Eh? That's curious...
There, slipped under my door, was a slip of paper. It couldn't be the mail; they leave that in front of the door. I bent down to pick it up. As I unfolded it, my mind ran through the possibilities. Perhaps it was a mentally ill fan, or some girl wanting my autograph. The reality of the piece of paper surprised me.
Almasty's. 13:00. That was the message scrawled on the slip.
I would have dismissed it as one of my earlier suspicions, but a small insignia was drawn on the right side of the slip. It depicted a human, with wings sprouting from it's back and hands outstretched.
I shivered at the sight, and my stomach felt tight. I had the same design burnt onto my left palm. I always kept a glove on my hand to hide it from view; no one could have seen it. This has to be a joke, or something. It can't be real. I'm dreaming. If it was real, then this is what I've been hoping for these past two years. But instead, I felt dread.
I forced my mind to stop flying. This person knows me, and probably more about my past than I do. Almasty's was a bar in the west sector of town, quite a long way from my apartment. I glanced at the clock in the entry way, to find that it was 10:00. I had plenty of time, so I decided to shower before leaving. The water would also serve to shake my grogginess and sharpen my senses. Whoever or whatever this was, there was a chance it wouldn't be friendly. I would be ready for that.
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I had fretted over the strange note the whole ride here. And I had a lot of time to fret about it. There were so many possibilities, and I felt so out of control. I hate to not be in control.
I glanced at my watch for the hundredth time, and had to suppress the urge to yell various explicative comments about the nefarious road systems in New York. I had ten miles to go, and at the current rate of traffic, it looked like I might be there in forty minutes if I was lucky. This whole situation makes me feel vulnerable, and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. I sighed in resignation and compromised by letting my mind run through building scenarios that would maximize travel efficiency.
Seconds after my mind began to break through estimate numbers, the traffic shifted. It looked as if the traffic lights had finally decided to cooperate. I pushed my car to the limit, and reached Almasty's with seconds left to spare. I burst out of the driver's seat like a caged animal and dashed to the bar.
Almasty's was an average slum bar, and it came with your usual assortment of drunks, whores, and thugs. The air was so rancid that many individuals had complained that their nostrils were being raped while entering the place. Green fluorescent lights glowed eerily over the tables crowding the bar floor. Everything else was cast in an unnatural darkness cultivated partially by the clouds of smoke in the room.
This rapid change in surroundings made my head reel. This bar was nowhere near my normal environment. That combined with the fog of cigarette smoke and illegal drugs would slow my reaction time. Judging by the looks of this bar's denizens, I could probably take them all in a fair fight, but looks can be deceiving and bar fights are never fair. I didn't know what was expected of me from mystery contact, so I sat at a table in a more well-lit part of the bar.
I had just sat down when a man got up from the bar. He turned and limped quickly in the direction of my table. On his red, puckered face he had a dense beard and large mustache. In fact, everything about him was large. Muscles bulged on his arms and chest, accompanied by a small potbelly somewhat hidden by his leather jacket. He had as thick a neck as any I had ever seen, but it was partially covered by his mane. His left leg probably suffered some sort of ailment, as he was favoring his right side.
As he neared, he muttered in a deep, accented voice, "Ye mus be de AC jockey, Pent." I nodded, quite stunned at the idea that this was the man who had contacted me. I didn't say a word, though, and indicated he should have a seat. He pulled out the chair across from my table and collapsed in it. After a few seconds, he scooted up and brought his chair with him.
"Now den, ye'll be wanderin why ye got told teh come ere. Now it wuddin I who wrote ye, but dis guy. 'Parently, he's wantin teh speak teh ye. He wants ye teh go teh de 'bandoned Mirage warehouses on de outskirts o' New York. Ye know de place?" I nodded, indicating I did. "Good. Head dere right away if ye're wantin to, he should be dere."
By the nine hells, I hated this being led around on a leash junk. The whole situation had just slipped from my grasp, eradicating any hope of leverage I ever had on it. I quietly thanked the large man, and left the place, glad to be rid of its intoxicating influences.
Should I follow up on this, or just go home? Answers are well worth my trouble. Hell, who am I kidding... my curiosity will win in the end no matter how I fight. I slipped into my car and started the engine.