Dirty Barry's was crowded tonight, and everyone was in high spirits. Barry's wasn't exactly one of the friendliest drinking stations in the city; it wasn't rare to find the cities most wanted criminals trading stories of their favourite bloodbaths and heists. What was rare was to find a drinker who didn't have a criminal record. In fact, the only real exceptions were the lawyers who met their regular clients here. Any naive tourists or anyone else foolish enough to stray into Barry's soon found the error of their ways and usually made a swift exit. Those who pushed their luck would end up in hospital, nursing their bloodied nose and broken egos. It had become one of life's many certainties... everybody dies, everyone plays taxes and Dirty Barry's would never be listed in any tourist guide.
'Dirty' Barry himself was behind the bar tonight, along with the regular staff. As the owner, Barry wasn't typically serving drinks, but tonight he made an exception. Tonight was a special occasion. One of the regular drinkers, Wilson 'Gatecrasher' Green had won his appeal that day, and was once again a free man. He was also, of course, as guilty as Satan. That was the beauty of the justice system after all. You pay the right person the right amount of money and you could, quite literally, get away with murder.
The bar was full as the criminal fraternity celebrated along with Green. Any excuse for a drink. The party was now in full swing and Barry couldn't help imagining all that cash rolling in. The thought of all the money he must be making was probably the reason why Barry, who usually was renowned for having an eye on everyone in the bar, hadn't noticed the stranger sitting by the door.
If Barry had been on the ball, he might've wondered why the stranger was the only person in the bar who didn't have a drink in their hand. He might've been suspicious as to how the stranger's face was hidden in shadow, even though the rest of the bar was well lit. But none of this occurred to Barry, as he smiled and wondered what he would buy with tonight's earnings.
Wilson stumbled over to the bar.
"Another round over here Barry!" called out Wilson as he leaned against the small space available at the bar, knocking into the man next to him. The man turned to face Wilson, and although he couldn't figure out why, warning bells sounded out in Wilson's head. But between the warnings in his head and the amount of alcohol that he'd drunk that night, there was no contest.
"You must be Wilson" said the man. It didn't seem to be so much a question, as much as a cold statement.
"What if I am?" replied a slightly wary Wilson, as his eyes scanned over the man before him.
"I hear you're best mates with the open throat killer..."
Wilson warmed slightly. Just another bozo who wanted to hear tales about killers. He should've guessed by the trench the man was wearing. Itwas always a source of wonder to Wilson that people were so obsessed with death and violence.When the first death was on the news, Wilson had recognised the MO, the victim, had known exactly who was behind the killings. It had only been a casual remark to the crook next to him, and suddenly Wilson was some sort of celebrity. He'd got more free drinks in the month since the killings had started then in the rest of his life.Wilson started the well-practised lines, relatively sure there was another free drink on the way.
"Hah. Any closer and we'd be brothers. We go way back. Man, there was this one time when we both held up a bank..."
"What's his name?" the man in the trench interrupted, a cold edge to his voice. Wilson stood back, surprised at the sudden question. People were always keen to hear tales of the killer, but no-one, NO-ONE, had ever once asked for the killer's name. It was an unwritten rule, it just wasn't done.
"What makes you think I'm going to tell you that! I ain't gonna just tell anyone, fool. I don't even know your name!"
"My name's Frank." The growl in the man's voice would have silenced most men, but Wlson was oblivious.
"Well, Frank, you're starting to piss me off. Who said you could ask questions? Get lost, before I have you thrown out."
Frank looked at his options. Two colts hung by his side, and he had plenty of ammo on him. He looked around the bar. He recognised a lot of the faces, a lot of people who deserved an early death. But there were also people he didn' recognise, people drowning the sorrows of another awful day. The place was just too public. Most of the guys in here were too drunk too shoot in a straight line, and he couldn't risk any stray bullets picking off an innocent. He knew what it was like to seepeople you love killed by stray bullets. As long as he could help it, no innocent would have to suffer as he had suffered.
He stood up and looked Wilson in the eyes. Wilson put it down to mixing his drinks, but for an one instant, Frank's eyes seemdto hold a universe full of rage and hurt in them. Wilson blinked. Then Frank walked away.It wasn't like him toturn away from a crook,andthere was a nagging voice in his head, pointing out all the guilty people enjoying themselves as Frank walked past.There'd be plenty of time to find out what Wilson knew, in a place where no innocent could be harmed.Then Frank would find out what he needed to know. But for now, he wouldn't risk a firefight leaking out onto the streets.
"And stay out!" Wilson yelled out after him, causing a few heads to turn. The words bounced off Frank's back, as he pushed through the doors, past the stranger,and onto the streets.Frankcould wait.
Wilson settled back down, and was soon enjoying himself again as he had another drink. He felt on top of the world, and he loved the view.
Behind the bar, Barry replaced the gun under the shelf. He hadn't liked he look of the man who'd been talking to Wilson, and he's been ready to put a stop to any trouble that started. But for once it looked like the night would end without any bloodshed. Barry poured himself a drink, and calmed himself down.
By the door, the stranger stood up and left, still unnoticed by either Barry or Wilson.
Several hours later, Wilson made his way drunkenly to the flats he called home. He yelled a farewell to his friends, before practically falling through the doors, then made it into the elevator as the doors began to close behind him. None of Wilson's friends saw Frank step out of the shadows and through the closing doors. Frank noted which floor the lift stopped at, then began his way up the steps to the ninth floor, walking as if he had all the time in the world.
He reached the ninth floor the liftand took a look around. The lift doors were closing, and Frank was sure he caught a glimpse of someone still inside. The lift began making its way back down, and Frank was thinking aboutchasing the liftdown to the ground floor, but then he noticed one of the apartment doors had been left open. Outside the door lay the coat Wilson had been wearing. Frank pulled a colt from its holster, silently opened the door fully, then stepped inside.
Inside, the place was in darkness. Wilson must've been too drunk to bother with lights. Listening out for any sound, Frank made his way around the rooms. The silence was almost deafening as Frank stepped into the bedroom. Something was very wrong. A figure lay on the bed. But that wasn't what grabbed Frank's attention; the all too familiar smell of gunpowder filled the room. Frank flicked the light switch, his Colt trained on the figure lying on the bed. He needn't have worried. The room fully illuminated, Frank could clearly see that the figure on the bed didn't pose a threat. The lifeless eyes of the corpse stared straight through Castle, a red dot painted on it's forehead.
Wilson Green was dead.