were strategically placed around the various wooden support beams that filled the middle of the room, while booths were tucked neatly against the right wall. The seating was specifically laid out in order to enhance the privacy effect that I spoke of earlier.
In the far back was a mini game room of sorts, a waist-high half wall giving it a sense of separation from the rest of the bar. There were two large pool tables and a couple of dartboards stuck on the wall. In the right corner I could see the entrances to the restrooms and in the middle of the back wall was the emergency exit. It appeared to be the door from which the Sorcerers stepped out of earlier. The only other thing of note was a door in the rear left corner that read private. I assumed that it was a back office or a storage room.
I walked up to the bar and took a seat. The barkeep was an older white man who appeared to be in his mid fifties. His head was shinny bald on top, with well-groomed short gray hair on the sides. He had a thick nose, narrow lips and a square jaw. His weathered skin was tight across his face, setting very defined lines to his features. He wore a blue long sleeve collared shirt, the top three buttons of which were open enough to show his white undershirt. Rolled up sleeves revealed well-defined forearms and the lower half of what appeared to be a Special Forces tattoo.
It was clear that he kept himself in impeccable shape and I had a feeling that it was for more than just the ability to shake a mean margarita. Everything about his posture gave the impression that he was paying me no mind, but I knew better. This was not the kind of man who missed much. He had noticed me the second I came through that front door. From his stance and the way that he moved behind the bar, I could tell that he knew how to handle himself. He looked over at me and gave the practiced smile of a man who doesn’t want you to know that he can kill you in fifty different ways. It was hard not to like the guy.
“First time here,” he stated.
It wasn’t a question, but rather a statement. I got the impression that he never forgot a face. I was about to say something about that when he spoke up again.
“What can I get ya?” he asked.
“Let’s see, how about a…” I started.
“A Coke,” he interrupted, “you don’t strike me as a drinker. Although with that shoulder injury, I would recommend something a little stronger. How about a bourbon, we have an extensive selection,” he smiled, never taking his eyes off of mine.
“The Coke’s fine, thanks. To be honest I was actually hoping to speak with the owner. Any chance…”
This time I stopped myself. Stillness overtook his whole body. He held his smile and to the casual observer, I’m sure that he would look exactly as he had a moment before. But I caught the slightest tension in his arm, his hand shifting unseen behind the bar. If I were a betting man, I would say that he just wrapped his fingers around a gun.
“The boss isn’t in right now, can I ask why you’re calling?” he questioned.
The smile on his face remained, but his entire demeanor was shifting. It was becoming increasingly clear that this man was paid to do a job, the least of which included mixing drinks. It would seem that this Mr. Lazarus takes his privacy and security very seriously. It boded well for his survival if I was right and there were more bad guys waiting in the wings. But for now, it put me in a rather precarious position.
I glanced at the wall behind the bar, noting the mirror that ran its length, mostly obscured behind all of the bottles. I wondered if it was one-way? Could he be on the other side of it right now, watching this exchange? It’s probably what I would be doing in his situation. I kept my expression calm, my body movements passive as to not agitate the situation any further.
“I’m afraid it’s a private matter,” I smiled.
“I see. Well I’m afraid that the bossman is not big on
In the far back was a mini game room of sorts, a waist-high half wall giving it a sense of separation from the rest of the bar. There were two large pool tables and a couple of dartboards stuck on the wall. In the right corner I could see the entrances to the restrooms and in the middle of the back wall was the emergency exit. It appeared to be the door from which the Sorcerers stepped out of earlier. The only other thing of note was a door in the rear left corner that read private. I assumed that it was a back office or a storage room.
I walked up to the bar and took a seat. The barkeep was an older white man who appeared to be in his mid fifties. His head was shinny bald on top, with well-groomed short gray hair on the sides. He had a thick nose, narrow lips and a square jaw. His weathered skin was tight across his face, setting very defined lines to his features. He wore a blue long sleeve collared shirt, the top three buttons of which were open enough to show his white undershirt. Rolled up sleeves revealed well-defined forearms and the lower half of what appeared to be a Special Forces tattoo.
It was clear that he kept himself in impeccable shape and I had a feeling that it was for more than just the ability to shake a mean margarita. Everything about his posture gave the impression that he was paying me no mind, but I knew better. This was not the kind of man who missed much. He had noticed me the second I came through that front door. From his stance and the way that he moved behind the bar, I could tell that he knew how to handle himself. He looked over at me and gave the practiced smile of a man who doesn’t want you to know that he can kill you in fifty different ways. It was hard not to like the guy.
“First time here,” he stated.
It wasn’t a question, but rather a statement. I got the impression that he never forgot a face. I was about to say something about that when he spoke up again.
“What can I get ya?” he asked.
“Let’s see, how about a…” I started.
“A Coke,” he interrupted, “you don’t strike me as a drinker. Although with that shoulder injury, I would recommend something a little stronger. How about a bourbon, we have an extensive selection,” he smiled, never taking his eyes off of mine.
“The Coke’s fine, thanks. To be honest I was actually hoping to speak with the owner. Any chance…”
This time I stopped myself. Stillness overtook his whole body. He held his smile and to the casual observer, I’m sure that he would look exactly as he had a moment before. But I caught the slightest tension in his arm, his hand shifting unseen behind the bar. If I were a betting man, I would say that he just wrapped his fingers around a gun.
“The boss isn’t in right now, can I ask why you’re calling?” he questioned.
The smile on his face remained, but his entire demeanor was shifting. It was becoming increasingly clear that this man was paid to do a job, the least of which included mixing drinks. It would seem that this Mr. Lazarus takes his privacy and security very seriously. It boded well for his survival if I was right and there were more bad guys waiting in the wings. But for now, it put me in a rather precarious position.
I glanced at the wall behind the bar, noting the mirror that ran its length, mostly obscured behind all of the bottles. I wondered if it was one-way? Could he be on the other side of it right now, watching this exchange? It’s probably what I would be doing in his situation. I kept my expression calm, my body movements passive as to not agitate the situation any further.
“I’m afraid it’s a private matter,” I smiled.
“I see. Well I’m afraid that the bossman is not big on
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