It's in the bag [PM]
Posted: 11 Apr 2020, 01:44
The benignant smell of cigarette smoke permeates the room, the wisps of silver grey smoke curl and dance their way through the thick, hazy air as if excited to escape. Even after the flames have long been extinguished, the smell lingers on the fabric of the chairs, on the curtains, and on the carpets. It hangs in the air like a haunting, ready to greet whoever opens the door looking to avoid the biting chill of the Canadian wind that howls around the tavern at this time of year. There aren’t many people out these nights and on this side of the city - and fewer people inside these walls - but, each one of them is treated like an old friend by the tavern owner, Gabby White. She has them on a barstool with a top shelf drink in their hand before they even know the dollars have been yanked out of their wallets - she’s just that good.
Gabby White has been in Harper Rock for a moth’s wing short of three decades, and her tavern with board has been a successful business through the good times and the bad. The 54 year-old widower is a Canadian native and despite marrying her childhood sweetheart, Clive White, when they were 18 years-old, the pair never had any children of their own. Instead, they adopted the community as their family and never turned away somebody in need. The couple’s charitable nature has been praised and long-since attributed to as a source of the White’s success. It is also thought to have been a contributing factor to Clive White’s premature death in 2018; he was killed when aiding a family flee their home after what was described as a terrorist attack.
Along the crusty brickwall of the tavern’s back wall is every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles, plus a couple of more exotic liquors; some of them have made their way from the frigid East to be shelved next to a dollar store brand of whisky. There are nine different types of draft lagers and ales on tap, with a couple of varieties that are sold only in bottles for those more discerning customers, too. All of Gabby’s customers drink in silence, hoping that the answer to their problems lie at the bottom of the glass, or at the bottom of the bottle, or the next bottle, or maybe the next. Their stagnant hopes are lit up by copper rigged gas lights and tacky neon signs. Not even the dulcet tones of the New York Dolls can stir them; the soft rock ripples through the speakers, unheard.
The night drags on, it paints the windows black, it summons the devil. As he enters the tavern, the door squeals in dread before yawning closed behind him, and his heavy footsteps begin to quaver the jaded atmosphere. A row of heads turn rustily to gaze upon him and his presence makes their eyes and noses wince. He passes each man by like a burnished wraith, his sage-green eyes pin Gabby to the back wall and when he comes to a stop on the other side of the bar, he takes out a hemp, drawstring bag and sets it down on the counter. His gaze moves to the bag then back to Gabby, and his lips pull into a sideways smile that doesn’t detract from his steely good-looks. Gabby mirrors the action; her arms fold over her chest and she looks to him with that knowing sparkle in her eye.
“I heard you could help me with this,” he says.
One of the lesser known details of Gabby White’s life includes the fact that she is a fencer; she trades unusual, supernatural items on the blackmarket for profit. Gabby has been handling rare and exotic goods ever since her husband passed away. She places her hand over the bag and checks his reaction before she picks it up and analyses its weight. Gabby refuses to open the bag, or even look at it, as she keeps her dull blue eyes set on him. Her thin lips draw a line as she considers the item still, rocking it back and forth inside its fibrous concealment. The longer she deliberates, the longer he has to notice her very human flaws. Her strawberry-blond hair is so heavily streaked white that it glows silver in the light and the deep lines of her tanned skin remind him of his grandfather’s worn leather riding satchels. It reminds him that he’ll never grow old, too.
“So?” he says, prompting her with a raised tone and brow.
“I’ll take a look at it outback,” she says. “You can stay here. Say, have a drink while you’re waiting.”
“Ok, sure. How about a lager, then.” He considers the selection then offers a quick flash of a smile - all white teeth and beaming eyes. “Brahma’s good.”
“Good choice, honey,” she says.
Gabby pulls him a pint that he can’t drink and sets it down on the brown granite counter. They exchange looks again before Gabby takes the item away for inspection. Caspian leers into the pale lager in the glass, sighing and hoping that this doesn’t take too long.
Gabby White has been in Harper Rock for a moth’s wing short of three decades, and her tavern with board has been a successful business through the good times and the bad. The 54 year-old widower is a Canadian native and despite marrying her childhood sweetheart, Clive White, when they were 18 years-old, the pair never had any children of their own. Instead, they adopted the community as their family and never turned away somebody in need. The couple’s charitable nature has been praised and long-since attributed to as a source of the White’s success. It is also thought to have been a contributing factor to Clive White’s premature death in 2018; he was killed when aiding a family flee their home after what was described as a terrorist attack.
Along the crusty brickwall of the tavern’s back wall is every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles, plus a couple of more exotic liquors; some of them have made their way from the frigid East to be shelved next to a dollar store brand of whisky. There are nine different types of draft lagers and ales on tap, with a couple of varieties that are sold only in bottles for those more discerning customers, too. All of Gabby’s customers drink in silence, hoping that the answer to their problems lie at the bottom of the glass, or at the bottom of the bottle, or the next bottle, or maybe the next. Their stagnant hopes are lit up by copper rigged gas lights and tacky neon signs. Not even the dulcet tones of the New York Dolls can stir them; the soft rock ripples through the speakers, unheard.
The night drags on, it paints the windows black, it summons the devil. As he enters the tavern, the door squeals in dread before yawning closed behind him, and his heavy footsteps begin to quaver the jaded atmosphere. A row of heads turn rustily to gaze upon him and his presence makes their eyes and noses wince. He passes each man by like a burnished wraith, his sage-green eyes pin Gabby to the back wall and when he comes to a stop on the other side of the bar, he takes out a hemp, drawstring bag and sets it down on the counter. His gaze moves to the bag then back to Gabby, and his lips pull into a sideways smile that doesn’t detract from his steely good-looks. Gabby mirrors the action; her arms fold over her chest and she looks to him with that knowing sparkle in her eye.
“I heard you could help me with this,” he says.
One of the lesser known details of Gabby White’s life includes the fact that she is a fencer; she trades unusual, supernatural items on the blackmarket for profit. Gabby has been handling rare and exotic goods ever since her husband passed away. She places her hand over the bag and checks his reaction before she picks it up and analyses its weight. Gabby refuses to open the bag, or even look at it, as she keeps her dull blue eyes set on him. Her thin lips draw a line as she considers the item still, rocking it back and forth inside its fibrous concealment. The longer she deliberates, the longer he has to notice her very human flaws. Her strawberry-blond hair is so heavily streaked white that it glows silver in the light and the deep lines of her tanned skin remind him of his grandfather’s worn leather riding satchels. It reminds him that he’ll never grow old, too.
“So?” he says, prompting her with a raised tone and brow.
“I’ll take a look at it outback,” she says. “You can stay here. Say, have a drink while you’re waiting.”
“Ok, sure. How about a lager, then.” He considers the selection then offers a quick flash of a smile - all white teeth and beaming eyes. “Brahma’s good.”
“Good choice, honey,” she says.
Gabby pulls him a pint that he can’t drink and sets it down on the brown granite counter. They exchange looks again before Gabby takes the item away for inspection. Caspian leers into the pale lager in the glass, sighing and hoping that this doesn’t take too long.