National Young Writers’ Month – Day 5 – Noir and…

Well, I can’t tell you. You have to read the story. I told you I’d have more for you today, though! Enjoy.

 

It was raining heavily. I walked into the bar. Another older couple sat toward the back, taking part in what only can be described as masticating their lunch. This dive would’ve had a real jive to it some 60-odd years ago, but everyone there knew its best days had been and gone already.

“What’ll it be, Mac?” the bartender asked.

I ran my hand along the bar, feeling each groove and imperfection in the woodwork. I think it was face grain pine, but it felt more like an end grain oak. It had been a while since it had been treated.

“Whiskey…a good one.”

“It’s just gone midday. You sure it’s the appropriate time?”

“If there’s one thing I ain’t got, it’s time. You worry about pouring.”

“You’re the boss.”

Races were on in the background on the wireless. That tinny voice was shouting names I couldn’t understand at me faster than I cared to attempt to listen. I take a stool, place my cigarettes on the bar and fumble about for my matches.

Breast pocket?

No.

Overcoat?

No.

Pants?

Bingo.

Why the hell did I put my matches in my pants pockets? Must be losing it.

I strike up a smoke and draw in as much as my lungs can hold, exhaling through my nostrils.

“Mac, I don’t gotta tell you the rules of this establishment, do I?”

“What kind of cockamamie futuristic bullshit is this?” but I butt out all the same to do him a solid, as he’s about to find out why I’m here in the first place.

“Appreciate it. Cats and dogs out there, ey?”

“You can say that again. I’ve always preferred cats I can pat and dogs that’ll do my bidding. I hear there’s a rat in here, though…”

Doesn’t flinch. That was a jab, though.

“Wouldn’t know nothing about no rat. We get all sorts through here. Weekends we do good business. Thursday is usually pretty solid too.”

“It’s not looking particularly lively today. That’s about all I know.”

“You can say that again. Rain keeps ‘em away. Always.”

I swill my whiskey. The bartender is cleaning glasses.

“What can you tell me about Jimmy Roland?”

That was a right cross straight to the face. Stops him dead in his tracks. Puts the uncleaned glass on the counter and flicks the towel across his left shoulder.

“Ain’t got nothing to say about Jimmy. You’re asking the wrong guy. You want Maureen.”

“You know who he is, so you must have something to say about him. Don’t matter whether it’s neither good nor bad. Just words, after all.”

“Look, I know what this is about. I wasn’t here when it happened, Maureen was.”

“Fancy callin’ her out here for me?”

“Sure.”

“That’d be swell.”

I take a sip of my whiskey.

“MAUREEN! Come out here. Someone wants to talk to you.”

I hear her reply something in the distance. Can’t make heads or tails of it. Good whiskey. At least he got that right.

Out walks a complete bombshell. Tufts of dyed blonde hair. Body to die for. Men would go to war for this, heck, men probably already have. One of the grooves in the bar was probably over her.

“Hello, handsome. What can I do ya for?”

Silken soundwaves softly slip into the air and into my ears. Angels would sing if they existed. Dames and broads are a dime a dozen, but a woman like this makes you feel inadequate as a man. Couldn’t tame her, wouldn’t dare try. I swallow my pride and try some gumption on for size.

“Jimmy. What of him?”

It fits.

“Direct. I like that. Hell of a man.”

“You’re familiar with him, then?”

“Familiar is a pretty old-fashioned word.”

“More than familiar. Tell me, how often does he roll like he did last week?”

“That? Oh, everyone has their days. You know that.”

“Funny. Word about town is Jimmy was on the take.”

Sometimes the slightest of pauses speaks volumes.

“..Jimmy’s a good man.”

“I didn’t ask whether he was a good man.”

“Good men are hard to come by.”

“That’s ‘cause they got a price, it’s just higher than everyone else’s.”

“You can’t prove nothing.”

“Don’t even think I have to anymore. If Jimmy finds you before I find him, tell him I’m looking for him, will you?”

“Ok. But just…go easy on him, will you? Everyone’s got their reasons and I know Jimmy has for darn sure.”

I finish my drink and leave a tenner on the counter.

“Keep the change or put it toward the next drink I get here.”

I tip my hat to the lovely Maureen and nod to the barkeep on my way out. It’s still raining.
I huddle up and light a cigarette.

Jimmy Roland, you’re on my radar now.

The name’s Mac Johnson. 75 years old. I work part-time as a claims investigator for the Lawn Bowls Association of Victoria. The Ararat team had been champions for five years running until last week. I had a feeling that Jimmy Roland was just the tip of the iceberg. He throws the lousiest game he’s ever played and no-one bats an eyelid, Beaufort wins by a landslide.

If old age don’t get you, Jimmy, I will.