Chapter 2
Delilah's
Two days later, Sam arrived at the front of Delilah's Tap House, sweaty from walking five miles but hopeful that he might end the night with a free steak dinner. He found Sully sitting on a stone bench by the front door, chewing on a cigar. And not his first of that evening, if the pile of ashes gathered at his feet was any indication.
Sam strolled into view with his hands in his pockets, trying to look innocent.
Sully spotted him and scowled. "Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up," he said. "About damn time. I was starting to think you'd gotten cold feet."
"Who me?" Sam laughed. "Nah, just...bad traffic, that's all."
No need to mention the real reason he was late. Sully probably wouldn't care to know that Sam had used all his cash to pay for a single night at a two-star motel room, leaving nothing left over for a cab ride. At least the walk uptown had been fairly pleasant, if long.
Sully grunted at him and jammed his stogie back between his teeth. Thankfully, he seemed too distracted to bother berating Sam further, his thoughts likely focused on the upcoming meeting. Sam was beginning to feel a bit anxious himself, truth be told. It was one thing to sit on a couch and talk about meeting with a suspicious client, but to actually see it through was another story.
"So, this is the place, huh?" Sam said. He rubbed his hands together and looked up at the painted wooden sign over the front door. Delilah's billed itself as an upscale restaurant and bar, though from the outside it looked more like a commercial steakhouse, complete with neon signage and rows of manicured shrubbery. For some unthinkable reason, Carrow had chosen the place as their meeting location. Sam had his doubts about the man's idea of a covert venue, but even so the smell wafting from the kitchen was enough to make his stomach groan.
"Well," he said stiffly, "What are we standing around for? Let's go get this over with."
Sully looked taken aback. "I just lit up."
"Are you serious?" Sam said. "Come on, Carrow could be in there waiting for us right now."
"So what? We're already running late, thanks to you. What's a few more minutes gonna hurt?" Sully closed his eyes and puffed contentedly on his cigar, appearing in no way ready to put it out.
Sam watched him with growing irritation. He wasn't sure if it was his nerves or his hunger that was making him impatient, or some noxious combination of the two. Regardless, Sully appeared completely unmoved. "Alright, fine," Sam yielded, shrugging both shoulders at once. "We'll wait."
"What's got you all strung up?" Sully said, and opened one eye to look at him.
Sam paused, unsure if he was being asked a serious question or not.
"It's nothing." He glanced up and down the street, making sure they were alone before adding in a harsh whisper, "except for the fact that neither of us has any idea who we're actually meeting with tonight. I don't know about you, but that little detail kinda puts me on edge."
"Ah, relax. What's the worst that could happen?" Sully said. "Look where we are. There's more witnesses just standing out here on the street than you'd find in a goddamn courtroom. This is hardly the location to stage an ambush."
"It's hardly the location to meet a client either," Sam said. "I just wish we'd been able to scope the place before we got here. Some blueprints wouldn't hurt either."
Sully shook his head. "Too late now," he concluded.
"Great. So, basically we're going in completely blind." Sam inhaled a shuddering breath and clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists. This whole situation, compounded with twelve hours of forced abstinence from nicotine, had left him feeling twitchy as a pinched nerve. "Don't see how anything could possibly go wrong."
Sully rolled his eyes. "You really gotta relax, kid. First rule of business: never let them see you sweat." He gestured to the bench he was sitting on with his empty hand. "Come here and take a load off. Have a cigarette before you jump out of your goddamn skin."
Sam didn't move. "I'm good, thanks."
"Suit yourself," Sully said. "I'm just saying, it's a nice night, and we're about to enjoy dinner at a halfway decent restaurant -"
"But that's the thing," Sam cut in. "The location. What kind of broker sets up a meeting at a third rate pub? If you could just consider for one second -"
"So it's a little bit weird, but what difference does it make?" Sully said. "Trust me, I've had some weird meet ups before, and this is nothing. Christ, when did you get to be such a stick in the mud anyway?"
When I ran out of money and ran out of options, Sam thought. He kept quiet, seeing no reason to reveal how much he was counting on this job. Some part of his mind was afraid to even admit it to himself, let alone to Sully.
"Did you at least bring a gun?" he asked.
Sully scoffed. "Of course. I'm may be old, but I'm not senile." He looked closely at Sam. "Did you?"
By way of an answer, Sam patted his left hip where a 9 mm pistol was holstered just above his belt. "Always. How do you think I sleep at night?"
"You're a man after my own heart," Sully said with a cynical smile.
