The neon sign for Lucky's Bar buzzed and flickered like a dying insect, casting sickly red light across the rain-slicked sidewalk. I stood beneath it, tasting copper on my tongue—anticipation or fear, I couldn’t tell which. Morning’s resolve had curdled into afternoon doubt, but I pushed through the door anyway. The familiar symphony of a dive bar—clinking glasses, murmured conversations, the sour notes of spilled beer—washed over me, along with the certainty that whatever happened to Mark Stevens, this place held at least one fragment of the answer.
Inside, Lucky's was a temple to faded glory. Smoke hung in layers despite the city’s ban, the management’s indifference as tangible as the haze. Decades of spilled drinks had transformed the floor into a sticky archaeological record. The jukebox in the corner wheezed out an old jazz number, mournful saxophone notes threading through the bar’s hushed conversations like a funeral procession.
I shed my damp coat and scanned the room. Afternoons at Lucky's belonged to a specific breed of drinker—the lifers, the ones who treated their barstools like assigned seating. Their faces carried maps of disappointment, eyes focused on middle distances where better choices might have lived. I knew these types. They were the keepers of local history, their memories preserved in amber-colored liquor.
Jack had told me to look for Tom—a legend among legends at Lucky's. “Been drinking there since before you were born,” Jack had said. “If Mark Stevens so much as sneezed in that bar, Tom would remember.”
I spotted him at the far end of the bar—a human landmark, as fixed and weathered as the brass rail under his feet. Thinning gray hair combed over a sun-spotted scalp, a plaid shirt with pearl snaps, and hands that told stories his face was too proud to share. Those hands were what I noticed first: thick-knuckled, with a slight tremor that spoke of either age or the early stages of withdrawal.
I ordered a whiskey neat from a bartender whose boredom had ossified into a permanent expression, then made my way to the empty stool beside Tom. Not directly next to him—that would trigger suspicion—but one seat over. Close enough for conversation, distant enough for comfort.
“This seat taken?” I asked, though we both knew it wasn’t.
Tom’s eyes slid toward me, then away. He grunted what might have been permission or merely acknowledgment of my existence.
I settled in, taking a small sip of whiskey. The liquor burned, but I welcomed it—a physical sensation to anchor me in this dimly lit world of secrets and half-truths. The bartender had poured with a heavy hand. I’d need to keep my wits sharp.
“Quiet afternoon,” I ventured after a suitable silence.
Another grunt. Tom wasn’t going to make this easy.
I took another approach. “I was supposed to meet a friend here. Poker player. Mark Stevens. You know him?”
The change was subtle but unmistakable. A tightening around Tom’s eyes, a fractional straightening of his curved spine. The name had struck home.
“Don’t know any Mark,” he said, voice like gravel under tires. He signaled for another drink, though his glass was still half full.
My skin prickled. The lie hung between us, clumsy and obvious. I let it sit there while the bartender delivered Tom’s refill. When we were alone again, I spoke, my voice lower.
“That’s strange. I heard Mark was a regular. Won big at a game in the casino about six months back.” I studied the amber liquid in my glass, feigning casual interest. “Last time anyone saw him, from what I gather.”
Tom’s weathered hand curled around his glass. “Lot of people come through Lucky's. Can’t remember every face.”
“Even the ones who win big and then vanish into thin air?” I turned to face him directly. “Look, I’m not police. I’m not press. I’m just trying to find out what happened to him.”
“Why?” The question was sharp, suspicious.
I had prepared for this. The truth wouldn’t work here—I barely understood my own compulsion to investigate—so I offered something adjacent to it.
“He owes me,” I said, hardening my voice just enough. “Nothing I’d involve authorities over, but enough that I want to have a conversation.” I let that sink in, then added, “Though if he’s dead, I suppose I’ll have to write it off.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed, assessing me with new interest. “You don’t look like his usual associates.”
“I’m not,” I replied, the ambiguity intentional.
He took a long drink, then set his glass down with deliberate care. “What makes you think I know anything?”
“Bar like this, man like you—you see everything. Remember everything.” I gestured at his decades-claimed stool. “And Jack said you’d know.”
“Jack should mind his own business,” Tom muttered, but the name drop had the desired effect. He sighed, a sound of surrender. “Mark Stevens. Yeah, I knew him. Not well. Nobody did, really.”
I waited, sensing the dam beginning to crack.
“He started showing up here maybe a year ago. Quiet type. Kept to himself. But he had a way with cards.” Tom’s gaze drifted to the back of the bar where a door led to a private room. “Natural talent. Or something else.”
“Something else?” I prompted.
