2:53 am
The bar closed in seven minutes, yet a few people remained.
Gilbert and Ludwig had left about an hour ago; Gilbert had his arm slung around his brother's shoulders, prattling on about every-and-anything, while Ludwig listened passively and periodically nodded.
The band had packed up and left around the same time. Elizaveta ordered a dry martini before leaving. Roderich, at her request, had a beer. They left together, her arm tucked warmly into the crook of Roderich's elbow as she bid goodbye to Alfred and Arthur.
Arthur's powerful stink eye had driven away Francois and Antonio shortly after midnight. In a display of elegant disdain, Francois had turned up her pert nose and sniffed as she walked past. Arthur scowled and muttered something about telling her where to stick that fake nose of hers, but Alfred passed him another Guinness before he could cause a ruckus.
Now the only four remained: a red-haired woman flirting with a much younger man in a dress shirt, a haggard old man with an unshaved face nursing a whiskey in the corner, and a drunk passed out on the bar.
It was now 2:58, and Alfred wiped clean the last glass in the sink and turned to the remaining patrons.
"Alright folks, show's over. The bar's closed. Head on home, now."
Giggling madly, the woman and her young companion stumbled out of the bar arm-in-arm, followed by the man who was down on his luck. The drunk, however, remained comatose. Arthur gave a curt whistle and waved over the tall Swede in charge of escorting out the rabble-rousers. He clapped the man on the back, and when he refused to get up, took him up by the collar and neatly tossed him out into the street. The bar now empty, Mr. Kirkland leaned back against the bar-top.
"Good business tonight." Al mentioned casually, loosening the bow tie around his neck.
"I'll say. Hope they tipped you well enough, for all that damn running you were doing behind the bar."
Alfred shrugged. "Tonight was kiddie shit. I've had worse nights. By the way..." he trailed off, giving his boss a wary glance. "what was up with you and Gil's brother Luddy? If looks could kill you'd be in line for the electric chair right now, Artie."
Arthur sighed and lit a cigarette, organizing his thoughts as he took a deep drag. "Ludwig Beilschmidt. I happen to know that he's involved with one of the Vargas brothers. Feliciano, the bubbly one. I'm not sure how involved; details are pending, but I'm keeping an eye out regardless. And for God's sake stop calling me Artie, you coy bastard."
The bartender leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. "How come you don't keep an eye on Gilbert?"
"I did, believe you me. It was before your time. Gilbert has a history with Antonio and cheese-eating bitch Francois. When I hired Roderich and Lizzie, Roderich mentioned that he knew a good cellist and asked me to take him on. Told him the only way I would let him into my bar is if he cleaned up his act. In any case, he swears that his "old life" is all behind him. Whether or not I fully believe him is a different story."
As he talked, his cigarette burned up in the ashtray until nothing remained but the wrinkled filter. He checked his watch. They had been sitting here for twenty minutes.
"Christ Jesus, Alfred it's nearly half past three. Get out of here. I'll lock up."
Alfred was skeptical, but, tempted with the promise of home, he relented. "Take it easy, boss. See you tomorrow night."
The final employee left and the bar descended into an easy silence. Arthur fiddled with his lighter absently as thoughts rolled turbulently in his mind.
Vargas. Beilschmidt. Ludwig. Bonnefoy, Francois. Ivan Braginski. He mulled, and over him descended an eerie sense of foreboding. Trouble, he feared, was coming to Kirkland's.
Ohmigosh i'm so sorry that this story hasn't been updated in months! Writer's block, you know how it is. But I'm gonna try and stick with it this time, I promise! Much love, dearies.