Looking from the bill up to Storm’s face, the man eyes narrowed. “If that’s a joke, I’ve got to admit I’ve heard better.”
Storm blinked. “Play money?”
“It would be a pretty good copy except that, so far as I know, hundred dollar bills come with Thomas Jefferson’s face on the front. That’s why they’re called Tom J’s? You know?”
“Tom J’s.”
“Listen, friend, you seem a little lost.”
Storm barked out a laugh that was so sudden and out of place, the bartender recoiled a little reflexively.
“Lost. Yeah. Understatement of the… millennium.”
“You want a drink?”
Storm shook his head and smiled. thinking he might have landed in hell. Is that the way Elora felt? So completely alone? Everything familiar, but not? He chuckled again at his own misfortune. “No money.”
The bartender looked Storm over. Again. “Excuse me for saying so, but I wouldn’t take you for down and out.”
“No?”
“No. Take your clothes, for instance. Threads are top shelf. Close shave. Nice cologne. Healthy. Clean. Clear eyes. What am I missing?”
Storm shook his head again, knocked two knuckles on the wood bar and said, “Thank you for letting me use your phone.”
He started to turn away when the bartender stopped him.
“Hold on.” The man set a shot glass down and started pouring Jack. “On the house.”
Storm was the sort of person who was way too generous to turn down generosity when it was pointed at him. He knew that a gracious acceptance is a kind of return gift. So he didn’t hesitate to pick up the glass, throw his head back, and let the contents drain down his throat. He savored the after burn.
If ever I needed a drink…
When he set the glass down, the bartender grabbed up the bottle and made a question of motioning toward the empty glass with it. In answer, Storm looked in the guy’s eyes and silently slid the glass closer to the bottle.
“So. I’m guessing you don’t have any real money in that wallet.” Storm said nothing. “I’m also guessing there’s a story that goes along with that.”
Storm scrubbed a hand down his face and offered a “fuck me” smile. “You have no idea.”
“Just so happens I collect stories.” He poured again. “You don’t have any money. And you don’t have any place to go, do you?”
Storm gave his host an appraising look.
“Who wants to know?”
Bartender took the towel off his shoulder, wiped his hands, and stuck a palm out.
“Name’s Hal. Hal Cyon.”
Storm’s mind flew through a catalog of things to say, rejecting each one as fast as it came to mind. He finally decided on keeping his features as even as if Hal’s name was unremarkable. He clasped the hand offered to him.
“Engel Storm. So this is your place.”
Hal smiled in response and glanced around as if to reaffirm to himself that, yes, indeed he was the owner and also to try and see the bar, as if it was for the first time, through someone else’s eyes.
“Angel Storm? Well, there’s one thing we have in common, Mr. Storm. Names that are conversation starters. Now, about my question…”
“No. I don’t have any money. And I don’t have any place to go. When you close this fine establishment, I’m going to be looking for a park bench and hoping it doesn’t rain.” Storm reached up and scratched his chin. “You don’t happen to have a big cardboard box back there, do you? And one of those plastic rain poncho things?”