The Grim Room (chapter 8)
My thriller novel, chapter 8
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He grinned, took the new shot in front of him. Alison began to wonder how many shots he could take before he passed out at the bar.
“I guess you know how I feel then, eh,” he said.
He’d said this with a burning tone, like she was such a stupid bitch he’d like to slide his hairy hands around her sexy neck and squeeze until the breath was gone.
“What if I said I wasn’t asking…”
Alison’s eyes bugged out like when she’d first seen her father hit her mother, age six, eyes innocently searching through the one-inch crack in the doorway. Silver picked up the shot and held, midair. This process was getting old. She didn’t sip from her pint this time.
“Ok, Silver. Look. I understand. You’re in a position of power here. All I want is to know where Chris’s living. I’ll come over tomorrow. You give me the time, I’ll be there.” She took a hit of beer. He really thinks I’m Captain Slut.
Silver slammed the shot and wavered. His hairy hands picked up another shot—Red kept lining them up—then set it down. His fat fingers played with the top of the glass, twisting the shot around and around in circles. This was probably how his life went, Alison thought—around in unimportant circles. A finger dipped into the liquid; he lifted the finger to his lips and tasted the stuff.
“Ok, Captain. I’ll tell you. And tomorrow you’ll be bouncing on my silver cock.” He slammed the shot and she winced. “He’s living in the Panhandle. 1098 Masonic Avenue.”
“Living with Julian?” she said.
Silver answered her by saying nothing.
Something felt off but she willed the feeling away. No way in hell or beyond would she be sleeping with Silver. She wasn’t going to be anywhere near his house tomorrow, that was for sure. Which meant she’d have to steer clear of Smuggler’s, at least for a while. She took a wild rush of beer to her mouth and left to go to the bathroom, about a quarter of a glass left in the pint.
Silver remained, still as stone, like a dark statue. A hairy hand reached into the dark recesses of his pocket and located the special pills. Extracting two of them, he broke them up with his fingers into fine white powder. This made him think of blow. He needed to call Julian.
Searching around the bar, making sure no one was snooping, he twirled around on the stool and poured the white powder into her remaining bit of beer. Satisfied with his work, he took another shot, which had been placed in front of him, the other two empty ones cleared away by the magical Red. Ah, Red: a man who stays out of your business and does what a good bartender should do—get you nice and drunk.
A few minutes later, Captain stepped back onto her stool. Silver grinned and raised a shot, indicating that she should follow his lead. She did. “To tomorrow,” Silver said. She clanged her glass to his. Alison downed the rest of her beer.
“Well, I better get going,” Alison said.
Silver placed his massive, meaty hand on top of her tiny, manicured one. Her eyes bulged. He coughed and wiped his nose with his other paw. You aren’t going anywhere, you stupid bitch. “Stay a bit longer.”
Alison understood this as not so much a question but a demand. Where would this go?
He slipped his gross fingers in-between her digits and was holding her hand. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to take this. Jumping up, she went to the jukebox again. He relented.
A few minutes later, she was back.
Red appeared and gazed at her. “She ok?”
Silver burped. “She’ll have another. And two more of the usual for me.”
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