Crow's Nest [✓]

Chapter 18

Night had fully settled as Harry made his way towards the Rusty Nail bar. The neon sign above the door flickered dimly, casting a red glow onto the darkened street. The bar was located in a part of the city that was less affluent, and there was a rough, gritty atmosphere about the place.

Harry pushed open the door to the bar and stepped inside. The bar was a single, dimly lit room, reeking of smoke and cheap liquor. The air was thick with it, burning Harry's nostrils.

Several patrons littered the place, mostly men of a tough-looking sort, with worn clothes and unkept beards. The atmosphere was tense, the patrons seemingly more interested in their own business than in newcomers.

Harry approached the bartender, a stocky man in his forties with a hardened look, the faint smell of stale alcohol radiating from him. He was polishing a glass cup, hardly sparing Harry a glance. The name card on his black shirt read 'Jake'.

"What can I get you?" he grumbled, his voice a low rumble. The bar itself was in a state of neglect, the counter scuffed and stained, the mirror behind the bartender cracked in several places.

Harry leaned forward on the counter, his voice lowering to match the bartender's tone. "Information," he said bluntly, his eyes flicking around the grungy bar. "I'm looking for information about Lucas Anderson. I've heard he's a regular here."

The bartender raised an eyebrow, giving Harry a hard, scrutinizing look. "Lucas? Yeah, I know him. Why? He owes you something?"

"Something like that," Harry replied coolly, his words vague. "When was the last time you saw him?"

The bartender took a moment, his eyes drifting away in thought. After a moment, he shrugged. "Few days back, he was here having a few drinks before passing out at his table. Haven't seen him since. He's not exactly a reliable customer, you know?"

Harry nodded, taking in the information. His thoughts raced, trying to piece together a picture of Lucas. This bar seemed like a hub for more than just casual drinking.

Suddenly, the sound of a scuffle erupted from the back of the bar, followed by a crash. The patrons immediately turned to the source of the noise, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and annoyance.

"Aw, hell..." the bartender muttered, shaking his head. He set down the glass he was polishing, reaching for a baseball bat tucked behind the counter. "Here we go again."

Harry straightened up, turning to look towards the back of the bar. A group of men were wrestling on the floor, their movements reckless and aggressive. Some bystanders were cheering them on, others scowling in annoyance. There was no doubt about it - things were about to get ugly.

As the first punch was thrown, a chain reaction of violence started. The scuffle escalated drastically, punches and kicks flying, bodies crashing into nearby tables, sending bottles and glasses flying. The bar's patrons, including Harry, backed away, either for self-preservation or out of sheer surprise.

The bartender, wielding the bat, began to bellow, his voice a mix of anger and frustration. "Break it up! Break it up, you idiots! Take it outside, dammit!"

The chaos did not ease, and the bartender swung his baseball bat at the most rowdy of the brawlers. The swing hit the man with a loud 'thwack', effectively knocking him into the wall. The momentary surprise allowed the bartender to push the brawling men out the door.

Silence filled the room, the only sound the ragged breathing of those who remained. Harry, his heartbeat still pounding from the violence he'd just witnessed, remained silent. He had seen this kind of thing before in his own country, but the casualness with which it happened in this bar shocked him.

The bartender cursed under his breath, walking back behind the counter. The patrons started regaining their composure, a few of them nursing bruised knuckles. The fight, though it had stopped, had definitely left an air of tension in the bar.

Harry remained observant, his eyes scanning over the remaining patrons who slowly started returning to their drinks. He needed to gather more information, and he intended to.

Harry decided to approach the bartender again, waiting until the man was finished wiping down the counter. "Sorry about that," the bartender grumbled. "Those guys can't control themselves. Alcohol always brings out the worst in everyone. What were you saying?"

Harry leaned in, his tone hushed so as not to be overheard by other patrons. "Lucas Anderson," he repeated, his gaze unflinching. "Tell me more about him. Who does he hang around with? Anything will help."

The bartender, still moping the counter, grunted. "Lucas? He's got no real friends here, just people he drinks with. But there's one guy he seems closer to. Johnathan, I think. Tall guy, always wearing those fancy sunglasses."

Harry's ears perked up at the mention of 'Johnathan'. Finally, a lead.  "What's his last name? Any other details you can give me?" he asked, his tone urgent. This felt like a breakthrough.

"Well now," the bartender grumbled, his gaze flickering towards the door through which the brawlers had been thrown out. "Looks like you can ask him yourself. He just showed back up."

True enough, the door was pushed open, revealing the tall figure of the man Harry immediately recognized as Johnathan. His sharp sunglasses gleamed even in the dim light of the bar.

Harry approached Johnathan cautiously. "Johnathan?" he said, his voice a near-whisper.

Johnathan, a hardened thug with a mean look, turned sharply towards Harry, scowling. "What?" he demanded, his tone short and unfriendly.

Harry, not one to intimidate easily, met Johnathan's gaze without flinching. "I need to talk to you," he said, his voice steady but serious. "About Lucas. Where can we talk? Privately?"

Johnathan's scowl deepened, and he gave Harry a suspicious once-over. "Outside," he growled, moving towards the door.