Chapter 5.
His hood veiling his face, Fox made his way to the plate-glass doors of the dilapidated sports bar and looked inside. When he wiped the droplets away with the sleeve of his coat, they coalesced and left an irregular film of water on the door, blurring his view of the inside.
A moment of watching through the blur passed before Fox entered the scene. Right away, the combination of blaring music and bellowing sports announcers almost drove his fingers into his sandy ears. Everywhere he looked, grime pervaded the place. Around every corner, the stench of alcohol overwhelmed him. People of all races and cultures clutched various drinks. While a handful of Cornerians laughed and grinned, the rest of the animals, addicts for years too many, slouched over and hid their sickly faces as if they were waiting for their moment of death. The sight caused Fox's eyes to take on a deeper gleam of hopelessness.
Keep going, Fox, he thought to himself. Falco's probably in the restroom.
He took in a breath and made his way through the labyrinth of crowded tables. The people in the bar, most of them dressed in tattered T-shirts and faded jeans, glared at the uniformed Cornerian. But he never gave them a glance.
The instant he entered the men's room, he took in a breath of a putrid stench, his stomach convulsing in response. Swallowing hard and shifting his thoughts elsewhere kept him from vomiting across the tiled floor. He felt bile bubble in the back of his throat as he dashed from the restroom. Covering his mouth he dashed through the crowd and burst through the double doors…and once rain hit his triangular ears, he let out a breath and took in the moist air.
One down, twelve to go.
As Fox stared at the 2800 block, his motions slowed, and his hand dropped his phone back into a jeans pocket. He fixed his gaze ahead and moved forward. Falco's navy-blue Lexus sat just a few yards away in front of another bar, marked by towering plate-glass windows and gloomy fluorescent lighting.
Fox sloshed across the flooding pavement and toward the bar, his sights remaining fixated ahead. When Fox caught a better view of Lylat's former ace pilot, Fox clasped a hand over his muzzle. The whites of Falco's ocean-blue eyes were bloodshot, his whole body slumped over in a drunken stupor. His head leaned on his right hand, which blocked his view of the window, and his eyes peered straight at the vodka in his other hand.
Out of dwindling courage, Fox ducked out of sight. He looks just like the people in the bar back there, he thought.
Just as Fox turned toward his car, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Falco slid from the table and began a shouting match with the waiter, a pudgy vulture with baggy eyes and a continuous scowl. The noise of the arguing filtered through the pouring rain to Fox's ears.
"I'm not lettin' you get another drink! Finish what you've got and go!"
"If my money's good anywhere, it's good here," Falco slurred, wobbling in his footsteps.
"Buddy, take one step closer, and I'm callin' the cops!"
As Falco staggered toward the counter, he warped his face into a beastly look and shouted several curses at the top of his voice. He lunged over the counter, his stomach landing in the bartender's fist. Glasses shattered and the sound of cracks and crashes echoed inside. Falco tumbled like a marionette to the floor as Fox barreled through the doors. The vulture reached for the phone mounted on the wall—
"Hey, hey, HEY! Put it down! Don't make that call!"
"What the hell?"
An indigo hand snatched the steel-edged counter. "Hey, McCloud." A toxic belch rumbled in his throat. "Never thought I'd find a bigshot like you in here."
"Is this guy one of your friends, Falco?" the waiter growled. "Fine. I'm calling the cops on both of you."
"Sir, I am the cops," Fox said, pulling out his badge. "And yes, this guy's my friend. So let me take him into custody."
"This mook is your friend? You should have heard him cuss me out. He taught me some new words tonight, but that's nothin' compared to the tab he rang up."
He tore a slip of paper from the cash register and passed the paper to Fox. Once his eyes met the amount of money listed, the air spilled out of his lungs.
"This is what he spent in the past five hours. He's not helpin' my business anymore. He's been here every night for two weeks. Take a look at him! He looks like a health code violation!"
"I told you, Murdock," Falco bumbled like an angry hornet, "I'm fine."
"You're fine? Pal, it was one thing when I felt sorry for you and all. And it was another thing lettin' you try and sort your problems out. But when you blow up at me because I'm tellin' you that you're driving my business into the dirt, you're crossin' the line. And do I have to tell you again that you look like you've been hit by a bus or somethin'? Let this guy take you home and keep you out of here—for good!"
"Come on, Falco, I'm taking you back to my house," Fox said, grabbing him by the arm. "Sir, would you mind helping me get him to my car."
"Gladly, Sarge," he growled.