Auld, After the Bar
The night air is frozen, and the sky that hangs above the houses is the colour of ice on a black highway. Despite the cold, Auld is dressed in a pair of jeans and a thin, cotton shirt. He wraps his arms around his narrow chest, tucking his hands beneath his armpits, but with the air of a man who's only acting cold, as if it's a game.
He steps onto a metal pipe running parallel to the gutter, balancing with exaggerated difficulty, stretching his arms out like a tightrope walker. He watches the ground beneath him, the blanket of snow on the pavement white-orange and sparkling in the reflected light of street lamps. Abruptly, the pipe comes to an end, but Auld simply hops off and makes a left at the corner. Stenciled on the side of a nearby wall is a large mural of the King of Diamonds. The artist has taken obvious pains to recreate the details of the card faithfully, from the elaborate brocade on the king's robe to the jewels in his pointed crown, and the long, finely-wrought scepter in his hands. All of this stands in stark contrast to the blank space where the king's face should be; freed of semblance, the image is at once every king and none, both imposing and anonymous. Beneath it, the words "WHO'S IN CHARGE?" have been written in a clear, bold font.
Two men emerge from a doorway at the top of the street. They are dressed identically, in black duffel coats made of a slick, synthetic material and opaque goggles, the lenses of which stand an inch from their faces. Both of the men are bald, their chapped heads left bare to the cold, but while one is middle-aged and short, the other is taller, thinner, and younger. The older man is carrying a leather briefcase.
Auld falls into step behind them, his manner indifferent. His eyes wander aimlessly over the houses on his left. This far north they are all old and run-down, many of them showing signs of earthquake damage, their roofs tilted at odd angles and the occasional snaking crack in the wall.
The two men turn right at the next corner and Auld turns with them, entering a road not much wider than an alley. At the far end a single street light sputters off and on with the random timing of a facial tic. The sound of the snow crunching under the men's boots issues cleanly in the still air. Auld's steps are far lighter, barely louder than whispers.
The men pause in front of a house with a wooden sign above the door. The man with the briefcase reaches into his jacket and takes out a small, round object. He looks at it for a moment and then he nods. He opens the door and the two of them disappear inside the building.
Auld glances up at the sign, and the faded image painted on it. He can just make out the shape of what must at one time have been an animal, and part of a word which might be "TAVERN", or equally "CAVERN." He clears his throat and spits, rubs his nose with the back of his hand. After a time, he opens the door and enters a small bar.
The room is deserted, with a deep thud of bass-heavy music issuing cleanly through the floorboards. On the left is a wooden counter, fronted by a row of stools. Behind the counter is a large mirror, and several glass shelves stacked with liquor bottles. Dozens of picture frames cover the opposite wall, each a different size and design, some of them extremely ornate, almost works of art in themselves, while others are the type of cheap aluminum model sold in discount department stores. Regardless of their size or shape, all of the frames are empty, showcasing nothing except the red brick of the wall behind them.
Auld walks to the counter and sits down at one of the stools, helping himself to a bottle of whiskey from the closest shelf. He examines the label, frowns, and puts it back in favour of another. Satisfied, he takes a glass from behind the counter and pours himself a double shot.
One floor beneath him is another bar with almost exactly the same layout, a similar counter and set of shelves, as well as a second wall of picture frames. Roughly thirty people are crammed into the narrow space, most of them male, and almost all of them drunk. The air is heavy with the smoke of unfiltered hand-rolleds and a pounding, electronic dance track. Despite the lack of a stage or any sign of a DJ, the music is obviously the work of a live performance: just behind the notes (or encased in them) is the steady movement of a voice, modulated and digitized, but for all of that undeniably human.
The two men Auld followed in from the street are standing at the bar. Except for the light of a few scant candles, the room is dark, but both men continue to wear their goggles.
"Where is he?" says the taller man. The shorter, older man's face twitches in irritation.
"How should I know?" he answers, setting his briefcase on the counter. The taller man smiles and turns away. Not far off is an old man in a wheelchair, one of the few people paying strict attention to the music. His eyes are closed, and he is dancing in his chair, rocking it back and forth a half a step off the beat. A series of LED lights has been wired into the chair's wheels, and as he moves they flash alternately green and then blue.
The taller man leaves the bar and approaches him. The man in the wheelchair looks up, flinching as if he expects to be assaulted, but the taller man's manner is entirely friendly, and aside from the goggles his face is open and unassuming.
"You like this kind of music too huh?" he asks.
"I love it," the man in the wheelchair says, relaxing.
"I really like your chair."
"What?"
"I really like your chair!" says the taller man again, louder. "The lights!"
"Thanks."
"Did you rig it yourself?"
"No. A friend of mine."
"What are you drinking?"
"Rice liquor over ice."
The taller man nods and gives a thumbs up sign. He goes back to the bar, orders two drinks, and returns with them a minute later. The two men clink glasses.
"Thanks a lot!" exclaims the man in the wheelchair.
"You have a good night now," says the taller man. He goes back to his place at the bar and sets his drink down next to the briefcase.
"I can't stand rice liquor," he says. The shorter man laughs.
Abruptly, the music comes to an end and the sound of dozens of shouted conversations fills the nascent silence. Unnoticed by either of the men in goggles, a young man who had been standing by himself in the corner moves toward the largest of the empty picture frames. The frame houses a door, cleverly painted to look like the rest of the wall, with a handle concealed halfway along the frame on the left side. The young man turns the handle and passes quickly into the opposite room. One of the few women in the crowd, a thirty-two year old named Eva Porter, watches him go. She is stoned, and the sight of the young man walking into a picture frame strikes her as incredibly funny.
