Risk

Three Guys Walk into a Bar

The bar was small and dimly-lit, with cheesy brass decor to make it look like a captain’s room on a ship. Life preservers, lobster traps, telescopes, nautical compasses, and sailors’ hats and clothes adorned the walls. There were four televisions in various corners and one above the bar. A few tables were occupied, some by couples, a few single men hunched over their drinks or watching the game.

George sat up at the bar with his Pellegrino, seemingly mesmerized by the game on TV. The two thieves sat at a table right behind him, both of them half turned to the bar. One was bigger than the other and both looked somehow swollen, their meaty noses, ears and lips looking like they'd been recently smacked. Both had short, dark hair and black leather jackets in two different styles. They'd been wearing black gloves when they walked in front of Martin's car. Two beers sat on the table, one in front of each of them.

“Well, dat was a fuckin waste a time.”

“I tole him we diddin miss nuttin.”

“Fuckin Smitty tinksie nosidawl.”

“Lucky ting idwuz easy wawrk. Dat place issuch an effin cake wawk, ammah right?”

“Piece a fuckin pie.”

“Naw, it’s ‘piece a cake,’ not ‘piece a pie.’”

“Naw, it’s ‘easy as pie,’ fuckface.”

“Yeah, bud not ‘piece a pie.’”

“Whadevah da fuck idiz, idwuz easy.”

“Way too easy. If we need a place da stay da night sometime, we can go theyah.”

“Why’d dey boddah with dat shit box system? Dey’d be beddah awff widda dawg. At least da fuckin mutt could do sum damage. Maybe.”

“So whaddawe gonna do now?”

“Fucked if I know. Maybe we should go have a little convahsation with owah fuckin cawntact, who ten to one scammed us.”

“Smitty said da new cawntract was sposeda be in last week. We toined dose files upside down. If idwuz in theyah, we’d have it. We had all the effin time inda woild.”

“Maybe Mr. I’m-so-fuckin-smawt Smith would likeda come widdus next time, steada sittin roun heeah widdiz thumb up his ass. Whadda we really need him foah? Useless as tits on a fuckin bull, is wuddeeiz. We could go back to pullin jawbs on owah own and fuckin cut him out all da way.”

“Guy kinda creeps me out. Real quiet, but looks like he’d freakin eat ya fah breakfast if he hadda. And enjoy it, too.”

“Let him fuckin try. Ram dat accent down his troat.”

“So whudda we tell him?”

“Tell him it wasn’t fuckin theyah. Leddim do widdit what he wants. It’s not my fuckin prawblem.”

“Whut ya gonna do with your cut, huh? Sounded like a lotta dough this time.”

“Dat’s annudda ting. Wheyah does he get awff not tellin us how much da contract is? Like weyah couple pieces a fuckin’ meat.”

“He always pays. And pays big, too. Get tah stay in nice hotels like dis, not dose shitty dives like we useda. It ain’t all bad.”

“Yeah, it’s awright.”

“So wheyah gonna go? Tahiti? Amstahdam?”

“Depends on how much. See how much time off it gives me.”

They went on about vacation hot spots for awhile, and George tried to concentrate on what they were saying, but it became increasingly difficult. He was getting bored of listening to these idiots, who obviously could go on talking about nothing all night. His mind kept going back over the important stuff, playing it over and over again, trying to make sense of it: contact, system, Mr. Smith, contract, files.

It wasn’t really the kind of information he was hoping for. But it sounded like they were the same guys who had hit it the first time. And there was something they missed, or couldn’t find, and had to go back for. Something that they still didn’t have.

“Oh, c’mon,” Goon #1 was saying. “The Knicks gawdda play some defense. You can’t let em bring dat weak shit to da hole.”

“The fuckin Knicks suck this yeeah, man,” said Goon #2. “With da money dey spendin, dey should be winnin it awl.”

“Dey bin gawddawful evah since Ewing left.”

“Tell me abouddit.”

“It's all about da free agents next yeeah.”

“Yeah, we'll see.”

“When we get paid, I tink I’ll get me a couple a tickets in da front row. Right next to Spike Lee.”

“Yeah, you and Spike. Whatevah. Watch out foah da fuckin Dream Police when you get theyah.”

“Ha-ha. I nevuh laughed so hahd. You’ll see.”

“Oh, miss. Can we geddanuddah couple a beeahs ovah heeah?”

The waitress brought their drinks as George milked his second Pellegrino, still glued to the game, but wondering how much longer this was going to last.

“Tanks a lot, uh... Kristen. Youah kinda cute. Whadda you doin aftah you get awff woik heeah?”

“My boyfriend is coming to pick me up.”

“Tell him he can come, too.”

“I don’t think so,” she said and George saw her walk away with her apron strings swinging side to side in her hurry.

The two men laughed as if this was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. They had a few chugs of their beer, and fell mostly silent for awhile and watched the game. George had been watching the same game for almost 45 minutes but had to take a look to find out the score. He nibbled on some beer nuts thoughtfully.

Basically, he still knew nothing. Except how boring these two were to eavesdrop on. Ten minutes later, the game was over, and the men finished their beers.

“Check, miss. Don’t worry, we won’t bite.”

More laughter. They paid their bill and walked out of the bar towards the lobby. George waited a few seconds, and then walked over to their table to see if they’d left anything behind. He looked at the glasses, which would be covered in fingerprints, but what would he do with them? Take them to a crime lab?

He returned to his seat at the bar, and hoped that Martin would be able to find out their room numbers. He had the feeling that these two weren’t yet finished in town, and that this might be valuable information at some later time. The matchbooks had the hotel phone number on them, so he pocketed one and went back to the beer nuts.

* * *

Over in the corner, by the end of the bar, at a small, dark table, his back to the room with a hat on, unnoticed by anyone, but with a very erect posture, sat the silent, solitary figure of Mr. Smith.