Page 10 of Redd

Chapter One

Redd

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Slipping my jacketdown my arms, I hung it on the back of the chair and climbed into the seat. Glancing around over my shoulder, the bar was pretty dead.

A thick haze of smoke floated around the room, hovering like a thin blanket. The lighting was dim, just what you might expect from a dive bar in a city like this. I had only been this far north once before, spending most of my time in the southern states.

But I liked this city when I was here last time, something about it just stuck with me. It was exactly what I was looking for; busy but not overcrowded, large chain stores, peppered with small local businesses. It was the change I needed.

Shifting on the stool, I eyed the other patrons. A few old drunks sat in a booth in the back of the room, a couple dirty construction workers chatted together at the far end of the long wooden bar.

Clasping my hands together, I stared up at the screen hanging above my head. The channel was set on a football game that no one appeared to be interested in.

“What can I get for you?” The bartender asked, taking a drag off her cigarette, then resting it on a warped black ashtray. Her voice was scratchy, as if she had swallowed a spoonful of powdered sugar and was choking on it.

“I thought smoking wasn't allowed in bars anymore?”

The older woman cocked her head, giving me a sweet smile. “You're not from around here. Where you from, kid?”

“Kid?” I asked, laughing. “Lady, I'm not a kid.”

“Maybe not, but son, I'm probably triple your age. In my eyes, you're still a kid.” Picking up her cigarette, she took another drag and blew the smoke out to the side. “And this bar, it's a members only establishment. People pay to be here, so, that means we can smoke inside.”

Slapping the top of the bar, I nodded my head. “Gotcha, sorry, I didn't know. I'll head someplace else, no worries.”

“No, no,” she said, flapping her hand for me to sit back down. “Don't worry about it, have your drink. What'll it be?”

“Are you sure?”

“Tell me what you want before I change my mind.”

“Scotch, no ice.”

“Young guy with an old soul, scotch it is.”

Smiling, I pointed up at the television. “It doesn't look like anyone is watching this, can I change it?”

Resting the glass in front of me, she placed a remote beside it. “Have at it. My ex-husband used to watch football like it was a religion, I've seen enough to last me a lifetime. Although, I can't say those tight little pants aren't worth a glance every now and again.” Cupping her hips, she gave me a smile. “The name's Tammy, let me know if you need anything else, Hun.”

“Thanks.” Sipping the liquor, I flipped aimlessly through the stations. It had been a long time since I just sat down and watched the T.V. without a purpose.

Spotting a weather anchor, I laid the remote down and held the drink up to my mouth. My lips began to tingle as the liquor glazed the surface and I opened to take a sip.

Staring at the screen, I let my mind slip into relaxation mode, allowing all the pent up tension from years of being on the road melt away. I had spent the past six years bouncing from place to place, doing my best to stay afloat and under the radar.

So far, luck had been on my side.

I'd land a job here and there, putting my services to good use. Most of the men I worked for weren't exactly paper pushers, and none of them sat on the right side of the law.

But the money was good, and when it landed in my hands, I didn't really care how it got there, as long as I got paid.

The local channel nine team blabbed on and on about a few carjackings and an upcoming festival just on the outskirts of the city line. There was nothing they were talking about that mattered to me and that was good.

“In national news tonight, the police in Georgia are looking for the person responsible for three local jewelry store robberies. Captain Robert Dean reports that the perpetrator got away with more four hundred thousand dollars worth of merchandise. They're reaching out for any tips or leads that can help aid in the capture of the thief.”

And there it is. . .

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