Illicit Nectar

It was around 4:00am, the pub was dimly lit and only two patrons were sitting upon stools at the bar. The place was grim, there was not much seating to be had and the bar itself was unorganized with cases of whiskey piled high behind it. A small band played quietly upon a dismal stage, singing some Paul Whiteman song. The bartender stood quietly humming along to the music while dubiously cleaning classes. There were no other customers in the underground venue. All others had left earlier in the evening, long before dawn. Most only risk being down there for so long before the nagging feeling of danger or illegal liquid draw them out from the basement.

At the bar the two gentlemen smoked their cigarettes silently next to each other, each one cradling a whiskey, warmed by their hands consistently upon the glass. They are oblivious to the fear the prohibited honey coloured liquid forces upon the common citizens normally around them. George, seemingly older than the other with a peppered beard and tired grey eyes seemed resigned and bored to his state there. His pin striped pants held high by suspenders showing his still thin frame even in his older age. A crisp white shirt pressed close to his body by a gun holster upon his back. Hollowed cheeks and pale white skin indicating a less then healthy life. Next to him was Charles, possibly only just a man, not even nineteen. He appeared much less tired, large blue eyes showing excitement to be where he was. A grey fedora was placed upon his blonde head slightly leaning to his left. Also in high, suspendered pants showing his very small frame and pronounced muscles. A gun holster was tightly wrapped around his shoulders, two pistols under his arms.

Languidly, the old man blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth and crushed out his gasper on the table. He reached back for the jacket hanging upon is chair and grabbed a pack out from its inner pocket to take a new cigarette out to continue smoking. His movements were slow from years of stress and painful work. He had little time to relax in the life chosen for him.

The young man next to him looked to George eagerly, like a small child looking to a father. Taking a quick swig of the whiskey in his hand, Charles turned towards the older in anticipation.

Looking up from his glass, new cigarette still in hand George glanced sideways at the boy staring imploringly upon him. “What,” he gruffly huffed out, startling to young man from his intense gaze.

Charles smiled widely at his older counterpart, “well,” he began, “I was wondering about something.” The greyed man sighed, but nodded impatiently. He was far too tired for this life now. Too exhausted to be babysitting new recruits that would likely die before their lives actually began. The child next to him irritated him more than some of the others he’s dealt with. Possibly because he’s lasted more than a few weeks, maybe because of his unending child on Christmas morning mentality. The only reason he was still this excited was because he hadn’t been forced to kill anyone yet. It was a bafflement to George as to how he’s gotten this far without committing the act.

“So, my dame,” Charles began, getting a sickeningly dreamy look on his face. “She getting a little nosy, you knows? Asking all these questions about what I do’s. Where I’s am, what I’s doing, who I’s seeing. How’s a guy in our work gets a dame to lay off a little?” Tired eyes looked upon the widely grinned boy. This was not the conversation George assumed he would be having in an underground pub at four in the morning. It did, however, lend an interesting life lesson for this line work. One this kid was in dire need of learning.

George leaned back slowly, taking a long drag of his gasper then blew out the smoke in a calculating manor. “Well, if someone gets nosy, just… you know… shoot ‘em.” He sees Charles’ jaw drop in shock.

“Shoot ‘em?” He almost shouts in response.

He shrugs his shoulders, “politely,” he states uncaring.

Speechless, Charles’ eyes turn to the glass of whiskey in front of him and he swirls the liquid inside. Served the kid right, thought George sensibly. Coming into this line of work, thinking you could have relations when you’re only a footman.

George stretched lightly. He was just too old for this, he felt his back creaking with every movement. His knees grew weaker whenever he stood and his mind loosen from the amount of violence he’s seen and committed.

Gently, he raised from his seat from upon the bar stool and grabbed his glass on the table to down his whiskey in one swallow. Cigarette loosely hanging from his mouth, almost forgotten, he grabs his jacket still hanging of the back of his chair. Painfully he places an arm into the sleeves of his coat, each movement more strained then the last. Nodding to the bartender he limps slowly out of the underground pub, up the stairs and onto the street to the early morning sunrise. The young man still staring at his glass, sitting on a bar stool, unmoving.