Upstairs, Auld is pouring himself a second glass of whiskey. The door to the street bangs open, and a man enters the room. He has dark, restless eyes, and there is a small scar on his chin, something that could have been made by the tip of a knife, or just as easily by a hard fall. He takes no notice of Auld, who is sitting just two meters to his left. Auld regards him passively, rotating the glass of whiskey in his hand. He's seen the man before, but it isn't until he's halfway down the stairs that Auld recalls that his name is R.
Downstairs, the shorter of the two men in goggles nudges his companion, pointing toward R, who is busy shouldering his way through the crowd.
"You guys always wear those things?" R asks, nodding at their goggles.
"Regulations," says the taller man, smiling.
"You're on the powder?" asks the older one.
"No." R almost spits the word. "Not on it."
"We have to ask," says the taller man, and now it is the smaller man's turn to smile. His lips are thin and cracked, and the skin at his neck is scored with dozens of small cuts, as if he habitually shaves with a dull blade.
"We have to do more than ask," he sighs, and R feels himself taken roughly by the arm.
"What – ?" he starts, but falters as the tip of something hard and pointed is pressed into his spine. The taller man, gripping R's arm and digging the object further into his back, moves forward until his lips are nearly brushing aga
inst R's ear.
"Just be quiet and you can go home," he says quietly, the words smooth and cloying.
"Boys," stammers R, and gasps as the point is driven forward. He imagines his coat tearing, and pictures the tip of a cold blade against his skin.
"I'm going to take a little blood," states the older man. In the crowd behind him, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline is laughing. R's eyes flash from the laughing man to the briefcase on the counter, and then to the shorter, older man in goggles. The sound of a glass breaking comes from somewhere, and more laughter. The bartender, a tall, well-built man in his mid-20s, is chatting with a young woman a few feet away. No one notices the bead of sweat slipping along the right side of R's face, or the look of panic in his eyes.
The smaller, older man reaches into his jacket and takes out a metal box about the size of a cell phone. One end is pointed like a syringe, but is thicker at its base, and fashioned of a different material than the rest of the device. R struggles, but the taller man's grip never eases around his arm, nor does the pressure of the object at his back. The smaller man brings the device to R's neck; R looks away, his eyes landing on the smooth, leather surface of the briefcase. His thoughts fly in all directions, from the pain in his back to the pulse of blood in his captive arm, the contents of the briefcase, the bartender as well as the girl he's talking with, and the needle-fine tip of the device in the smaller man's hand.
He feels the point sinking into his neck, and his eyes widen. There is a low, hissing sound, and an inrush of air. He gasps, shuddering, and then it's over, the device is gone from his neck, and the smaller man is nodding. The taller man lets go of R's arm, releasing the pressure from his back.
"Well now," says the taller man, his voice light. "That wasn't so bad was it?" He signals the bartender.
"A whiskey," he says. The bartender nods and pours him a shot. The taller man pays for it, leaving a sizeable tip, and the bartender walks away without so much as glancing at R.
"Drink up," says the shorter man.
"Next time you better push the fuckin thing through me," he mutters. The taller man smiles, holding up a standard, ballpoint pen.
"This?" he says. R glares at him, but the man laughs, and puts the pen away in his jacket.
"You see, perception is the most important thing," says the shorter man from behind R, who turns to face him.
"Perception," echoes the taller man, behind R's back.
"A real knife is superfluous. All that matters is that you think there's a knife," continues the shorter man.
"It's all perception," says the taller man again, and laughs.
"You want ta get ta the point?" breathes R, resting his hands on the bar. He is shocked by how steady they look, how still.
"It's important for people to think there's a knife," says the smaller man.
"Very important," chimes in the taller man.
"If people understood that the knife was all in their head, it'd be trouble."
"Real knife, fake knife, I don't give a shit," says R. "You want ta hear what I have ta say or no?"
"We're all ears," declares the taller man.
"Where's the money?" asks R, glancing at the briefcase. The taller man reaches into his jacket and takes out a small wad of bills, placing them on the counter.
"Minus the cost of the whiskey," he says. R takes the money and stuffs it into the inner pocket of his coat.
"So tell us," says the smaller man.
"They're makin drops at a bar called the Eft and Dragon. Fair regular, once every couple a'weeks or so."
"Do you know when the next meet is scheduled to take place?" the shorter man asks him.
"No, but I can find out."
"You'll be well compensated if you do," says the shorter man.
"The Institute is one of the few agencies that can still guarantee it," says the taller man, laughing. R isn't sure what's supposed to be funny. He looks at the shot of whiskey on the bar, longing to drink it, but he holds back, not wanting to appear any weaker than he already has. The shorter man produces a business card and hands it to him. The card is blank except for a phone number printed in plain, black text.
"You can reach us there," he says. He nods to the taller man, and retrieves the briefcase from the counter.
"A real pleasure," says the taller man. R grunts. The two men in goggles push their way through the crowd, heading for the stairwell. Once their backs are turned, R reaches for the whiskey and downs the shot. He motions the bartender for another.
Upstairs, Auld finishes his drink and stands up. He puts the bottle of whiskey back on the shelf and the glass away behind the counter and then he exits the room. By the time the two men in goggles reach the first floor he isn't there, and by the time they leave the bar he's gone.