“Benjamin needs to make his peace with our father, and there is precious little time left.”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as I hung up with Helen, I began stabbing the number of The Third Place into the phone, but as I had suspected and my wife had so matter-of-factly stated, the call went unanswered. After that first try, I quickly got dressed while filling Felicity in on the specifics of the rest of the conversation then hurried out to my truck with her close on my heels.
“You didn’t really fill a flask, did you?” I asked as I began backing out of the garage.
She didn’t answer, so when I came to a halt and levered the truck out of reverse, I looked over at her. The reason for her muteness was readily apparent when I caught her screwing the lid back on the stainless steel vessel.
“Felicity…” I moaned.
“This place has cigarettes, right?” she asked.
I simply sighed as the pain in my skull ratcheted up yet another notch. I was starting to feel like I was caught in the middle of a three-way collision between Ben, Felicity, and a yet to be identified supernatural force.
I just didn’t know which one of them was going to crash into me first.
Before we were even halfway there, we had made three more attempts to reach the cigar shop using my cell, all with the same result. We finally gave up on the calls but pressed on and arrived at the storefront less than fifteen minutes after leaving the house. Now, standing on a deserted downtown sidewalk, I was just about to rap my knuckles hard on the glass for a third time. However, as I raised my hand, I saw motion in the back of the store and hesitated. Eventually, a figure moved forward from the shadows.
Though not quite Ben’s stature, Patrick Owen was a large man, standing a head taller than me and possessing a healthy girth that bespoke of an appetite for good food and drink. His boyish features and brightly smiling eyes went a long way toward hiding his true age; however, even they were visibly betrayed by greying hair and a full beard that was almost completely ash white.
As usual, he was clad in a dark shirt and paisley vest. A gold chain dipped down across his round abdomen and back up to disappear into a watch pocket. He smiled back at me from the opposite side of the glass as he thumbed through a set of keys before finally settling on one, twisting it in the lock, and pushing the door open.
“What brings you out in the middle of the night, Rowan? Run out of MX-Two’s?” he asked with a chuckle as he mentioned my preferred cigar. His voice was smooth and drawled slightly at the end of the sentence, affected by a mild accent reminiscent of middle Tennessee.
The man was a bit of an enigma. We knew little about him other than the fact that he was intelligent and filled with facts about virtually any subject. Also, if he didn’t happen to know the answer, he was quite capable of making up a convincing line of bull on the fly; though he would purposely out himself before it went too far.
I can’t say that I had ever seen him tired or worn down, no matter what the hour, and tonight was no exception. If I didn’t know better, I would assume that he simply never slept nor even had the need.
“Nothing quite so innocuous, Patrick,” I replied as we entered, and he began locking the door behind us. “We’re looking for Ben. Is he here by any chance?”
The aroma of fine tobaccos mingled with the rich tang of spices, filling the atmosphere of the store with what I considered a heady aroma. Whether or not it was this incense, I couldn’t say, but there was just something about this place that made me feel immediately comfortable. Even given the current situation, I felt myself relax simply upon stepping across the threshold. Ben had mentioned to me before that it had the same effect for him, so it made sense to me that this is where he would seek an escape.
“Why, yes he is,” Patrick replied. “So, I take it that was you calling.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “It was us.”
“I suppose I should have answered the phone.”
“That would have made things a little easier,” I agreed.
He turned his attention to Felicity. “And, I take it this is the Missus?”
I nodded then rushed through an introduction. “Felicity, Patrick. Patrick, Felicity.”
“My dear, the photograph your husband carries doesn’t begin to do you justice,” he told her with a smile and slight bow.
“Thank you,” Felicity returned.
“You are quite welcome.” He gave her a nod then extracted the pocket watch from his vest and thumbed it open. “Given the late or shall I say early hour, I assume that you are here on a task of some import.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “It’s pretty important.”
“Come along then,” he told us as he stowed the watch and began ambling through the narrow store, giving us a wave to follow. “The constable is upstairs.”
We trekked past the walk-in humidor, which was to our left. On our right was a display case counter with a cash register. Behind that, floor-to-ceiling shelves held various imported cigarettes, chocolates, teas, and other curiosities. At the back of the store, we went through an open doorway, continued through a small storeroom, and then made our way up a long flight of aging wooden stairs.
I had been up here countless times before. It was the “smoking room” and in some ways what made The Third Place what it was to many of us. It was a place where Patrick’s friends and close acquaintances could sit and relax, smoke a cigar or pipe, play chess, chat, enjoy a glass of aged port, or even all of the above.
At the top of the stairs, Patrick opened a door and ushered us through. I could hear the hum of the air cleaner running, but the room still smelled of both fresh and stale smoke. While that didn’t bother me at all, I noticed Felicity wrinkling her nose.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
She nodded and then whispered, “Aye. It stinks, but I’ll be fine.”
“Still want a cigarette?” I chided.
She simply shot me a glance and rolled her eyes.
The brick-walled expanse we now entered was the same width as the retail space below but seemed somewhat larger since it didn’t need to house the walk-in humidor. Sections of the plank floor were covered by oriental throw rugs in various states of wear. A mismatched pair of small sofas rested at opposing ends of the room, with the one at the front positioned beneath an arched window. On the left was a small bar and on the right, a trio of bookshelves fully stocked with reading material.
Basically, it was a throwback to gentlemen’s clubs of days gone by, except that the overall theme was one of “post-modern fraternity house.” In short, it was a patchwork decor spanning what amounted to probably three decades and a dozen differing styles.
Positioned both solitary and in pairs throughout the expanse were a handful of equally incompatible recliners; one of which was presently occupied by Ben.
As we proceeded inward, Patrick calmly proclaimed, “Benjamin… You have visitors.”
“Who?” my friend said, leaning forward and peering around him. “Oh, Row, it’s you… And Firehair too? Okay, well, you’ve both already heard this one, but I’m almost done… So, anyway, Patrick, where was I? Oh yeah… So my partner swings around the other side of the stage, and all of a sudden this asshole we’re chasin’ comes runnin’ outta the shadows right at me. He’s buck fuckin’ naked and holdin’ a goddamn flagpole like a spear or somethin’. He’s screamin’ at the top of his lungs and…”
“Ben,” I interrupted. “Can this wait a minute? I really need to talk to you.”
“Wassup, white man?” he asked. “You do the Twilight Zone thing or somethin’?”
“No, but you already knew that.” I shook my head. “I’m sure you know why we’re here.”
“Nope. Got no idea,” he replied.
I searched his face, and even though his tone was almost convincing, I knew he was lying.
“Get serious, Ben. Felicity and I just showed up here in the middle of the night and all you said was ‘Oh, it’s you’.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Yeah, so, Helen has been trying to reach you for hours. So have we.”
