Chapter 16

            Grey light filled the bar, coming in through the dirt-streaked windows. It was empty. The air was thick and stank of skunked beer and stale cigarettes. The television was on, an announcer gave color commentary on a boxing match.

            Blackjack's back was to the door. He sat at a table, watching the match with a newspaper spread out before him. Herbert stood in the doorway as the door slammed behind him. Blackjack turned around, revealing the bloodied bandage he had stuck over the gash on his forehead.

            The old crook's eyes narrowed as when he saw who had entered. He sprung to his feet and darted across the bar floor with his fists clenched. “Motherfucker.”

            Herbert held up his hands in surrender. “Wait, Blackjack, I-” It was all he could get out before Blackjack cracked him across the mouth with a callused fist. It had been a long time since had been struck like that. The lights flickered out. Herbert caught himself on the bar just as Blackjack was preparing his follow-up. Another blow connected with his cheek, catching Herbert at a downward angle and knocking his head against the counter.

            Herbert crumpled to the floor. Instinct took over. Blackjack tried to kick him in the gut and Herbert scrambled back, knocking over several stools in his panic.

            “The fuck are you doin' here?” Blackjack growled over his teeth as he stepped over the felled furniture.

            “Wait, I'm not here to fight...” Herbert stood up, panting.

            “The hell you are!” Blackjack took a wild wide swipe.

            Hebert ducked. “I'm here to apologize, you fucking idiot.”

            “Fuck you.” Blackjack spat back, kicking a stool out of the way.

            “Seriously, Blackjack, I'm sorry.” Another punch connected with the side of Herbert's head. He stumbled back into a table. Rage flared inside of him. Pain and blind anger burned away his remorse.

            Blackjack came at him hard and fast. But Herbert had that fresh anger, that throbbing pain in his head, that burning in his knuckles to connect skin with skin. He caught Blackjack with a body blow to the stomach, forcing all the air from his lungs with an audible gasp. He followed up with a left hook to the cheek, knocking him on his back. “You fucking idiot. I'm trying to apologize over here and you're fucking it up.” Herbert rubbed his chin, which was sore to the touch. “Goddammit.” He winced. He held out a hand to help Blackjack up.

            Blackjack lay on his back, looking up at Herbert with bewildered eyes. “What?”

            “I said I'm sorry, you drunk old fool. For cracking you upside your head last night.”

            The old barman touched the bandage on his forehead. “It's...it's all right.” He took Herbert's hand and stood.

            “Yeah, I met with the lawyer. You weren't the one who put the hit out on me.”

            “No shit.” Blackjack grumbled, hobbling back toward his table and rubbing his knuckles.

            “Still, you know, you crossed a line the other night. Bringing up my family”

            Blackjack shrugged and sipped his beer.

            Herbert shuffled to the other side of the table and lowered himself into a chair. He looked down at the perspiring glass sitting between the two of them and licked his lips.

            Blackjack gave a sly smile. “You can have one if you want.”

            “No, I really shouldn't.” Herbert shook his head in spite of his arid throat.

            “You know,” Blackjack leaned back and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. He dropped his chin as he lit up and took a drag. He looked across the table, smiling with a mouthful of smoke. “Swearing off the booze like you have is almost as bad as being a worthless drunk.” Blackjack lifted the pint glass to his lips and took a long swallow.

            Herbert's eyes followed the glass on its journey from the table to the old man's mouth. He licked his lips and cleared his throat.

            Blackjack laughed. “Look at you. See how much power it still has over you? I bet you'd drink this stuff out of an ashtray if nobody was watching.”

            “No,” Herbert shook his head. “I wouldn't.”

            “Whatever,” Blackjack took another drag on his cigarette. “You get what I'm saying though. I don't see how one beer can hurt. You won't get drunk. You won't start murdering people or puking everywhere.”

            “Listen, I don't have time for this.” Herbert reached into his pocket and produced the contract with Trotman. “I need a favor.”

            “Well, just gonna skip the foreplay and jump right into the main event, huh? Not even gonna lube me up a little?”

            “You fucked that up when you started swinging at me.”

            Blackjack laughed his dry scraping laugh. “Fair enough.”

