Redtown 487

Memories in Scarlet Picture Frames

"To the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime." -Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of Silver Blaze, Arthur Conan Doyle. 

A wanderer's way was lit by street lamps that flickered in the foggy night. The damp air stuck to Wilbur's pale face, his shadow a dance partner to the soft light around him. As he walked, the wind carried his long, black overcoat, kissed by droplets of fog and gentle rain caught by his Trilby hat. Wilbur's hazy glasses sparked in the light of buzzing neon signs, waves of yellows, purples, blues, all cascading between its gold wire. His suede boots disturbed unsuspecting puddles that gathered along his path, splashing playfully with every step.

Finally, he found himself at his desired destination: a quiet staircase amongst glowing signs. A door stood at the base, feeling empty and shadowed from the rest of the street. He questioned whether or not he had found the correct door, its shape rather lonesome compared to the bright street. He reached into his jacket pocket, catching the rain with his black glove. He pulled a damp, crumpled paper from it, gazing at a puzzling code.

"Redtown 487."

Wilbur's deep, honey voice melted in the cracks of stone pavement. A click followed -- a welcoming sound. The door wasn't so lonely after all, and soon, neither was Wilbur.

The door opened to the smell of grilled food and glasses filled with alcohol. Conversations and clanking silverware echoed in his ears as he stepped into the room, receiving strange looks from those seated at tables. His heavy boots strode across the uneven floorboards, louder with every footstep as more turned to see his odd presence. Wilbur was used to this and found the crowd's puzzlement amusing. He sat at the bar, tipping his hat to the bartender.

Wilbur looked for a pair of fox ears amongst the crowd, which was easy to spot. Sure enough, red fur peeked out in a cozy lounge in the corner. Their eyes met with a cold connection between them. Fundy got up from his comfortable space, seating himself next to Wilbur.

"Good to see you still wear that stupid hat, Dad," Fundy smirked.

It had been some time since he heard his son's voice. Harsh, yet purposeful, like a coal engine.

"Well, I can say the same about you," Wilbur replied, referring to his gold-rimmed cap.

"Touché."

Fundy waved to the bartender, nodding his head. Wilbur watched the man in a striped blue shirt and buzz-cut hair spin a few bottles in his hand: talented and coordinated. He mixed white rum and lime juice, pouring it into a small, shiny glass.

"A scotch on the rocks for him," Fundy ordered.

Wilbur's mouth turned into a slight smirk under his pointed nose. Fundy knew him well. The bartender nodded, gracefully sliding the glass to Fundy with a light rumble as it traveled over the mahogany bar.

"A mojito. Interesting choice for a usual," Wilbur shrugged.

The bartender placed the glass in front of him, a deep caramel color inside.

"Thank you, Mr...?" Wilbur raised a brow.

"Manifold. Friends, like your son, call me Jack," he smiled; a kind, almost cocky glow came from his slanted grin.

Wilbur began to scan Fundy's grim appearance. He was slouched in a gold and black coat with a grey shade resting on his face. His ginger hair split at the ends like a raging fire, but Fundy's eyes told the story; a sunken ship under puffy lids.

"So, get on with it. Why did you invite me here?" Wilbur asked curiously.

"Can't we have a normal chat instead of an interrogation?"