, the red tip flaring up, its caustic glow serving as good a resonse as any words he might have conjured up if the door hadn't been hammered open by one solid bang.
Everyone and everything still in the bar turned to look at the door.
The metallic click was only a whisper in the room's haze.
Mike was the second to react; damn, a beat cop.
posted by Phil M. at 12:12 AM
5 Comments:
Sorry, I was a bit later than I liked getting this out tonight.
Hope its to your liking.
i like it and i like how yr linking them together...interesting way of doing that, good imagery also.
I do appreciate the vote of confidence and that everyone is enjoying it so far.
I like it too.
King, I am dedicating the Mike character to you. It just seems like the right thing. I hope you enjoy it, there is a good bit more to go and ideas are tumbling all about. Just hope it doesn't get tired or boring.
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