The corners of Tom’s mouth twitched downward. “Some nights, it was like he knew what cards were coming. Not all the time—he lost enough to keep suspicion down—but when it mattered? When the pot was big?” He shook his head. “Man had the devil’s own luck.”
I nodded, encouraging him to continue while filing away this detail. Was Mark psychic? A cheater? Or just fortunate?
“That last night before he went to the big casino, though. That was different.” Tom’s voice dropped further, forcing me to lean in. “High-stakes game. Private room. Players I hadn’t seen before—serious types. Expensive suits, cheap smiles.”
“What happened?”
“Game went late. Real late.” Tom’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the bar top. “I was closing up, heard shouting. Door opens, and out comes Mark with a smile I didn’t like. Predatory. Pockets full and walking tall.”
The jukebox switched to another melancholy tune, this one with a female vocalist whose throaty vibrato seemed to emanate from another era entirely. In the dim light, Tom’s lined face looked carved from ancient wood.
“The others followed. Four of them. They weren’t smiling.” Tom took another drink. “One of them—tall fella, scar through his eyebrow—he says to Mark, ‘This isn’t over.’ Mark just laughs, says, ‘It is for tonight,’ and walks out.”
“And that was the last time he was here?” I asked.
Tom nodded slowly. “Far as I know. Sarah—that’s his girl—she came in here a week later, asking questions. Said he never came home the night after.”
My pulse quickened. “Did she go to the police?”
“Course she did. Fat lot of good it did. They took statements, looked around, but…” He shrugged. “Mark had a reputation. They figured he took his winnings and left town. Maybe left Sarah too.”
“But you don’t believe that,” I said, an observation rather than a question.
Tom’s eyes met mine, and I saw something there—a shadow of fear, quickly suppressed. “Didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice further. “What happened to the men he played against? They regulars?”
“Never saw them before that night. Never saw them after.” He drained his glass. “Convenient, ain’t it?”
A cold finger traced my spine. “Very.”
The silence stretched between us, filled with unspoken implications. I felt my hands grow clammy around my glass, though the whiskey had long since warmed to room temperature.
“Where can I find Sarah?” I finally asked.
Tom’s expression closed like a fist. “Why drag her into this? Woman’s been through enough.”
“I just want to talk to her. Maybe she knows something that could help find Mark.” The half-truth fell easily from my lips. I did want to find Mark, but my reasons were growing more complex by the minute.
Tom studied me, his gaze unexpectedly sharp. Whatever he saw satisfied him, or at least didn’t alarm him further.
“She works at the Diner down the corner. Evening shift.” He hesitated, then added, “She won’t thank you for bringing it all up again.”
“I’ll be gentle,” I promised. Gentleness had always been my strong suit.
Tom snorted, seeing through me. “Sure you will.” He turned back to his empty glass. “Word of advice? Whatever happened to Mark, it wasn’t natural. Some stones are better left unturned.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
He didn’t look at me as he replied. “The night before the game, Mark was in here. Drunk. Talking crazy.”
“Crazy how?”
“Said he’d found a way to guarantee a win. Said he’d made a deal.” Tom’s voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. “I asked what kind of deal. Know what he said?”
I shook my head, though he still wasn’t looking at me.
“He said, ‘The kind you pay for later.’” Tom signaled for another drink. “Then he laughed. Not his usual laugh. Something else. Something that didn’t belong in his throat.”
My mouth went dry. Possibilities—none of them pleasant—unfolded in my mind. “Did you tell the police this?”
“What, that a drunk man said something strange before he disappeared? That he laughed funny?” Tom’s scorn was palpable. “They’d have locked me up instead.”
He had a point. I finished my whiskey in one burning swallow and stood, leaving cash on the bar.
“Thanks for the information.” I hesitated, then added, “If anyone asks—”
“Nobody talked to me about Mark Stevens,” Tom finished for me, finally turning to look me in the eye. “And if you’re smart, you’ll forget this conversation too. Some questions don’t want answers.”
I nodded my thanks and headed for the door, the weight of Tom’s warning settling between my shoulder blades like a cold hand.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the air remained heavy with moisture. The neon sign buzzed overhead, its red glow painting the wet pavement like spilled blood. I pulled my coat tighter against the chill and turned down the street.
Tom’s words echoed in my head. The kind of deal you pay for later. A laugh that didn’t belong.
10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwbxgJmyuQk
Thank you for reading :)
Chapter 8 was much longer than the other chapters, so I decided to split it in 3 parts. I hope that's okay for y'all!
If you like to continue reading immediately, you can do so on Patreon
https://www.patreon.com/RahelVega
I'm always curious what you think, please leave me a comment, that means a lot to me :)
ns216.73.216.89da2
and then Add to home screen.