by Paul Hina
built around him as the anchor of the place. This bartender looks like someone built Fitz's as his prison.
Clay moves to the window, peeks out. He can see Jack's P.I. across the street, leaning against a phone booth. Clay wonders how long it will take him to call Ramsey's guys. Clay bets that if he orders a drink, then comes back to the window, the guy will be in the booth. And by the time he's finished his drink, if he nurses it a bit more than usual, Ramsey's guys will be outside waiting for him as he leaves.
He walks up to the bar.
"What'll it be?" the bartender asks. He's a straight forward kind of guy—no pleasantries.
"Scotch and soda," Clay says, but then he thinks better of it. "Just make that a scotch. No soda. A double on rocks." He might need a little extra juice to take the sting out if they pop him in the mouth. Clay's always had a bad habit of saying something smart to the wrong guy when he's in a bad situation.
The bartender sits the drink down on the bar without so much as a word. Clay grabs it, takes a drink. Takes another one.
He goes back to the window. The P.I. is walking away from the phone. He's already made the call. It'll be a few more minutes before they get here.
Clay goes back to the bar, sits on the stool closest to the door, and takes a long, slow drink of his scotch. He doesn't have any idea what schedule the Ramsey boys are on, but he's planning on taking his time. In fact, the scotch feels so nice going down, he thinks he might have two.
The phone rings behind the bar. The bartender answers it. He looks over at Clay, mutters something, and then hangs up. He approaches Clay.
"Can I get you another scotch?"
"Sure, I'll take another," Clay says, and slugs what remains in his glass, including the ice.
The bartender pours another drink, but he's much more generous with this drink than he was with the last, and, when he sits it down, there is a pitying look in his eyes.
"What's going on?" Clay asks.
"What do you mean?"
"What was that call about? Was it about me?"
"What makes you say that?"
"You looked over at me."
"Did I?"
"You did. Then, all of a sudden, you're the friendly type, asking me if I need another drink, and pouring me a nice, full glass of scotch."
"Compliments of the house," a voice says from the back of the bar.
The bartender swings a towel down from his shoulder, puts his head down, and walks away.
Two guys are walking toward Clay. They're both pretty big guys—one much bigger than the other. They definitely have the look of someone's goons. They must have come in through the back door, or, maybe, this bar is a front for something behind the scenes. Either way, they surprised him, and Clay doesn't like surprises.
"What are you doing here?" the smaller of the two goons says. Clay makes a mental note to dub him Goon #1.
"Drinking scotch."
"Why here?"
"It was on my way."
"Where's that?"
"Was meeting a friend, not that it's any of your business."
"I'll decide what is or isn't my business," Goon #1 says.
"I'm not sure that works for me," Clay says.
"Watch your mouth, pal. Don't be smart. My friend here doesn't like it when guys get too smart," #1 says, looking at Goon #2. Clay turns to get a closer look at #2, who is standing beside him on his right. The expression on #2's face doesn't change when Clay meets his eyes—the deadest eyes Clay's ever seen.
"What's this about?" Clay asks, turning back to his scotch.
"You carrying?"
"No, I never carry."
"A P.I. that doesn't carry? I don't believe it," #1 says.
"Who said I was a P.I.?
"A little birdie told me."
"Well, I don't carry. Once you've been shot, you tend not to like being around guns very much."
"I'm sure it's a real sad story," #1 says. "But instead of you telling us about it, you won't mind if we just check to make sure?"
"Not that I have a choice," Clay says, standing up from his stool on #2's side.
Goon #2 pats him down from top to bottom, and then stands and nods at Goon #1.
"You can sit down," #1 says.
Clay sits back down.
"Now, I'm going to ask you again, what are you doing here?"
"And I'll tell you again, I'm having a drink."
Goon #1 looks at Goon #2 and nods. Clay turns to look at #2 just in time to feel his fist hit his mouth and jaw. It seemed to happen in slow motion. He had a pretty good idea what was coming, and he tried to brace himself for it, but it didn't matter. It didn't even seem like #2 put much effort into it either. It was like he just poked his fist at Clay, but the poor effort didn't stop Clay from falling off his stool like a sack of concrete on #1's side.
Clay, from the floor, looks up at the bartender. He's wiping a glass with his towel, not even looking over at what's happening. The other two guys at the bar don't seem to have noticed anything either. They're in pretty much the same position they were in when he came in—leaning over a drink, carefully minding their own business.
Clay grabs his jaw, moves it around a bit. It's not broken, though it hurts like hell. "That's a good way to lose a customer."
"You think you're pretty smart, don't ya?" #1 asks.
"No, but I'm getting the idea that this isn't just a friendly neighborhood bar."
"I wouldn't say that."
"My jaw begs to differ," Clay says, pulling himself up, keeping a hard stare on Goon #1 as he takes a seat on the stool again.
"Joe. Some ice," #1 says to the bartender.
The bartender scoops some ice into his towel, and slides it down the bar to Clay without looking. It's clearly something he's done before.
"Let's try this again. You're here, why?" #1 asks.
"I'm sure you think giving me a good punch will change my answer, but it won't. All I can do is tell you the truth, and the truth is that I came in here to get a drink. I was supposed to meet a friend nearby, but he cancelled at the last minute. So, I came to the first place I could find for a drink before I left town."
"I believe you."
"Wish you would've believed me before your friend introduced himself to my face."
"So, this friend you were meeting, was this meeting about anything in particular?"
"Yeah, it's about a case I'm working."
"Tell me about this case."
"I don't think I will."
"I'm going to give you a chance to change your mind," #1 says, taking a seat on the stool next to Clay.
"It's a local case for me—from San Jose. It has to do with a ballplayer."
"Anyone else?"
"Sure."
"Okay, you're clearly not getting the message," Goon #1 says. He takes a deep breath, leans back on his chair. "Do you know where you are right now?"
"Honestly?"
"My friend will insist on it," #1 says, looking over at Goon #2. Clay looks over at #2. He's still expressionless, still staring at Clay with those same dead eyes.
"We're in one of Ramsey's bars. I'm assuming there's a place upstairs for fun and games."
"Don't make assumptions."
"That's all I can do."
"So, you know Mr. Ramsey?"
"No, not personally. But I know of him, and you already know that or you wouldn't be here talking to me."
"We understand the case you're working on—the one about the ballplayer—has you making inquiries into Mr. Ramsey's business."
"You could say that."
"I am saying that," #1 says, and places both his hands on top of the bar, intertwines his fingers together. He's about to make Clay a deal. "I'm also saying that you're going to back off. Stop asking questions. Just leave whatever you've been doing undone. As of now, the case is closed."
"And what incentive do I have to do that?"
