“One for the road, mister. On the house, t/p-sy-daisy!” meaty hooks under his armpits heaving him to the bar.
The lights are out behind the bar, the jolly neons, glittering off how many gems of amber rye and the tan crystals of beer? A meager bulb above the register is the oasis in the desert of inky night.
“Sam,” groggily, “you don’t understand. I mean I never explained it-”
“Drink up, mister,” a pale free drink, soda bubbles lightly tinged with tawny rye. A small sip to gain time.
“Sam, there are some people after me—”
“You’ll feel better in the morning, mister. Drink up, I got to close up, hurry up.”
“These people, Sam [it’s cold in here and scary as a noise in the attic; the bottles stand accusingly, the chrome globes that top them eye you] these people, they’ve got a thing, The Century of—”
“Sure, mister, I let you sleep because you got it here, but we close up now, drink up your drink.”
“Sam, let me go home with you, will you? It isn’t anything like that, don’t misunderstand, I just can’t be alone. These people—look, I’ve got money—”
He spreads out what he dug from Ms pocket.
“Sure, mister, you got lots of money, two dollars and thirty-eight cents. Now you take your money and get out of the store because I got to lock up and clean out the register—”
“Listen, bartender, I’m not drunk, maybe I don’t have much money on me but I’m an important man! Important! They couldn’t run Big Maggie at Brookhaven without me, I may not have a degree but what I get from these people if you’ll only let me stay here—”
The bartender takes the pale one on the house you only sipped and dumps it in the sink; his hands are iron on you and you float while he chants:
“Decent man. Decent place. Hold their liquor. Got it here. Try be nice. Drunken bum. Don’t—come—back.”
The crash of your coccyx on the concrete and the slam of the door are one.
Run!
Down the black street stumbling over cans, cats, orts, to the pool
of light in the night, safe corner where a standard sprouts and sprays radiance.
The tall black figure that steps between is Galardo.
The short one has a tambourine.
“Take it!” He thrust out the Seal on his shaking palm. “If you won’t tell me anything, you won’t. Take it and go away!”
Galardo inspects it and sadly says: “Thiss appearss to be a blank wash-er.”
“Mistake,” he slobbers. “Minute.” He claws in his pockets, ripping. “Here! Here!”
The lassie squeaks: “The wheel of a toy truck. It will not do at all, sir.” Her glittereyes.
“Then this! This is it! This must be it!”
Their heads shake slowly. Unable to look his fingers feel the rim and rolled threading of the jar cap.
They nod together, sad and glitter-eyed, and The Century of Flame begins.