She turned on her heel and stormed out, long black leather coat flapping. I gave the barman a beck and he duly went to the measure. I sat content nursing my ball of malt.
The fellow sitting two stools up from me continued scratching and shaking his head following the walk out. I sat there minding my own business, perusing the Red Top someone had left behind earlier. But I had overheard the heated conversation. She was refusing point blank to do his dirty work for him. Telling him in no uncertain manner that if he wanted the exchange to go through he was ‘big and ugly enough to do it himself.’
He ordered a double brandy, removed his phone from the inside pocket of his well-tailored jacket. Making the call, he appeared not bothered if the sparsely populated bar could overhear the conversation he was having. Jack, she just stormed out a few minutes ago. You expected me to follow her? Well, you’re talking to the wrong guy then, I have no intention of putting my neck on the line for that sort of money.
I’m sitting here sipping my brandy, I have no intention of moving. Shortly after concluding the phone conversation, he had company. He ordered a gin and tonic for his companion. The conversation was muted, although there was much head shaking and gesticulation. The barman appeared edgy for some reason. Perhaps he overheard something he was not supposed to hear? The bar was now beginning to fill up with the arrival of evening revellers. This was my cue to head off home, but curiosity got the better of me.
An hour or so passed. I was just finishing up my drink and pulling on my overcoat when she arrived back at the bar. She unzipped her handbag and produced a hand gun. He never got the chance to enjoy that second brandy.
(c) Chris Black 2017.
#A story taken from my recently published book of Poetry and Short Stories, Same Train, Different Track.