Conrad really wasn't that talkative the whole night, and left with little more than a grunt when last call came. He returned the next night, slightly more refreshed, but still seeming like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
Conrad really wasn't that talkative the whole night, and left with little more than a grunt when last call came. He returned the next night, slightly more refreshed, but still seeming like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
The Spiral's a bar that pretty much everyone's heard of, and no one knows anything about. There's too many stories for it to be real; one guy says there's a European Human Trafficking ring running out of there one week, next week it's a group of people running flesh for NAMBLA, next it's illegal firearms, and the week after that, maybe the Hook-Handed Killer showed up and showed 'em all a thing or two. The truth's a lot more mundane and a lot less interesting.
It's a bar, with wooden panelled walls and a scarred old guy, who looks like every other scarred bartender with a shotgun under the counter. The people who come here tend to be the people who want to get drunk. The booze swings between okay and paint-thinner, but at least it helps you sleep at night after a couple of shots.
Hunters know it as a meeting point between cells, a place where you can slip down to the basement if the bartender knows you, and trade a bit of info or get a little no-questions-asked surgery.
Mortals know it as a Goddamned dive where you can get a quiet drink without anyone really paying attention to it. Either way, it's a good enough place to meet new people.
How this works
Samuel was already at the bar, nursing a bottle of cheap beer between his hands as he listened to the conversation going on around him. None of it so far was anything particularly of note - a guy a couple of stools away complained about his wife and girlfriend finding out about each other, a young woman bemoaning the cheap ring her boyfriend bought her to propose, a group of college-age kids getting merrier with each passing shot. He hadn't necessarily come here to discover anything interesting, but it never hurt to keep ones ear to the ground.
He took another swig of his beer. He'd been making it last for the last half an hour; he wasn't such a big drinker but he'd been informed a couple of years ago that coming into a bar like this and not ordering booze brought attention. Samuel disliked too much attention as a rule.
He glanced up when Conrad wandered in and nodded in a polite but friendly sort of way.
Vice
He nodded in return and took a seat near the stranger. With him was a small brief case sheathed in brown leather, which he eventually opened when he settled at the bar and had a drink in front of him. What Conrad fished out was a folder that he entertained himself with by leafing through its contents. For the moment, it didn't seem to be working.
Once the Old Man had given the still unfamiliar - and thus suspicious - customer his drink, he rested against the back counter to clean a small stack of already shiny glasses. He didn't expect it to be too busy for another hour or so, but that was fine. It gave him a perfect opportunity to survey his clientele. There were a lot of new faces of late, and some of them had rankled him badly; not that he was at all unnerved by it. He could handle any idiots that happened to tread onto his turf.
His steely gaze passed across Conrad and shifted to the briefcase. He said nothing: The Old Man did not idly chatter or gossip.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Bandit enters into the bar and walks up to the bar while glancing about for familiar faces. He rather hopes to meet up with Frankie again or even Diane. He pulls out his trusty old note pad with a pen and writes, Steam Beer please.
And then, after a moment, writes, Has that guy I left with come around recently? He leaves that page on the bar counter as he pulls out his wallet to pay for said beer, hoping that the Old Man will answer the question.
The Old Man stepped forward and eyed the notepad for a couple of seconds, his dark eyes scanning the text. "Nope," he answered curtly. He looked Bandit over. "Got I.D?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Bandit raises an eyebrow but flashes his rather old driver from back when he lived in Vegas. He rarely saw an need to drive a vehicle of any sort as he doesn't have a fix place to live since he left Vegas. Holding it up, he waits for the Old Man to look away before putting it away. Wonder why he bothered to ask this time around?
The reason may well be that Conrad's there, but if that's so, the man either didn't notice, or he was used to it by now. A single glance at him would indicate public servant to anyone who knew what to look for. Conrad wasn't the type to throw around that kind of weight, especially when the majority of that weight was built on the basis that he wouldn't bother the police unless needed.
Derevko strolled in with the same expression that he always had. The vicious scarring that covered his face didn't improve the scowl as he slid onto one of the barstools. The cases at work weren't improving. He still hadn't gotten a fucking motive out of Donaldson, and he wanted a Goddamn drink.
He felt an immediate stab of disappointment when he noticed that the usual cronies weren't there. Just two Goddamn strangers and the kid who'd hung out with that fucking moron.
Great.
"Jack 'n' coke. Is anyone else here tonight?"
Was this his entire social life? Fuck, hadn't he used to have something of one, back on the job? He'd played cards sometimes, and gone drinking with the other guys from the precinct. That had been a social life. He was pretty fucking sure.
Members who have read this thread : 0You do not have permission to view the list of names.
Draft this Post
