The Refuge

Chapter 6

You make deals in business  and in government if you're smart.
                                 — Joe Arpaio

Steelfort’s business district was as two-faced as any coin. On the one hand, a simple drive down the street would reveal an impressive succession of reputable buildings inspiring confidence and trust in the companies that operated inside. But on the other, a simple exploration of the pedestrian paths through the area would reveal several dark alleyways between and behind the buildings. Some of these led into shadier establishments, many of which disguised themselves as abandoned and vacant. 

A short man slunk down one such alleyway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his undercoat and a violet scarf bundled around his neck. The soles of his elegant suede shoes scraped audibly with each step as he shuffled his way down the rough asphalt. None of Steelfort’s roads or walkways were known for their smoothness, but these back roads certainly saw even less maintenance than most. 

At last, the man reached his destination, a squat establishment crudely built onto the back of an insurance office. Though of course, this business most certainly had nothing to do with ensuring anyone of anything. The only sure thing about it was that it wasn’t even supposed to be there, and the construction couldn’t be less up to code. 

The man pulled his violet scarf up over his mouth and nose to conceal his identity before pulling the door open. And a shoddy door it was, made simply of a sheet of plywood hinged to a rickety doorway and riddled with scratches. Upon shutting it, several gaps still remained in the frame; the door didn’t even create a complete seal to keep outside air outside. 

At any rate, the man with the violet scarf had stepped into a dismal scene indeed. A dimly lit dive bar stretched out before him, with a humid haze hanging over all. Dozens of tables and chairs had been strewn across the establishment with no attempt made at order or even comfort. In the back, the bar itself could clearly be seen to be smudged with grease and filth. The bartender himself sported an unkempt beard and matted hair. 

The patronage left much to be desired as well. Nearly all the men and women seated at the round tables probably belonged in prison, judging by the looks of them. Many earnestly conversed over various drinks or gambled without a care. One particularly concerning customer gesticulated with great vigor, a long knife clearly visible in his hand. 

The newcomer narrowed his eyes at anybody who made eye contact with him as he trudged toward the bar in the back. If not for his scarf, they would have seen a scowl designed to warn off any unwanted solicitation. He’d come for one thing, and one thing only. 

He leaned against the counter and beckoned the bartender over. After setting down a shot glass he’d been polishing, the bartender complied. 

“I’m here to see Sebastian Aleric.” the man muttered through his improvised violet veil, “Where’s he sitting?” 

The bartender appeared to ponder the inquiry for a long time before he finally pointed into the shadowy depths of the bar. It turned out the counter bent around into an L shape, and even more tables stretched out into a shady corner that made the rest of the place appear bright in comparison. If not for a few candles, some tables would have been abandoned entirely to darkness. 

“If you say so...thanks.” 

With that, the man adjusted the collar of his overcoat and headed to the place he’d been directed. Plumes of cigarette smoke floated from a few tables, as it seemed none of Steelfort’s many laws existed within these walls. Anything could happen here, it seemed, and nobody would come to another’s defense if assaulted or coerced. The man patted his handgun he carried in an inner pocket of his coat.