Prologue

WITH THE EXCEPTION OF the barman and me, the bar was empty, somewhat sad looking, and depressing. Sawdust and peanut shells littered the floor, an old trick used by lazy owners to hide dirt. Flat-panel televisions silently played sports; hockey on one, baseball on another, NASCAR on the nearest one facing me, and the ever-present ESPN SportsCenter projected onto a four-foot screen, the picture blurry and pixilated. I cradled a glass mug of Coors, my eyes drooping with fatigue, disappointment, and alcohol, while debating whether to finish the beer or just leave. A vision of a dingy apartment filled my mind; Salvation Army furniture - all cast-offs from the sixties, the apartment wallpaper water-stained from long-ago leaks and partially peeling in the corners. Once again I was reminded how successful I was. Not.

The bar door opened letting in a cold blustery autumn wind, and a flurry of rustling dead leaves that scurried across the floor like frightened mice. The chilly breeze briefly permeated the warmth of the bar before heaters regained the upper hand. The bartender, a large, bearded, mid-forties and tired-looking man with a stocky body, standing quietly while polishing a clean glass for no reason, other than he had nothing better to do, looked up at the door expectantly. So did I. Anything was more interesting than thinking about my situation. An old man walked in. No. An old gentleman walked in. In his mid-seventies, he was slender, perfectly erect, spry, and wearing a long gray overcoat with black piping along the collar and a black Trilby hat. The sight made me smile. I hadn’t seen a Trilby in eons - an old movie if memory served, black-and-white at that. I think it had Humphrey Bogart starring. Maybe with Ingrid Bergman.

The man approached the bar, nodded in a friendly greeting and ordered a scotch, neat, his voice low and smooth. When the barman turned to the bottles lined up in front of a mirror backing the bar, the old gentleman took his Trilby off revealing neat, short-cut gray hair and a high hairline. He glanced at me and smiled, nodding in greeting. I raised my mug, tipped it, took a sip, and turned my face back to the table to contemplate the taste of futility, an all-too-familiar taste.

I wondered at my stubbornness. I wondered why I was so gifted and so unsuccessful. Was it a cosmic joke I just couldn’t see? Maybe I should chuck it in and become a garbage collector, an idea that had lately been whispering to me; “I’m your only talent.”

“May I join you?”

Startled, I glanced up from the pee-colored beer I was sipping. The older gentleman was standing next to the table, Trilby in one hand, a glass of deep amber scotch in the other. In one of those unusual occurrences, I noticed his fingernails were well manicured and impeccably clean, the back of his hands showing his age; wrinkled and liver-spotted. He was really the classical definition of a true gentleman. What was he doing in this dive?

“Sure. Why not,” I replied being polite but wondering why he’d want to sit at my table. Every other table was empty.

Another gust of autumn wind rattled the front window. It was half frosted, the lower-half hiding sight of the street outside, neon beer signs hanging and blinking in the top half. Casey’s Tap Room was etched into the glass in an arch in reverse; mooЯ qɒT ƨ’yɘƨɒƆ from where I was sitting.

He sat slowly like an old man who was just being cautious, aware that some part of his aged body might break with the slightest provocation. His Trilby, black with a dark gray silk band, was carefully set on the scarred and ring-stained table. He placed a small paper napkin down and rested his glass of amber scotch on it before holding his hand out to me.

“I’m Darren Faith,” he said by way of introduction.

I shook his hand. It was frail, cool, and papery-dry, but he had a firm grip. “Mike Hope,” I said.

“Yes, I know. Well, cheers,” he said, raising his glass after unbuttoning his coat to reveal a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, an impeccably starched white shirt, and muted burgundy tie. A gold tiepin winked from reflected neon cast by the beer signs.

I tipped my mug towards him and took a sip, the Coors now lukewarm and tasting about how it looked, like weak piss. He sipped his scotch while I openly studied him. What did he mean “Yes, I know?” He appeared to have a map of his life laid out in wrinkles, skin sagging forming half moons under alert pale blue eyes, a long nose, and a generous mouth with thin lips. When he smiled at my inspection, he revealed even ivory-white teeth. I wondered if I should ask him what he meant.

Screw it. I didn’t have enough curiosity or ambition left in me.

There was silence. Mr. Darren Faith studied me. Suddenly, he reached across and laid his hand on my forearm.

“Don’t worry. No one was hurt.” He patted my arm lightly and withdrew his hand, reaching for his glass of scotch to take another sip.

Chapter 1 »