Faces to meet, Places to meet

“So what’s your story chummer?” A gravel choked voice said.

“Excuse me?” Wedge responded without looking to see who had posed the question. He took his drink instead.

“What’s your story?” The voice called again.

Wedge finally turned towards the man. Old, was the first thought that crept to his mind. The man wore a dingy black overcoat that seemed to match his salt and pepper hair. Wedge smiled. The old man’s jacket was at least ten years out of style as were his Girbaud jeans and Doc Martin high top boots. “What do you care old man? Why don’t you just drink your swill and stay quiet.”

The old man studied his double shot of Jack Daniels for a moment, as if weighing the merits of Wedge’s offer. He declined by shaking his head and looking back toward Wedge. “Naw, I’ve probably had enough any way. I’d rather talk to you.”

Wedge furrowed his brow in a quizzical stare. “What, you got somethin you wanna say?”

The old man hiccuped and then shrugged. “You come around here every few weeks, always waiting for the same shadow types.”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” Wedge sat down on the empty stool next to the old man. There weren’t too many people in the Raging Pitt tonight. There never really were. That was part of the reason his crew always met there.

“I’m talking about doing jobs! Running the shadows? Taking scores? Whatever you youngsters call it nowadays.” The old man slurred loudly.

“You’re talkin nonsense old man. I don’t know what makes you think I run.”

The old man giggled and turned his glass around so that the label faced front. “You sure dress like a runner. Those flashy digs, the form fitting, that Savalette under your coat… You’re a runner. Sure as I’m drunk you are.”

A nervous grin pursed Wedge’s lips. He stared at the old drunk. “You don’t want to be saying things like that too loud chummer, or I might have to use that piece you think you saw under my coat.”

“Icky,” The old man said with a hiccup. “You don’t have to threaten me, I’ll keep my voice down. I’m just trying to give you some advice.”

“Advice? What kind of advice can you give me?” Wedge said with an arrogant smirk. He took a swig of his mug of soybeer.

“Advice about the shadows. Running them right. I can tell ya how.” The old man taunted.

The thought of a drunk telling him how to handle his biz made him want to laugh out loud, but he held his tongue. He knew that he would get a bigger laugh out of whatever bogus advice the drunk had to offer. “Ok then, lets have it. What’s your advice for me?”

The old man sipped at his shot and then began to speak. “You’re doing a job soon, I can tell. Every time you do a job you and your crew pull together here and plan out how things are gonna be. I’ve watched you, y’know. Same corner table near the back exit, same four angry faces. Well, every now and then a face changes. I guess that’s when somebody doesn’t come back from the job. It doesn’t happen too often so I figure you’re pretty good at what you do.”

“Damn right I’m good. I take care of my people.” Wedge wasn’t smiling anymore. He also wasn’t waiting for a punch line. The old man has struck a nerve with that comment. Wedge had last Delaney only two months ago. None of the crew had really gotten over it, especially not Wedge.

“You’re good alright,” the old man lifted his drink in a salute to Wedge. “But you’re predictable, you sure are! Predictable will get you dead. I know it will.” The old man’s words were slurred but their meaning was not.

“What are you getting at old man?”

“If I can peg your routine, I’ll be the betting man that someone else can too! If someone was trying to find you.” The old man’s words were slurred but their meaning was not.

Wedge frowned. The old man had a point, even if he was drunk. He was too predictable in his routine. A lot of runners he knew were. They all called it a comfort zone. A way of knowing an area so well that you knew the best way to escape from it. But it shouldn’t have to come to that. You shouldn’t have to escape from anywhere. Not if people don’t know you’re there in the first place. And that meant going new places, not just to the Raging Pitt every time you had a job. He wondered aloud what other advice the old man had to offer.

The old man grinned showing white teeth. His hot breath stank of whiskey and beer. “What do I think? I think… I should drink!” He finished the double shot and then slid the empty glass toward the bartender for a refill. “I think you should stop meeting here all the time. Go somewhere else, stay outta bars. I know you think they’re low key and you can pack the kind of heat you need to protect yourself, but you wouldn’t need to protect yourself if you weren’t in a bar in the first place.”

The bartender brought another double shot of synth-whiskey and asked Wedge if he wanted a refill on his beer. Wedge declined. He’d only worked his soybeer down to half a glass so far. “There ain’t very many other places a guy can do biz like this. What, you want me to just hold my meetings out on the street? That’s real safe.” Wedge objected after the bartender had left.

“Naw nothing like that. There sure are other places. Lord yes! Try going to a museum or a ballgame. Lotsa people there, might even get to see the cubbies. That’s a real treat. Maybe the zoo? Don’t pet the cockatrice… You wanna go to a place where there are a whole lot of people. Enough people to make a crowd. Drown you out y’know? Heck even if the baddies do see you they ain’t gonna go off trying to shoot up your digs or toast you with a fireball. Too many people around for all that nonsense.”

The old man had a point. How many times had Wedge’s crew been shot at coming away from a meet? That was how they lost Delaney. Up till now he’d thought it was the Johnson’s fault and fragged him up real good for it. Maybe the fault was his. Maybe he should have chose a spot where it wouldn’t have been so easy for someone to take pot shots at his crew.

“Enough talkie talk for today. Mr. Kyle has to go away.” The old man tilted his head back and slammed the double shot.

“Leaving so soon?” It was ten o’clock and his crew would be there soon. They had to plan the run for tomorrow night. Thanks to Mr. Kyle, they had a few other things to talk about too.

“Yes. Go. Go… home! Gotta… sleep. Even drunks go to work in the morning.” Mr. Kyle smiled wryly and struggled to his feet.

“Well, thanks for the advice old man.”

Mr. Kyle’s smile widened. “Don’t thank me, just buy me a drink next time. Maybe seven. I have a lot to say.”