Sam could barely manage a grim smirk in return. He fought the urge to reach under his jacket and touch the sidearm, just to reassure himself that it was there. If everything went as planned tonight, he wouldn't even need his gun. Experience said he probably would.
Just as Sam was starting to think his time might be better spent scoping the building, Sully finally finished his cigar. He dropped the butt on the ground and stepped on it with the toe of his well-worn shoe.
"Alright," he said. "How about we get this show on the road, seeing as you're so eager?"
Sam took another deep breath, exhaling slowly. Sullivan stood up with a groan and brushed ashes off his pants.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be."
Sully offered an encouraging nod, and then turned to lead the way into the waiting room.
Walking inside, Sam was momentarily overwhelmed by the smell of roasted meat and garlic, a powerful aroma that made both his eyes and his mouth water at once. He blinked, trying to take in his surroundings. The waiting room was sparse and dim, like a backdrop from some kind of grungy sci-fi flick, stocked with mismatched retro furniture in varying states of ware. The only light seemed to issue from a series of spherical chandeliers hanging above the room. It was gloomy as a cave inside, and about as warm.
The host was standing a few feet away, stacking menus behind a sleek metal podium. He turned and gave a drab smile that suggested he was anything but happy to see guests walk through the door. "Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to Delilah's."
"Table for three please," Sully said, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. "I believe we have a reservation."
"Name?"
"Try...Sullivan."
The host crouched over the podium and leisurely rifled through some papers. "Yes, here it is," he said. " ? Table for two."
"Uh…no, actually," Sully lifted a hand to stall him. "That should be a three top like I said."
The host glanced once more at his papers, too fast to have actually read anything. "The reservation is for two, I'm afraid. If you would follow me, please."
With that he walked off into the dining room. Sully threw Sam a dubious glance over his shoulder, but Sam only shrugged.
The host led them through a bustling dining area, filled with the murmur of muttered conversations and the clatter of utensils on plates. For a weeknight, Sam noticed that the room was surprisingly full. Nearly every table was occupied by two to four guests, and most of them seemed fairly young. He swept the room as he walked, searching for anyone who appeared older than college age, but found surprisingly few.
Was this really where Carrow wanted to meet? From the way Sullivan had described him, Sam had assumed Edwin was more of a top-drawer kind of man. Delilah's had a bizarre kind of charm, but it seemed a bit pedestrian on the whole. Still, Sam tried not to jump to conclusions. Carrow might have a good reason for choosing this place, even if those reasons were far from evident.
For one thing, the food smelled fantastic.
Sam kept an eye out as they meandered through the large room, skirting the tables and sidestepping the harried waitstaff. He saw nothing that warranted suspicion, not even a shady loner camped at the bar. Still, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling clutching at his gut. Something just didn't seem right here.
To Sam's surprise, the host did not seat them in the main dining area. He directed them instead through a set of double doors into a separate room with only a handful of tables and no other diners. It seemed like the kind of space reserved for private meetings or parties, or perhaps gatherings of a more illicit nature.
Sam frowned as he followed Sully through the doors. The uneasy feeling twisting his insides suddenly tripled in strength, making his heart beat faster and his palms sweat. His hand reflexively moved toward his left hip, brushing the handle of his pistol.
But there was nothing there. The room appeared to be completely empty.
The host set two menus on a small, square table by the wall, and then stood back with his hands clasped in front of him. "Here you are, gentlemen," he said. "Please make yourselves comfortable, and if you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask. Your waitress will be with you shortly."
Having said all that was required of him, he quickly left the room before either of his guests could sit down. Sam watched the door swing closed, not entirely convinced that it would stay that way. He almost expected an armed thug to jump out at any moment, yelling and brandishing a loaded shotgun. Strange enough, that sort of thing had happened to him before. More than once.
This time though, there was nothing. No thug. No shotgun. Only the soft melody of a trashy pop tune echoing from the overhead speakers.
"You gonna stand there all night?" Sully called. He was already seated at the table with menu in hand. "I mean, you can if you want. Just saying it's easier if you sit down."
Warily, Sam approached the table and took a seat. He continued to look around, making note of the two exits on either end of the room, just in case. As he settled into his chair, he caught himself fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve, and quickly dropped his hands onto his lap. He tried to take Sully's advice to appear calm, even though inwardly he felt like a rabbit hiding from a fox. He thought he felt a tickle of sweat beading on his forehead, and absently wiped it away.
"You catch any sign of Carrow out there?" Sam asked. He kept his eyes lowered, fixated on the arrangement of cheap silverware in front of him.
