So what do you do when you can’t fix the last big problem on your PC and you’ve got an afternoon to kill?
You fiddle with blog templates and write bad noir ripoffs that don’t go anywhere.
The sign over the door read S m’s B r & E tery, blinking on and off in red. (The a’s had been smashed out by some wise guy trying to make a point and regulars with a sense of humor usually left notes with friends saying they were going to ‘sm’s’.)
Light mist drifted down onto shiny black streets — motors putted by and threw it back up at the sky in a half-hearted attempt at a life-cycle. Men in dark suits and long coats held the arms of women in war-era dresses as they moved along: the women wore pillbox caps, the men fedoras.
In the nook of a building’s entryway, light flared. A hard match held near a hard face, eyes scanning the street over the edge of the wind-blocking hand as the cigarette lit. Headlights washed over the man, revealing a stocky frame that held up a double-breasted suit, black trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat like they’d been hung over a refrigerator to dry out.
He tossed away the match, exhaled, and stepped onto the walk.
-----
People didn’t usually look directly at you in Sm’s — it just wasn’t that kind of place — that never stopped the bartender from knowing who was sitting down and having a glass ready for him.
“Evening Captain. How’s the night treating yah?”
A shrug, a tap of the cigarette. “She around?”
The barman nodded. “In back, cleaning up the poker room.”
The man nodded, dropped a bill on the bar and stood.
-----
The woman — dark gold hair pulled back out of her face — didn’t pause in her table clearing until the man sat down at one of the chairs, set his drink on the table, and shoved it toward her. At that, she sat and drank as the man removed his hat and combed thick fingers back through his hair. Her eyes were on him.
“Long night?”
A nod, eyes on his left hand as it rested on the table.
“Leads?”
He shrugged. “We know who it is, we just have to prove it.”
She nodded. “Marty okay?”
He nodded again, hoarding words.
“Do you think it’s soon?”
Another nod.
“You’re quiet.”
A pause. A shrug. He toyed with the ace lying alone on the table’s felt.
“Listen, about last --”
“I’m sorry.”
She started at the sound of his voice, then processed what he’d said. “No! Don’t be, it was just a strange night.”
The man looked up finally, his eyes dark. “They’re waiting for me.”
“At precinct?”
A nod.
“So…” She left it hang there. Cigarette smoke made a try for the ceiling, only to be beaten down by the slowly turning fan over the table.
He leaned forward, elbows to his knees, rubbing at the palm of his left hand with a thick, callused thumb. “I wanted to say --“ He shook his head and started over. “I’m not so good at this, but if you have time, after this is over, maybe we could…”
“Coffee or something?” She said, the corner of her mouth quirking up at the private joke.
He nodded, obviously relieved at the help. “Yeah. That’s good, coffee”
-----
Afterwards, she stayed sitting, feeling his last touch on her cheek — watching the light play in the amber of the drink he’d left behind.