            “Anyways, my boy is in jail. He's catching a big wrap for something he didn't do.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Don't fuck with me. You have to know about this...Roland bullshit.”

            Blackjack shrugged. “I don't have the full story. Just know that he's some big shot who got ahead of himself.”

            “Yeah, well, it turns out he was big enough where someone's gotta go to jail for knocking him off.”

            “So, the sacrificial lamb's gonna be that colored boy you brought here last night?”

            After a pause, Herbert spoke. “I don't think you're supposed to use 'colored'. 'Black.' They like 'black,' I think.”

            Blackjack rolled his eyes. “So, what do you need me to do?”

            Herbert sighed. “I worked out a deal with the lawyer. I need to make sure that whatever happens to me, you give this to Darius. He's in lock-up at Police Headquarters.” He slid the folded contract across the table. “This is his get out of jail free card.”

            Blackjack placed a weathered hand on the sheet of paper. “I'll do it on one condition.”

            Herbert stared across the table. He tried to keep his composure. “Name it.”

            “You have to take a sip of this beer.”

            “Jesus Christ. Are you kidding?”

            “I am serious as a heart attack.” Blackjack crossed his arms.

            “Why does it matter to you?”

            “Why does it matter to you?” He slid the glass across the table to Herbert. “If you're serious about this...this piece of paper here, you'll do it.”

            “You're fucked in the head, Blackjack.” Herbert shook his head.

            “What's the problem? You afraid that one sip of beer is gonna send you flying off the wagon headfirst into a bucket of whiskey?”

            “No, but why chance it? Why does it matter to you?”

            Blackjack grinned. “It's like you said, Herbie. I'm fucked in the head.”

            “If I do this...you'll swear to make sure that Darius gets it?”

            “Cross my heart. I'll do it. I'll even pinky promise if you want.”

            Herbert shook his head and wrapped his hand around the cool pint glass. The weight felt nice in hand, familiar. It was like shaking hands with an old friend. He picked it up and looked at its contents, liquid gold illuminated in the daylight streaming through the windows. Just as he felt the cold kiss of glass against his lips, Blackjack spoke. “Wait.”

            The beer hung in the air, gripped firmly in Herbert's fist.

            “You must really love that kid.” Blackjack reached across the table and took the beer away from Herbert. “You were really going to do it, weren't you?” He took a sip and set the drink down on the table.

            Herbert licked his lips and tasted traces of beer. He didn't answer, only stared at the glass sitting between the two of them. He resisted the urge to snatch it up and down it. “Yeah.”  He finally said, scratching the back of his head.

            “I'll bet that would have been best sip of beer you've ever tasted.”

            Herbert smiled. “You'd win that bet.”

            Blackjack laughed. “But, you see? Nothing happened. You're not behind the bar drinking straight from the tap.”

            “It's a slippery slope.”

            “If you let it.”

            “I don't plan on it.”

            “Then there's nothing to worry about.” A comfortable silence settled between the two men. Blackjack spoke after emptying his glass. “Now, be honest here. What do you think the chances are of you coming back from this one in one piece?”

            Herbert shrugged.

            “Come on, you wouldn't be comin' in here asking for favors from me if you thought you were gonna live. I'll bet if I asked you to lick the tip of my dick you'd do it if it meant it would get this piece of paper to your boy.”

            “Is it gonna come to that?”

            “Well, now that you mention it...” Blackjack grinned.

            Herbert shook his head, laughing. “Welp. Sorry Darius, I tried.”

            Blackjack picked up the contract and slid it into the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. “I'll make sure he gets it.”

            Herbert nodded. “I don't know what to say.”

            “'Thank you' would be a good start.”

            “Thank you, Blackjack.” Herbert stood and held out his hand.

            Blackjack leaned over the table and took it. He gave it a single shake. Herbert felt a wave of warmth run up his arm and spread through his torso. He felt light, as if he had just set down a heavy burden.

            “It's no big deal.”

            “It's a big deal to me.” said Herbert.

            “You always were making mountains out of molehills...” Blackjack stood and took his empty glass over to the bar. He refilled it with beer. He tipped the glass in Herbert's direction. Blackjack drank deep.