"Nah," Sully shook his head. "But I wasn't really looking. Too many people. Besides, it's been so long, I don't know if I'd recognize him."
Before he could think better of it, Sam commented, "He'd look like you wouldn't he? Old. Grey. Wrinkly from head to -"
"Alright, alright," Sully broke in. "Very funny, teasing the old-timer. You're no spring chicken yourself, don't forget." He picked up the list of specials and held it at arm's length, squinting at the small letters. "Ah, I can't read shit in this light. It's so goddamn dim in here, you'd think these clowns were behind on their electric bill or something."
"Yeah," Sam agreed.
"What does that say? Bordelaise Steak?" Sully peered at the menu and grumbled to himself under his breath. "You know, the last time I ate steak in Boston, it was so raw I swear I could still hear the damn cow mooing. I don't know what they're teaching these kids in culinary school nowadays, but if you can't cook a steak, you outta get out of the kitchen, that's just the simple truth. Maybe I'd be better off with chicken? Ah, who am I kidding, I hate fowl. Unless it's duck, which I doubt they serve in cheap joint like this…"
Sully continued to ramble on, but Sam was only half listening. He ran his thumb over his upper lip, staring at the double doors where they had entered. How long would they have to wait? Either Carrow, or his imposter, would have make a move, and soon. But what would it be? Surely he wouldn't just walk through the doors unannounced. After all this secrecy, Sam expected their "client" would try to make a more subtle debut at the very least.
After several seemingly infinite minutes of waiting, Sam started to get worried.
"Let me take another look at that email," he said. "The one Carrow sent last night."
"What for?" Sully grumbled. "I've already told you what it says."
"I just want to make sure we didn't miss something."
"Trust me, there's nothing to miss." Sully didn't look at him, preoccupied with feigning interest in the beverage menu. "He gave us a location and a time. That's it. We're supposed to sit here, have some drinks and maybe some calamari, and wait. This really ain't the hard part, kid."
"But what if we're...I don't know, in the wrong place?"
"I doubt it. There was a reservation under my name."
Sam scoffed quietly. "This might come as a surprise to you, Victor, but Sullivan isn't exactly an uncommon surname. Maybe some other made that reservation, and we just swooped in and took it for ourselves."
"Would you look at that," Sully said. "They've got a special on single-malt scotch, half-price. Must be my lucky day."
Taking the hint, Sam reluctantly dropped the subject. He opened his menu and tried to look engrossed in reading the lists of entrees. Realizing that he was bouncing his leg under the table, he stopped himself and shifted in his chair.
The door opened. Sam looked up, heart leaping.
It was only the waitress. Sam let out his held breath, forcing himself to relax with some difficulty. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this jittery during a job. Just need a cigarette, he told himself. That's all.
The waitress didn't seem to notice his agitation, as she walked directly up to the table, her short ponytail waving back and forth with each step like a happy dog's tail. Sam had to admit she was cute, with large eyes and trim frame, though obviously very young. Just looking at her fresh, round face Sam felt a pang of remorse for his own lost youth strike deep in his chest.
Enjoy it while you got it, sweetheart.
The waitress stopped in front of the table, balancing a tray with an amber bottle and two stout glasses on the palm of her hand. Sam had a sneaking suspicion that he already knew what was in that bottle, and it wasn't the kind of stuff that usually got left on the bottom shelf.
"Evening, boys," the girl said, grinning at them both. As she did her plump, dimpled cheeks rounded out on either side of her face, making her seem even more adorable than before. Sam couldn't help smiling back at her, mostly just on reflex.
Mostly.
The waitress produced two coasters from the top of the tray and set them on the table. Sam noticed her chipped, deep purple nail polish. Nail biter.
"How you two doing tonight?" she asked in a high, cheerful voice. She turned to Sam, locking him into a prolonged, strangely delightful stare.
"Better," he said smoothly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sully slowly shake his head.
The waitress giggled. "Alright! Well, I've got a little treat for you. Drinks on the house."
She took the pair of glasses off the tray and put them down on the coasters. Tucking the tray under her arm, she poured a few generous ounces of golden-brown liquid into each glass, just enough to float the ice cubes off the bottom.
"Single-malt scotch for you gentlemen," she said.
Sully's eyebrows rose. "Well if I'd known I was getting the VIP treatment tonight, I'd have worn my best shirt," he said.
The waitress giggled again. Sam thought to himself that he hadn't heard such an infectious laugh in his entire life. He felt better about their whole situation already, and he hadn't even touched his scotch yet.
