One Bad Good Friday

The barroom was dark and smoky; the luster of its wooden walls long dulled by cigar smoke that lingered in the air like an unpleasant cloud. He noticed the older man sitting at the far end of the long narrow bar, but chose a stool as far away from him as possible and promptly sat down. The bartender at the opposite end of the counter was wiping a glass with a towel, but he stopped what he was doing as soon as he noticed the young man with the moustache. A few moments later, he placed a glass of Courvoissier in front of him.

"Thanks, Pete," said the man with the moustache, taking a welcome swig.

"Only the best for our regulars," said the bartender. "Even if you are one of the brave few in here tonight. What brings you?"

"A sense of loyalty I guess," he said, smiling and shifting his weight on the stool. It wasn't the truth, but for now that would have to lay as hidden as the weapons concealed on his person. Very soon all would be revealed and that gave the young man a strange sense of peace. On this April night there was little that could jangle his spirits or mar his elation.

He turned his curly head toward the wall clock in the room's far corner. He noted the time, a quarter after eight, and returned to a long lingering sip of brandy. Running the fingers of one hand through his dark hair, he realized he would have to settle for one drink tonight. He could have and often did down three or four without the barest flinch of an eyeball, but he couldn't risk not being alert this evening. There was too much at stake.