Book 2: Chapter 1: A Dan Walks Into a Bar (1/2)
The bar stank like Satan's ass-crack and looked twice as ugly. A light pall of cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling, leaving behind yellow plaque. The lights were dim and the music was loud, a pulse pounding beat that made Dan's ears bleed. He huddled in a small corner table, defensively cupping his beer as people bustled past him, trying hard not to stare at the dizzying array of upgrades and body mods on display, even as he did his best to take them all in.
The Sinner's Saloon wasn't exactly his scene. Like most things in Dimension A, the bar was themed in the most obnoxiously over-the-top manner possible. In this case, Dan suspected that they'd borrowed heavily from the seedy portrayals of criminal gatherings that most movies in this parallel tended to favor. A dark, dank building filled with booze and men of ill-repute, smoke in the air and enough noise to drown out a quiet conversation. The perfect place for villains to gather, or for the protagonist to hunt down a tip from a sultry but penitent waitress, who just wanted to leave her past behind.
No doubt people came here to imagine themselves in that scenario, either playing a dashing police detective who steals the girl away from the dastardly villain, or indulging in that most taboo of fantasies: a criminal planning out some masterfully evil deed. At least half the people in attendance were wearing dark jackets and fedoras; Dan counted no less than ten pairs of sunglasses affixed to faces, despite the dim light and indoor bar. Dozens of hushed, conspiratorial flirtations were being murmured at any given point in time, neither party really understanding what the other was saying, but both leaning enthusiastically into the fantasy. Nobody in the bar was over the age of thirty, and it showed.
Well, except for one man. Cornelius Graham cruised through groups of pretty coeds, flashing charming smiles and eliciting vivid blushes. The man fisted a rack of mugs as he twirled between each gathering, sloshing beer over his thin white shirt without a care. His police badge—an oval APD sigil with a sharp triangle emblazoned at its peak, to denotate a SPEAR team member— hung around his neck, tucked beneath his increasingly translucent shirt, and he received more than a few hungry looks from both sides of the isle. The man was practically a celebrity, not to mention an outrageous flirt, and perfectly happy to revel in both of these things.
Despite being over twice Daniel's age, Cornelius barely looked out of his twenties. His face blended in perfectly with the majority of the bar. Dan found the whole thing intensely creepy, but forced himself to push it aside. Cornelius, by his own admission, was unwilling to go any further than flirting in places like this. ”To keep one's skill sharp, one must practice,” Cornelius often said with a wink and a smile. It didn't make Dan any less uncomfortable, but at least the old letch wasn't taking advantage of any of these doe-eyed college girls.
Cornelius eventually made his way over to Dan's table, soaked in alcohol both physically and metaphorically. The dopey smile on the man's face said that he'd drank at least half again as much booze as he was wearing. He clapped down a handful of empty mugs onto the table, and managed to slide himself into the booth without vomiting.
”Whaa's the coun'?” he slurred, blinking owlishly at Dan.
Dan sighed. ”Up seventeen since you left.”
”Tha's it?” Cornelius... well it looked like he attempted to raise an eyebrow, but it came out as more of a beleaguered wink. Dan idly wondered if the man was having a stroke.
He quickly ran a tally in his head once more. People moving in and out of the bar, faces and shapes, shadowed figures. His count was right, he was sure of it. Dan nodded. ”Up seventeen.”
”Good!” Cornelius flailed across the table in an attempt to clap Dan's shoulder. He missed and slapped against the hard wood surface, leaving behind a vivid crack. ”Now... show 'em to me!”
Shit. Dan tried not to furrow his brow as his eyes drifted across the bar. He trudged through his memory, searching for familiar faces. A few pinged in his mind: a maroon shawl and purple lipstick, a cat's tail poking out from beneath her skirt. A dark trench coat and dark aviators, over a dark shirt and dark boots. A lit cigarette dangling from his lips, even as he coughed between every other word, and another tucked behind his ear. A man with silvery skin and broad shoulders. Dan pointed out each of them to Cornelius, mentally tracking where he'd seen them come and go.
Dan managed to find twelve of his seventeen. Not bad, given the shit lighting and oppressive huddle of bodies. Hard to make out much of anything in the bar without being nose to nose with the person.
”Three of 'em are humpin' in the faculty— no. Fass— facilties. Fa-cil-i-ties,” Cornelius slurred, jabbing a thumb over his back, towards a distant RESTROOM sign. ”One's flirtin' with a girl in the corner o'er thar, and one's in tha' booth behin' you.”
Dan blinked incredulously, as he followed Cornelius' directions and saw...
”Son of a bitch!” Dan exclaimed. ”You can barely keep your eyes open and it's almost pitch black in here! How is it you can keep track of all these people?”
”Darkness sets the mood,” Cornelius replied unhelpfully, sweeping his arm around in what was probably meant as a meaningful gesture, but practically speaking only knocked down his mugs and spilled more beer all over himself. The drunkard watched the liquid pool at the edge of the table then drip down over his pants with a look of absolute confusion.
This was a man who could honestly claim to be more observant than Dan.
”There's got to be some trick you're using,” Dan insisted. ”Some sort of super secret police technique to keep track of everything in a room.”
”Juss instinct I guess,” Cornelius replied with a shrug. ”An' practice. Lotta practice.” He blinked, slowly. ”Now, what're they wearin'?”