Champagne

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It was a bitter winter evening in New York the night I met Rufus. A sinister cool mist had been blown in by a nasty, biting wind, the kind that sends a shiver right down to your bone marrow, but thankfully I wasn’t outside. I was sitting in The Magic Hat, a tiny, smoky jazz club, one renowned for its lack of classy clientele, throwing back whiskey sours like they were going outta style. The bitterness of whiskey had always made me flinch, not that I cared about the flavour of the damn things, so long as I was filling my blood-stream with some kinda alcohol, I was keeping off reality for another 30 minutes. A combination of a bad week and lousy weather can push a guy to find any kind of numbing anaesthetic nearby, even overpriced bullshit like whiskey. I slammed another $5 on the counter and ordered my fifth one that night. I could tell the barman didn’t like giving me it, but he also knew that if I kept this up I’d pay his month’s rent, so he poured another Scottish demon into a glass for me, placed two ice cubes in the drink, sighed, and handed it to me. I thanked him and took a sip. Recoiling from the bitterness, I noticed a new guy had walked in. He was a tall, skinny fella, about 6 foot 3, brown hair and blue eyes, and he was grinning like a goddamn clown. He took off his long, black leather coat and hung it up on the bar stool he then sat on. God I hate that. You’re trying to have a miserable time, drowning your memories in a decidedly crummy establishment like The Magic Hat, when some cheerful bastard rolls in with a face like he’s just won the lottery. The son of a bitch beckoned over the barman and ordered champagne for everyone. What a philanthropist. I downed my drink and slammed the glass back on the table. I wasn’t goi...

... middle of paper ...

... on me!”

“Aha, perhaps you think that, but I assure you, this little Dictaphone,” I pulled out the Dictaphone I had activated behind my back earlier “caught every word. And it’s great quality too; you can really hear the intent behind the voice.”

Rufus made another dash for the door. I pulled out my pistol and fired a round into his leg. He fell to the floor like a wounded gazelle. I walked over and grabbed his collar.

“Let’s go, shall we? Seems both of our luck has changed today, shame for you that it’s me who’s got cause to drink champagne now, eh?” I dragged him over to the bar and gulped down his second untouched glass.

“And you know what Rufus; this stuff tastes so much better when you’ve earned it.”

I dragged him out of the bar. The weather was still lousy, the mist was still thick, but the taste of champagne on my tongue, now that made up for all of it.

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