The Jar of Nephren-Ka

The Decision

Pensacola, Florida: 10:38 AM, Monday, June 4th, 1984

After changing out of my suit, I spent the rest of the day dealing with domestic duties. I drove my bag of clothes down to the laundromat on Cervantes and sat in my cruiser while I waited for them to wash and dry. Then I drove to a nearby car wash and wiped down the back sets.

I returned home and ate four PB&J sandwiches, washing them down with cold milk, then spent a few hours sewing up loose seams in my shirts.

That afternoon, I finally forced myself to start in on my bills, releasing a long breath as I took in all the red ink on my ledger. I crunched numbers for hours, desperation growing by the minute. Finally, my stomach rumbled testily, and I looked up to find the warm yellow glow of the street lamps slanting through the windows.

I sighed and rubbed my weary eyes, then hissed in pain. Cursing my stupidity, I reached into my top left drawer and grabbed my last unopened cigar, jamming it into my shirt pocket. Then I walked over, flipped the sign to 'Closed', and pulled the blinds down.

I was too nauseous to eat. I had failed to pay even half of the bills this month, and staring at the ledger was just making me more anxious.

I stepped out into the street, locking the door behind me. The night was warm and humid, but a breeze coming off of the bay to the south felt cool and comforting.

I loved walking among these old buildings, with their Spanish Colonial wrought iron facades and Chicago-inspired plate-glass windows. Much like New Orleans, the history in the place seemed palpable.

Moving south, I ambled along Palafox, bars and restaurants lit and staffed, but neither doing much business. Too late to eat and too early to drink.

I took a left on Government Street and headed into the cluster of ancient buildings known as Seville Quarter. Passing Rosie O'Grady's, I heard a pop tune being decently covered by the dueling pianists, and saw a small crowd cheering them on. I took a left into Lili Marlene's, greeted by the welcome sound of soft jazz being played by a three-piece band on the tiny stage. I took my normal spot at the bar and swiveled to watch the band.

It was quiet tonight, with only a few regulars at the bar and a single couple at a far table. I nodded at the locals, then returned my attention to the band.

"Evenin' Rev," came Jack McDougall's smooth voice. I looked over at him and he startled. "Holy shit, what happened to your eye?"

"Misjudgement," I said. "Looks worse than it is."

"Well, you know what they say," he philosophized. "Pain is an outstanding teacher."

"Yea? Well, I must be a shitty student."

Jack snorted then arched a brow and asked, "Usual?"

I nodded and reached over to grab an ashtray. Pulling the cigar out of my shirt pocket, I unwrapped it and I took a long sniff as I ran it under my nose. Sweet Cedar with a hint of spice.

I bit off the end, spat the tip in the ashtray, and lit it with a zippo. I sucked the smoke in, savoring the balanced, woodsy flavor with an almost chocolate finish.

Jack sat a tumbler in front of me, half filled with golden-brown liquid, and I exhaled, nodding a thanks. I took a sip and rolled it around on my tongue. Citrus, honey, butterscotch. It wasn't the best scotch they had available, but it was the best I could afford.

It was divine.

I adored this place. The bar, wood pulled from the Blackstone Hotel in Chicago and over 100 years old. Hardwood paneling on the walls, reminiscent of the roaring '20s. The chairs and tables, straight out of a British pub. The smoke and the atmosphere, the goddamn atmosphere that made me feel like I was in a Dick Tracy comic.