Gunlaw

Gunlaw 32

[a longer section but one that really needs to be together in one part]

Mikeos pushed in through the saloon doors. Twenty years absent and now twice in one day he found himself walking into the Bullet and Rye. The place hadn't changed. Different taur bellowed over their whiskey buckets, different whores decorated the stairs, different prospectors, cattle hands, outriders, gamblers, and drunks packed the place – but it had exactly the same stink to it, the same sound, the same creak and rattle and chink and splash and roar and hush. The same stickiness to the floorboards. Home.

It took a moment but recognition spread, the din fell, and the customary deployment of elbows was not required to reach the bar. They didn't recognise little Mikey, not the boy whose mother dreamed and fucked upstairs, but they sure as hell recognised the recently retired Ansos slinger who'd left eight men dead in the street and another missing important parts of his face.

"Whiskey."Mikeos looked at Jenna, raised his brow in question. She nodded. "A bottle and three."

The barkeep, a grim fellow with heavy features, shot Hemar a dark look but reached under for a bottle in any case. He fished out the passable stuff, Menahan's, a local still, and set three shot glasses on the bar. "Table free." He pointed to where one of the servers was approaching four card players at the hearth table. Jed Wesson sat a few yards back, alone at a small table, a game of patience laid out before him. He nodded and looked back to his cards. The reports Mikeos had in Ansos put Wesson tight with Sensa, the local holder. Tighter than holder and slinger should be, but clearly not tight enough to stand him alongside White Willis and the sheriff.

The server set a hand to the gamblers' table and pointed at the bar.

Mikeos shook his head. "No need . . ." But the men got up quick enough, sweeping stake and pack from the boards. Mikeos shrugged and led off. He felt like sitting.

Hemar followed along behind, biting the cork from the Menahan's like he was taking the head off a chicken, Jenna followed too with the glasses gleaming in her hand. Mikeos sat at the table, sodden clothes dripping, he set his back to the wall and rocked the chair onto two legs, taking in the crowd again. Plenty of eyes on him, but at least they were talking again, drinking again. The angles he knew, those he didn't have to check. He'd grown up here, fighting pretend gun battles around the sleeping drunks early on grey mornings. Remos Jax had chosen this table all those years ago, this chair, and for good reason. It had the best angles, best lines of sight. Anyone can get lucky and take down a quick hand by surprise or stealth, but there's no need to make it easy for them.

Jenna settled herself, back to the crowd. Hemar slumped in his chair, smelling of wet dog, he kept hand on the bottle as if unwilling to release it.

"Didn't take you for a whiskey drinker, Jenna," Mikeos said.

"Perhaps I got the taste from you." She frowned, wrinkling the dry wound on her brow. "Besides, do they serve anything else? A herbal tea perhaps? Glass of milk?"

Hemar snorted and lifted the bottle to swig before remembering himself. He eyed the glasses Jenna had set before her, his dissatisfaction with their limited capacity clear enough.

Mikeos reached for the bottle, filled the glasses with a steady hand. He lifted one and watched the light of lanterns in it, caught, reflected, refracted, golden. The bodies in the rain. He saw those too. Dead men in the mud, their boots probably stolen by now.

"So, are there any corpsers nearby?" He remembered the feel of Elver Samms' dead fingers at the back of his neck. Right here in this tavern a lifetime ago. Some things never leave you.