Star Killer
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Chapter 4:- Two
24 Boiler Street was a dive bar called Block's, the kind of place that made the cab driver ask twice if Lauren was sure that was where she wanted to go. The frosted glass in the front door was cracked across the apostrophe in Block's and held together with packing tape, and when even though the sun was setting by the time she arrived she still had to wait a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting within.
Once she was able to see properly she almost wished she couldn't. The bar was a kind of uniform brown -- brown bar, brown stools, brown tables, brown floor. The only break in the colour scheme was the light gray of dust and dark gray of dirt that lay caked on almost every surface in sight. Even in just a pair of black slacks and a matching ribbed turtleneck sweater, Lauren felt over-dressed.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asked as she approached him. It was more like a demand than a question, and it caught her off guard.
"I don't suppose you have any coolers?" she asked.
He snorted. "I can give you a Bud Light."
"Okay."
He cracked open a bottle and handed it to her. She paid for the beer, and as he turned away from her she spoke again.
"I'm looking for Jack," she said.
"Jack who?"
She frowned. "I'm not sure." The other patrons were eyeing her as she spoke to the bartender. "I think he knows my brother, Virgil?"
The bartender shrugged. "Lots of Jacks could come in here."
"Maybe one that's been to South America lately? Or Mexico?"
The bartender leaned his considerable bulk on the bar, his temper flaring. "Look, lady, I'm not paid to do a roll call, okay?"
Before she could respond she felt a man's hand on the small of her back, firm but gentle. "It's okay, buddy," said the hand's owner calmly. "I'm the Jack you're looking for, Miss."
He removed his hand from her sweater and she turned to look at him. His skin was weather-beaten in a way that spoke of a hard life, and a scar about the size of a quarter spread in a rough star shape above his right eyebrow, and yet he was undeniably handsome. Muscles snaked beneath his black shirt with every movement, and his eyes held a hint of what might once have been a mischievous sparkle. "You know my brother, Virgil?"
"That depends," Jack said. "Did you bring me the money he owes me?"
24 Boiler Street was a dive bar called Block's, the kind of place that made the cab driver ask twice if Lauren was sure that was where she wanted to go. The frosted glass in the front door was cracked across the apostrophe in Block's and held together with packing tape, and when even though the sun was setting by the time she arrived she still had to wait a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting within.
Once she was able to see properly she almost wished she couldn't. The bar was a kind of uniform brown -- brown bar, brown stools, brown tables, brown floor. The only break in the colour scheme was the light gray of dust and dark gray of dirt that lay caked on almost every surface in sight. Even in just a pair of black slacks and a matching ribbed turtleneck sweater, Lauren felt over-dressed.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asked as she approached him. It was more like a demand than a question, and it caught her off guard.
"I don't suppose you have any coolers?" she asked.
He snorted. "I can give you a Bud Light."
"Okay."
He cracked open a bottle and handed it to her. She paid for the beer, and as he turned away from her she spoke again.
"I'm looking for Jack," she said.
"Jack who?"
She frowned. "I'm not sure." The other patrons were eyeing her as she spoke to the bartender. "I think he knows my brother, Virgil?"
The bartender shrugged. "Lots of Jacks could come in here."
"Maybe one that's been to South America lately? Or Mexico?"
The bartender leaned his considerable bulk on the bar, his temper flaring. "Look, lady, I'm not paid to do a roll call, okay?"
Before she could respond she felt a man's hand on the small of her back, firm but gentle. "It's okay, buddy," said the hand's owner calmly. "I'm the Jack you're looking for, Miss."
He removed his hand from her sweater and she turned to look at him. His skin was weather-beaten in a way that spoke of a hard life, and a scar about the size of a quarter spread in a rough star shape above his right eyebrow, and yet he was undeniably handsome. Muscles snaked beneath his black shirt with every movement, and his eyes held a hint of what might once have been a mischievous sparkle. "You know my brother, Virgil?"
"That depends," Jack said. "Did you bring me the money he owes me?"
