The 'bar' didn't have a name on the door as I walked past the flickering red neon sign that read "Cocktails" in half-dead cursive. Tucked between a shuttered tailor shop and a pawn shop with bars on the windows, we heard the rowdiness from the street, with complimentary cursing and friendly bickering.
I could feel the preverbal tumbleweed slap us as the door closed behind us. Men squeaked as they rotated to get a better look at us from their red leather booths, as cracked and patched walls joined the occasion. The jukebox screeched from its low-end jazz into silence, joining the patriots of the bar.
James tried to speak up first before one of the CIA officers cut him off, holding up his CIA ID. "We're not here to cause any problems. We are just looking for someone who goes by Vince. We've been told that he is a regular around here." James did not look impressed with the CIA guy going against what we discussed on the way here.
"We don't speak to the likes of you, spook." The bartender said as he wiped down the bar. "You can see yourselves out."
I looked around the bar, glancing over the men who were starting to tense up or mostly started to ignore us once they realised we were not there for them. From one of the far corners, I could hear someone whisper Vince before I looked over and saw someone nudge another man who had his back to us. He didn't turn around as he continued to drink his beer.
"Give us what we need, and we can get out of each other's way. I don't need to take you in to get the information that we need." The bartender started the CIA man down, not looking impressed. "Look, let me make it simple for you, this Vince has pissed off a lot of high-ranking people and even got our attention, do you want all those eyes interested in you. Just give up, Vince, and you can do both of us a favour."
The bartender's Adam's apple bobbed as some of the other patrons started to squeak the leather of their seats. I zeroed in more on what looked to be Vince, and looking closer at the man who nudged him, I started to recognise him from before. I nudged James, subtly nodding over to them.
James quickly clocked in and started to make his way over, quickly followed by Robert and I. His friends started to tense up as we closed in on him, whilst he continued to drink his beer.
"Hey Vince, fancy seeing you here." James places his hand on his shoulder. "We've been looking all over for you."
He finally turned his head, so Vince could stare back. "Shame I wasn't wanting to see you, maybe you should have taken the hint."
"Ye, I'm a bit stubborn like that, force of habit, just can't help myself tracking down information. How about it's Vince, you going to come with us nicely or you going to run away like a coward again."
Vince smiled lazily as the CIA officer pulled up next to us. Vince took another swig of his beer before giving us a sneer. "Na, I don't feel like it, I'm sure you're lovely people, but I'm not interested."
From the opposite bar, one of the men sprang up, folding the sharply dressed CIA officer. Vince shifted as his fists went flying up towards James. I might not be a good shot, but street fighting, that I know. I reacted before anyone else, twisting Vince's arm and easily pulling him out of the seat. Vince's eyes flared open as he gasped before the wind got knocked out of his lungs from my knee.
Vince's friend was quick, and James saw it coming a half-second too late. He lunged first, catching him across the jaw with a right hook that snapped his head sideways. The meaty whack echoed through the back of the bar as flesh and bone were pounded. James stumbled but didn't fall before wiping the blood from his lip and grunting.
As Vince was catching his breath, I stepped away, ducking low under a wild swing, I shoulder slammed into the bigger man's ribs, hitting nothing but bone, my shoulder instantly starting to pulse as he didn't budge. He brought an elbow down hard, glancing off me as I slipped out of the way again, this time going for his back leg, staggering him forward before I slipped again, passing another man joining the fight, and as the brick wall was falling, I delivered a straight punch, knocking his light out.
Robert caught one of Vince's men trying to blindside him. He came in with a flick knife, stabbing widely but catching air. Robert met him with a chair, splinters flying as it cracked across the kid's ribs.
The room had exploded into chaos. Bottles shattered. Someone hit the jukebox, and a warped jazz tune spun back to life. Another man barrelled into James, both of them slamming against a table that collapsed under their weight. Fists pounded ribs, knees slammed into thighs, the thud of bone against flesh like a drumbeat in a storm.
I landed a clean shot to another patron of the bar, then followed with an uppercut that snapped the older man's head back. He grunted, staggered, and then smiled before I delivered a kick straight to his legs, snapping him to his side and slamming his head into the floor.
Behind me, James ducked a punch from someone and drove him through a stack of crates. Glass and liquor rained down like confetti. Shouts rose from the front of the bar as a few patrons scrambled out.
"Back up." I turned to see the arrogant CIA officer had drawn his gun, blood running down his lips as the start of a black eye began to swell. "That's enough fucking about. We are here for Vince, so the rest of you can fuck off, and we will be taking our man." He quickly moved over to Vince, dragging him to his feet and storming out of the bar, the gun pointed at anyone close, leaving before Vince could get his breath back after Robert had taken him down again.
/
The black sedan crawled through the outer edges of Queens, our headlights dimmed to slits as it slipped past shuttered warehouses and blacked-out tenement blocks. Vince sat slumped in the backseat, huffing and puffing in rhythm with the quiet hum of the engine, now wedged between Robert and James with saw wrists, rubbed raw from his cuffs. He had said many words since Robert gave him a rough shove into the car, none of them helpful.
We took a left off the main road, down a potholed side street littered with open stinking trash bins cooling from the hot sun, and broken glass windows with fenced lots, filled with rust bucket cars. We pulled to a stop at the end of the block, next to a locksmith's, I think. It was curling in on itself, squeezed by a red-brick bakery and a grimy laundromat. With the cover of night, we quickly dragged Vince in, stepping over the build-up of grime, closing the thick steel door, slamming the three deadbolts.
The inside was exactly what I expected for the CIA, damp concrete and mildew as dust floated in the stale air like slow-moving ash. The original floor tiles were cracked and yellowed, and the walls had been stripped bare down to the cinder blocks, showing the dull, dreary gray. Except for the street walls, which were covered in blackout tarps duct-taped over the windows.
Moving down the hallway and into a sort of living room, the only light came from a single exposed bulb swinging slightly from the door closing, casting long, distorted shadows over a steel chair that was bolted into the concrete, a drain beneath it. The only sound was the steady drip, drip of a leaky pipe and the dull thrum of a train causing the light to start to swing again.
Vince was quickly slammed with the steel chair before being tied to it by the quiet CIA officer. "Vince, so glad that you could join us here." He gestured to the room. "A lovely place, right? I'll help you get as comfortable as possible."
The Angry CIA officer rolled up his sleeves. "Hope you love it, because you don't get to leave until we get what we want. Best start preparing yourself."
James leaned back on the wall before turning to me. "This is a good experience for you. It is about to get interesting."