Chapter Three: Underage Drinking Does Not Happen
(CW: Blood, injury, organized crime, allusions to murder, alcohol.)
They'd finally reached the damned cafe, which was a win.
The building was an amalgamation of a pub and coffeehouse, though the former attribute was less marketed. An interesting choice, since now more people than ever were drinking.
On the front door hung a sign that read "CLOSED: REOPENS AT 6 O'ClOCK SHARP ", with a little smile drawn next to it in black marker. A slate grey awning–the type a person would see outside a bourgeois restaurant–lingered above the large glass panes in the front. Most of the interior was visible, from the bar to the small stage tucked behind a sea of poseur tables.
Song stood beside Kocho at the entrance, wiping her shoes on the scuffed mahogany floors. The planks were dark, enough to hide the blood that was dripping from Raleigh's unconscious form. (His paper-thin skin meant that any cut was bound to make a mess, but Kocho could've wrapped it for him if she had some gauze. It wasn't a consolation that she knew how to clean up her own mess.)
A few patrons were there after closing hours, most of them concentrated around the cocktail table, proving the bar-for-profit theory. Greasy-haired with ash on the collars of their crisp button-ups, they were easily recognizable as mobsters. Not the type of people to be bothered by a dead man or two.
Kocho's first night on the job, after playing the same piece for lord-knew many hours, she'd sat down at that same bar. Not with much intention of ordering anything, though underage drinking didn't seem as bad a crime as arson. She'd promptly been served a large glass of orange juice.
...It had been rather nice, actually. Regardless, the bar element of the Box Coffeehouse and Bar was underutilised. If they tried, they could draw far more customers in. She got the impression, though, that making a killing wasn't the intended purpose of the cafe.
Song looked around, then dipped a hand under Raleigh's back and flipped him over her shoulder with an uncharacteristic amount of gentleness. As gentle as one could be when handling someone as if they were a rather large sack of potatoes. Kocho could make out a set of bulging muscles from under the rips in her sleeves.
"You could've... carried him yourself the whole time." She tried her best to conceal the tightness of her voice. I can't even be mad. I'm just impressed at this point.
"Yeah, but he's old. I don't like carrying old people. Their bones are always jiggling,"
Kocho nodded at that.
"Oh," she continued, "Sherlock's not here right now. Shame. I wanted a drink."
That's true though- why isn't the bartender here? No employees either, just us and a few patrons.
In the background, one of the mobsters began to raise his voice, and turned away from his acquaintance, just a tad, tightening his grip on a bottle of scotch. One wouldn't notice the commotion unless they were paying attention, but the hairs on Kocho's neck stood up in the face of it.
In the corner of her eye, she could see the acquaintance in question speak to a ginger with a sour look on her face. The ginger's surly expression turned to one of fury.
No one stuck out as part of one group or another, so it was difficult to determine whether the conflict would stay civil or result in a bar fight.
Another person put their hand on the incensed woman's shoulder. Her eyes shifted in Song's direction, and she stiffened.
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A Shot in the Dark
Humor「When the bartender had told Kocho that he'd give her a job, no questions asked, so long as she helped with 'a few errands' first, she'd expected to take orders or mix drinks, not assist in a kidnapping.」 OR Hyde Port, a city that was known for b...
