Belligerent Rejectamenta

I’d been sitting at the bar for an hour and a half, nursing a bourbon and keeping tabs on my mark in the mirror behind the barkeep. As near as I could tell, the subject had no idea I’d been following him, which is always good. I followed him in at a nice unremarkable 15-minute lag, in hopes of avoiding suspicion. It wouldn’t do at all to get made this early in the game…I like to have a better feel for what’s really going on with a case before anybody involved can figure out I’m working it. Saves on the black eyes and bloodied noses in the long run, and if half the rumors about Peter Albany were even partially true, I’d be in for worse than that if I got caught unprepared.

Albany’s past, or what little I could piece together, was a long string of involvements with the seriously weird. He’d lived for a bit in one of the more notorious “occult commune” houses in San Francisco in the Seventies, followed the scene to New York in the Eighties, and abruptly fallen off the face of the planet some time in the Nineties. Rumor had it he was involved with some sort of group that attempted a millenial working, but if the rumor was true, nobody had any idea what the intent might have been. Despite pushing 60, he appeared to be in remarkably good shape. From the expensive tweed coat and cashmere scarf to the bulging money clip he was peeling to cover the 18-year single malt he was drinking, it was clear that whatever he was into now was treating him well.

“You ready for another one?” The bartender snapped me out of my clandestine observations with a hint of sarcasm. I’d been nursing the same double for over an hour, so I imagine he was impatient to see me spend a bit more money. Fair enough.

“Sure. But make it a single on the rocks, if you don’t mind,” I replied, sliding a $20 to him in hopes of appeasing his mercantile instinct. I shot a glance at the mirror to make sure Albany was where I’d left him, and was dismayed to see he was no longer alone. A dark-haired man, slight of build, sat with his back to me, elbows on the table, talking urgently to Albany. The older man’s face maintained a studied neutrality, but it was clear from what little body language I could read that his new companion was very worked up about something and fighting to keep his manner subdued. After a few minutes of this, Albany leaned in conspiratorially and spoke a few words and then gestured for the fellow to be on his way. The newcomer rose and turned toward the door, and he caught me looking in the mirror. Our eyes met for only an instant, and I mentally cursed myself for the lapse. From the look on the fellow’s face, some sort of confrontation seemed imminent. My mind raced for some sort of decent line of bullshit while I fought to keep my poker face on and seem nonchalant.

I was saved the hassle of lying to the guy when all hell broke loose. Half way across the bar floor towards me, Albany’s pal stumbled a few steps, and the front of his very business-like shirt blossomed a pair of very unbusiness-like red patches. With that ubiquitous look of incredulity common to the unexpectedly shot, he dropped to his knees and collapsed on the floor. Before he’d made it all the way down, bar patrons started shouting and screaming, tables and chairs were knocked over, and the mob made a mad dash towards the exit. That’s when I spotted the two men in the long coats sporting silenced pistols. They didn’t seem a bit fazed by the crowd rushing their way, and hadn’t so much as glanced my direction. They weaved through the mob waving their guns around, heading purposefully towards the table in the back where Albany was, or at least had been, sitting. The old man had vanished, and I was of a mind to do the same. The bartender was on all fours behind the bar, crawling for the kitchen door. If I bailed out now, though, I’d never have a clue who this guy cooling in a pool of his own red red kroovy was, nor what connection he had to Albany.

Dropping off my barstool, I made for the corpse on hands and knees. There were enough people still screaming and running around in a panic I figured I might pull this off unnoticed. The shooters seemed more keen on examining the corner where Albany had been at the moment, but I knew that wasn’t going to last. I skinned the sportcoat off Dead Guy, rolling it up and tucking it under my arm. There was a small .380 tucked into a holster at the back of his waistband, so I nicked that and put it in my own coat pocket (you never know when having somebody else’s gun might be handy). Before I could check pants pockets, I heard a shout from the back, and looked up just in time to see the terrible twosome turning their attention and their pistols my way. I was up and running towards the bar before they could fire, and vaulted the bar somewhat ungracefully, taking glasses, bottles, and some fixtures with me.

I scrambled for the kitchen door, and heard the angry buzz of a subsonic slug tear through the air to my right, coupled with the meaty thunk of another slug tearing a into the doorframe just above my head. The barkeep was already at the back door when he heard the racket I made crashing through racks of pots and pans. As he slammed into the crash bar and into the staff parking lot, I could hear the distant howl of sirens. Covering the length of the kitchen in four running strides, I joined him out back and slammed the door behind me. Two more shots rang off the other side of the metal fire door, eliciting howls of terror from the barkeep and a wince from me. These guys weren’t about to give up on me that easily.

Fuck.