increasing dispirited exasperation. "Well the car’s going to be taken as evidence for now, but we’ll get it back to you in due course, I guess." And that, it seemed, was that.
"That’s it?" I said.
"That’s it," Cotter agreed.
"We can go?"
"You can go, sure," he said, "Get the hell out of here." He got out and opened the door for us, waiting impassively in the falling downpour as we clambered out of the back of the squad car.
"We’ll be in touch," he said, though it sounded like a formality somehow and I doubted the truth of the empty words.
I looked back as we made our way though the pouring rain. Cotter was still outside the car and had finally put light to the cigarette. He smoked it like a starving man might attack a steak, cooked rare and still oozing a little juice. As I watched, he set spark to the tip, sucked back a long deep crinkling drag of smoke and let it out into the sodden air. He took another hit, then another until there was nothing left but one final gritty black breath.
Later.
"Did any of that make any sense to you?" I asked Corg as we entered the pleasant, familiar dark of Down Quiets, our regular drinker. Split into two rooms divided by a couple of shallow steps leading from the bar area to the quieter, more secluded lower lounge, Quiets was a dark wood, old fashioned saloon, watched over by the sober presence of Francis Low - known to most as Quiet - the serious cool eyed barman and owner.
"No," Corg said, heading to the long dark-wood bar overhung with rusted farm equipment and tin drinking cups, and nodding to Quiet. "Nothing about that was normal."
"What’ll it be?" Quiet whispered deeply. Corg ordered beers and two shots of bourbon apiece that he carried on a steel tray to our usual, shadow swathed corner table and faded red leather bench.
"No," he said again as we sat down at the scarred round table and breathed in the familiar air, thick with old smoke and stale beer, "Nothing at all for my money." He took an appreciative sip of his drink.
"Then again, I’ve never had a corpse fall on my car before, so what do I know?"
I followed suit with the beer. "Just me though, or did Cotter not really seem like he cared all that much at all?"
Corg shrugged. "Like I said, whole city’s going to hell. Look at what’s happening over the bridge."
Legends about the far side of the bridge were legion. Old Links Bridge joined the two halves of the city, old and new. There was a time when plenty of people used to cross the old monument and head into the Old Quarter looking for a good time - the law extended over the bridge, of course, but there weren’t enough law enforcers to keep it. The old, crumbling stones of the quarter had seen more street parties and excess than any other part of the city. But it had seen more murders too, more drug peddling, theft, prostitution.
As time went by, only the more hardened crossed the bridge. No longer just kids looking for a good time and cheap booze and weed, the official stance of turning a blind eye pushed professional criminal activity over into the other side of the city. Those who lived there already left if they could. Those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, drew together forming gangs and families, their numbers gradually swelled by runaways or people who crossed over because there was no place for them on the regular side, in the real world.
And of course, they viewed their neighbours, their rivals as they now were, with suspicion and dislike. If you weren’t part of the family, you must be against the family.
And so, over time, the Old Quarter descended into what was essentially total anarchy, ruled over by a series of gangs locked in bloody feuds with one another. Gradually, these units found that they were strong and took over the guns and the hooch and the drugs. If you wanted to disappear, as they said, you crossed the bridge: if you wanted someone else to disappear, well, you still crossed the bridge and found someone with the
"That’s it?" I said.
"That’s it," Cotter agreed.
"We can go?"
"You can go, sure," he said, "Get the hell out of here." He got out and opened the door for us, waiting impassively in the falling downpour as we clambered out of the back of the squad car.
"We’ll be in touch," he said, though it sounded like a formality somehow and I doubted the truth of the empty words.
I looked back as we made our way though the pouring rain. Cotter was still outside the car and had finally put light to the cigarette. He smoked it like a starving man might attack a steak, cooked rare and still oozing a little juice. As I watched, he set spark to the tip, sucked back a long deep crinkling drag of smoke and let it out into the sodden air. He took another hit, then another until there was nothing left but one final gritty black breath.
Later.
"Did any of that make any sense to you?" I asked Corg as we entered the pleasant, familiar dark of Down Quiets, our regular drinker. Split into two rooms divided by a couple of shallow steps leading from the bar area to the quieter, more secluded lower lounge, Quiets was a dark wood, old fashioned saloon, watched over by the sober presence of Francis Low - known to most as Quiet - the serious cool eyed barman and owner.
"No," Corg said, heading to the long dark-wood bar overhung with rusted farm equipment and tin drinking cups, and nodding to Quiet. "Nothing about that was normal."
"What’ll it be?" Quiet whispered deeply. Corg ordered beers and two shots of bourbon apiece that he carried on a steel tray to our usual, shadow swathed corner table and faded red leather bench.
"No," he said again as we sat down at the scarred round table and breathed in the familiar air, thick with old smoke and stale beer, "Nothing at all for my money." He took an appreciative sip of his drink.
"Then again, I’ve never had a corpse fall on my car before, so what do I know?"
I followed suit with the beer. "Just me though, or did Cotter not really seem like he cared all that much at all?"
Corg shrugged. "Like I said, whole city’s going to hell. Look at what’s happening over the bridge."
Legends about the far side of the bridge were legion. Old Links Bridge joined the two halves of the city, old and new. There was a time when plenty of people used to cross the old monument and head into the Old Quarter looking for a good time - the law extended over the bridge, of course, but there weren’t enough law enforcers to keep it. The old, crumbling stones of the quarter had seen more street parties and excess than any other part of the city. But it had seen more murders too, more drug peddling, theft, prostitution.
As time went by, only the more hardened crossed the bridge. No longer just kids looking for a good time and cheap booze and weed, the official stance of turning a blind eye pushed professional criminal activity over into the other side of the city. Those who lived there already left if they could. Those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, drew together forming gangs and families, their numbers gradually swelled by runaways or people who crossed over because there was no place for them on the regular side, in the real world.
And of course, they viewed their neighbours, their rivals as they now were, with suspicion and dislike. If you weren’t part of the family, you must be against the family.
And so, over time, the Old Quarter descended into what was essentially total anarchy, ruled over by a series of gangs locked in bloody feuds with one another. Gradually, these units found that they were strong and took over the guns and the hooch and the drugs. If you wanted to disappear, as they said, you crossed the bridge: if you wanted someone else to disappear, well, you still crossed the bridge and found someone with the
Similar Books
Fortunes & Failures - 03
T. W. Brown
The Temple of Indra’s Jewel:
Rachael Stapleton
Communion Town
Sam Thompson
Flesh Cartel, #8: Loyalties
Rachel Haimowitz, Heidi Belleau
Star Wars: Scoundrels
Timothy Zahn
The Jade Boy
Cate Cain
The Truant Officer
Derek Ciccone
And Then There Were None
Agatha Christie
The Mortal Bone
Marjorie M. Liu
