We had a niece, Alannah, that we both adored. She was a sweet little girl who was obsessed with butterflies, anything to do with butterflies. She loved watching them with the keen eye of a young biologist and would dance around with a look of sheer joy on her face as she followed their erratic flutterings. Her room was covered in pictures of butterflies too, as was her favorite clothing, and she would draw and paint them all the time, in vivid, wondrous colors, like they were magical beings. That’s what we always got her for her birthdays, something to do with her beloved butterflies. She would be nine years old by now. I hadn’t seen her in a while. When my Claire passed away, she left a hundred thousand dollars behind in her will for little Alannah. We always thought we would be right there, watching her and our own child grow up, cousins playing together, having a shared early history. But life doesn’t always work out the way you think it will or hope it does. The money was Claire’s way of wishing her the best for the future.
The grimy and fading mirror behind the bar alerted me to something unusual behind me—someone that looked like they could drink the best whiskey and even afford to pay for it, not that there was any of it here. The man behind me, seated at a table by himself, was swirling his drink, occasionally looking up at me, or at least the back of my head. He was dressed in a canary yellow polo shirt, slacks and shiny shoes. His arms were tanned a deep walnut brown, probably from spending too long sailing his yacht on the weekends, although his left wrist was marked by a stark band of white. At least he had the good sense to take off his expensive watch before he came into a dive bar like this—so the guy had some smarts, but that didn’t mean he was clever, only cautious and apprehensive. But not cautious enough.
I wasn’t the only person whose attention was being drawn by this stranger, with some of the locals staring his way too, perhaps wondering if he was a cop or not. I didn’t believe that for a second. He wasn’t disguised enough for a cop and his clothes clearly cost too much money; undercover cops made the effort to blend in, although all too often badly, at least to the trained eye like mine. One of the guys playing pool approached the man with slicked back hair, and asked him, politely of course, if he had a problem.
The man didn’t respond, not even looking up from his drink, he just stared at it fixated. It was a brave move, but he had the resolve to ignore his inquisitor, as if he were insignificant and didn’t even warrant an acknowledgement or reply. The pool player soon lost interest, shrugged his shoulders and left him to it, and he went back to the table, missing his next shot badly.
A moment later the man looked up from his drink, eyes focused once again on me. This time I turned from the mirror and looked him squarely in the eye, not with menace but a look, firm and uncompromising, that begged a simple question: You want something, stranger? He quickly diverted his eyes from me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was working up the courage to hit on me.
I left my drink, although there was still a mouthful of my Goose Island IPA remaining, dropped some bills on the counter for the bartender, and walked towards the door. When I reached it, I glanced behind me, and saw the man had made a move.
Now it was time for me to make mine.
I stepped outside, surprised to see that the sun had already disappeared for the day, dusk was upon us and a chill hung heavy in the air. Here I waited. Down the bottom of a short flight of stairs from an overpass, our dive bar was usually hidden from the tourists, the wanderers, or the office workers. If you didn’t know The Angry Friar was there, you’d never notice it. There was no big flashy sign enticing you in, no advertising boards and certainly no outdoor seating.
It was just the way we liked it.
Nobody wanted new comers; not the owner, not the bartender, and certainly not the clientele.
The door opened again and my hand went straight to the man’s throat—always a favorite move.
The benefit of being six-foot-four and broad shouldered was that most people talked when I threatened them. I slammed my new friend against the brickwork, hard enough for his head to bounce off the wall, and brought my nose to his, the aroma of his expensive cologne mingling with another unmistakable smell: fear. His eyes widened as a look of panic spread rapidly across his face. Whatever he had been hoping to achieve, it certainly wasn’t this. I didn’t grip him especially hard, at least for me, but he still gasped for air, sucking it in rapid little bursts, half due to his semi contracted windpipe, half out of abject terror. This was not a man used to physical altercations, whereas for me it was just another day in the office.
“You’ve got three seconds to tell me what you want.”
Pretty-boy tried to say something, but clearly my knuckles were too far into his throat. I loosened my pressure, but not enough for him to wriggle free.