The girl took their beverage orders and promised to return in a few minutes. Sam told her he couldn't wait, and she laughed again. He thought he felt Sully try to kick him under the table as she turned to leave, but it might have been his imagination.
Alone again, Sam sat back and lifted his menu. He didn't need to look up to know that Sully was starting holes into his head.
"Would you quit smiling like that?" Sully muttered. "It's goddamn creepy as hell."
"What?"
"Just try to say focused, would you?"
Sam clicked his tongue obstinately. "Alright," he said, drawing out the word. "You think this might be the signal we were supposed to wait for?"
Sully shrugged. "Could be. Could also be that someone around here is hoping the two of us are half as old as we look."
Charming as the thought was, Sam knew it was unlikely. Anyone who had ever known Sullivan for any length of time, even a few minutes, learned that his two favorite things in the world were Cuban cigars and scotch whiskey. Considering present company, Sam was hard pressed to think of a better signal than the one sitting on the table in front of him.
He picked up his glass and turned it, eyeing the contents. "Looks like regular scotch to me," he said. "What's it supposed to mean?"
"Maybe he just wants to make sure we're having a good time," Sully offered, and took a sip from his glass. He smacked his lips, seeming to be immensely pleased with the taste.
Sam held back, continuing to examine his own drink for clues, if there were any. There was nothing noteworthy in the glass, just liquor and slowly melting blocks of ice. Maybe the hint was in the brand, he thought. But he hadn't caught the name on the label, nor was he versed in any sort of brand trivia that might be useful. He could name a thousand miscellaneous facts about Victorian era pirates, but when it came to alcoholic beverages Sam knew about as much as the next guy. Probably less, come to think of it.
But there must be something, some trick he was missing.
Still pondering, Sam's eyes fell onto the pair of coasters left on the table. At first glance, they appeared to be of the usual disposable variety: plain cardstock squares.
But there was something odd about the design on top of his coaster that held Sam's attention. For one thing, the pattern looked hand-drawn, almost as if someone had sketched it out in haste with a permanent marker.
Sam picked up his coaster and looked at it up close. The drawing on the surface was curiously simple: a series of squares and rectangles of various sizes arranged in the blank space. Curiously, none of the squares were overlapping. A few of them were drawn side by side, but their edges were merely close, not touching.
He turned the coaster so that he could examine the drawing from every angle. He allowed himself a sip of scotch while he thought, enjoying the flash of fire running down his throat, numbing the prickling unease in his stomach. He sipped again. Easier to think like this.
The designs on both his and Sully's coasters appeared similar, he noticed, but they weren't exactly the same. The most obvious difference was that Sully's picture bore a large, bright red "X" on one corner, while Sam's did not. That was significant. Obviously. Sam lowered his glass. A vague thought, like a fleeting shadow, darted across his mind.
In an odd sort of way, that drawing almost looked like…
"Victor, take a look at this," Sam said. He put the coaster down on the table next to its partner. "What does that look like to you?"
Sully leaned in. "Uh...a square?"
"No, I mean what's on top. The pattern."
"I don't know," Sully said. "Just looks like a bunch of lines. What are you getting at, kid?"
Sam allowed himself a small, playful smirk. "It's a map."
He twisted each coaster around and then pushed them together so that their edges touched. Like pieces of a rudimentary puzzle, the two designs lined up perfectly, creating a slightly larger and more detailed picture when seen together.
"You clever bastard," Sully said, impressed. "How'd you know to look for that? Do you Drakes just go around searching for this kind of wacky shit all the time?"
Sam laughed. "You might be surprised."
"Well, at least now I know you're more than just a pretty face." Sully said, tilting his glass as if in a toast. "But here's the next question: what's it a map of?"
Sam already knew. To him, the answer was as obvious as a full moon on a clear night. He pointed to one of the squares on his coaster, still grinning.
"It a map of this room," he explained. "Look. That square is our table, see? There's the windows, the doors, and the other tables around us."
"Well I'll be damned," Sully said with a slow grin. "And let me guess. 'X' marks the spot?" He jabbed a finger at the red letter on the corner of the map.
Sam nodded and looked up toward the other side of the room. "There's something over there Carrow wants us to see."
That space, though clearly marked on the map, appeared just the same to Sam as the rest of the room. There was a single, small table, a pair of chairs, and a photograph mounted on the wall for decoration. Nothing else. A bright red "X" painted on the floor was probably too much to hope for.
"Well," Sully said, "why don't we go and see what's in store?"
