Tortus Bay

1.02: Barroom Promise

Henry listened to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof while he dried himself off with a fluffy white hotel towel. He took his time. The lights were dim, and it was silent but for the steady beat of the storm outside lulling him to bed. But this was his first night in Tortus Bay, and he wanted to make a positive impression. Besides, a free drink was a free drink.

He wrapped his shoulder with fresh bandages, pulled on some dry clothes, and made his way down to the Hell on a Shell Bar. It was a dark, cavernous room with curved matte walls that gave him the impression that he'd walked into an underground bunker. Lanterns placed in regularly spaced alcoves along the crest of the ceiling cast dancing shadows on the floor, and there was everywhere the scent of stale tobacco. Three older men in flannels occupied a table near the door, but the place was otherwise empty.

Henry took a stool at the bar, and was quickly joined by a beaming Jamal. "Taking me up on my offer, eh?"

"If it's still good."

He laid his palms flat on the bartop. "What'll you have?"

Henry cast his eyes around for a menu, a sign, or a blackboard, but came up empty. "What do you have?"

Jamal arched his eyebrows, and jerked his head at the shelves of liquor behind him. "Beer," he said, "or I can pour you a couple fingers, if you like."

"I'll have a beer."

He grunted, retrieved a sweaty black bottle, and began pouring it into a frosted glass.

"If I went into a bar back home," Henry said, accepting the glass when offered, "and asked the bartender for 'a beer,' it would have been me who was the asshole."

"Sounds like you and I come from different places."

He took a swig off the top, found it to be perfectly acceptable, and was real close to thinking of something clever to say when the front door clattered open. A rush of rain and cold ushered a woman with a shock of wild, auburn curls into the premises. She shook herself off, becoming—for an instant—an image of flailing hair and spraying water, earning a few jeers from the flannel-clad men. These she ignored, heading straight to the bar to hook a stool.

"Got a beer for me?" she asked.

Jamal frowned. "Got any cash for me?"

The woman side-eyed Henry as she threw a couple dollars down on the bar. "You believe this guy?"

"A bartender asking for money?" Henry rolled his eyes. "What has the world come to?"

She laughed, and stuck out her hand. "I'm Clair."

Clair's palms were leathery tough. "Henry."

Jamal served her the beer, which earned him a sloppy salute, and then rounded back on Henry. "There's food, if you're hungry from the trip."

Once again, he found himself looking up, fruitlessly, for a menu. "I would take some fries."

"Yeah, we can get you that," Jamal said, and promptly disappeared through the back door.

Clair took a long drink. She'd neglected to remove her raincoat, and a large puddle of water was forming beneath her stool. "So you're the new guy."

"So I'm told."

"Journalist, right?"

"Why does everybody think that?"

She laughed again. It seemed to come naturally and often to her, and Henry was irked to find it endearing. "A gossipy old man who bought a new computer two years ago," she said, "and only learned how to Google last week. Oh—speak of the devil. Hey, you've been spreading false information!"