He got up and crossed the room, taking his coaster and his scotch with him. Sam followed, but detoured to the double doors and glanced inconspicuously out into the hallway. He didn't see anyone coming, at least for now. Satisfied, he joined Sully in front of the small table and immediately began to search it.
"What are you hiding?" he muttered, running his hand along the rough plywood skirt. His fingers grazed over crooked nails and frayed splinters, but that was all. Nothing there. "Damn," he hissed.
Sully turned over one of the chairs, but found similar results. He cursed and pulled the coaster out of his pocket to check a second time. "This is definitely the right spot."
"Well keep looking," Sam told him. He swept his hand over the wall, feeling for bulges or weaknesses, when his eyes fell on the small framed photograph nailed into the plaster. His eyes narrowed. "What do you bet…"
He reached behind the frame, searching with the tips of his fingers.
There! A cold thrill ran up the back of his neck as he pulled a small, folded piece of paper from the edge of the frame. He looked at Sully and smirked, waving the little note.
"Jackpot," Sam said.
Sully huffed, unenthused. "What is it? A note?"
Sam unfolded the slip of paper, looking down to read. His grin faded. Written there in scribbled black ink was a single, cryptic word:
Methuselah
He flipped the paper over, looking for something more, but the rest was blank. Sam shook his head, reading the word over and over, but it was useless. Whatever the message was, it meant nothing to him.
"Methuselah?" he said. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Sully's eyes suddenly widened as if in shock. "Let me see that," he said, edging close to see over Sam's shoulder.
Sam gave him the paper. "Mean something to you?"
Instead of answering, Sully looked down at the solitary word, smiling to himself, the way a person might gaze at an old forgotten photograph he'd found in the attic. "What do you know," he said.
"What? You know what it means?" Sam asked. He couldn't control the eager edge in his voice, and his words came out louder than he would have liked. "Come on, Victor, don't just leave me in suspense here," he added.
Sully met his eyes, and there was something sharp, something impish, in his stare. "What's this? For once I'm the one who knows the answer to something, and you don't?" He chuckled while Sam rolled his eyes. "Feels pretty damn good, if I do say so myself."
"Would you just spit it out already?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Sully said. "Methuselah. Famous, legendary old guy. Supposedly he lived to be –"
"Nine hundred sixty-nine," Sam finished. "Oldest man alive. Yeah, I know the story. But what is that supposed to tell us?"
"Kid," Sully said, patting Sam's shoulder, "I've kept that secret for fifty years. You think I'm just gonna let the cat out of bag now?"
Sam stared at him, uncomprehending, for a long, exceedingly sluggish moment. And then realization dawned on him, sudden and clear. He sighed.
"It's a code-word," Sam said. "Between you and Carrow. Isn't it?"
Sully snorted, pocketing the scrap of paper. "Someday, on my deathbed, maybe I'll consider letting you in on the secret. Maybe take me on a few more dates first and we'll see."
"Cute," Sam said.
"Well, at least we know Carrow was here," Sully told him.
"But he's not now." Sam folded his arms over his chest. "So, where'd he go?"
Sully gave a shrug, but Sam was no longer paying attention to him. He turned back to the photograph on the wall, the same one which had hidden the note, and studied it again. It was a picture of a large, nondescript building, and not even a very attractive one, with its plain brick walls and unadorned windows . Such a strange picture to hang in a restaurant...
"I know where he is," Sam said.
"What?"
Sam pointed to the photograph. "Randolph Street and Harrison. That's the abandoned warehouse right off the interstate."
Sully glanced at the picture, and then back at Sam, frowning. "How the hell do you know that?"
"Don't you know? It's where all the cool kids go to…do whatever kids do for fun these days," Sam said mockingly. "Plus, I might've done a few odd jobs there, once or twice. Trust me, this time of night, the whole place is completely deserted."
"And you think Carrow went there?" Sully said. "What for?"
Sam threw up his hands. "How do I know? He's changing the location. It's not exactly a good sign."
"Damn," Sully said, but he didn't offer argument. He looked forlornly at the remainder of his scotch, swirling the glistening amber liquid around in the glass. He threw back his head and finished it off in one gulp. "Guess we're not getting dinner tonight after all."
*Notes: Thanks for reading! I have to say, these chapters are getting longer and longer. I hope they're not too boring for you all. I've written and rewritten these first few chapters, trying to get the pacing just right, but at some point, one obviously must move on. I've got to stop myself from going back and revising every little detail, otherwise I'll never finish this thing.
I always like to hear your thoughts in the comments, so don't forget to leave a review!
I will, hopefully, see you all next week with another chapter!
