More people were moving from the bar area towards the band stage at the same time he was, and walking between groups getting more difficult. It felt like the crowd was moving in on him, preventing him from making any headway.
At the spot he had last seen the woman and Al he stopped, looked around, but neither were there.
Damn, he’d lost both of them, which, given he was a portly imitation of Alfred Hitchcock, or so Harry thought, and the bright red hair of the woman he was with, was some feat.
He drank what remained of his beer and put the empty glass on a shelf. Just as he did, he felt a thump on his back startling him and also causing him to hit several other empty glasses, knocking them to the floor with a loud shattering sound.
Patrons jumped back and sideways to avoid the glass.
A booming voice behind me said, “Well done, son. Not many can down a pint in one gulp.”
I turned. A guy in a suit, by the look of it a very expensive suit. And one not to mess with. Several of those avoiding the shattering glass had turned to square up, saw him, and turned away.
Then Harry recognized him, the man with the red-haired woman. He looked very different closer up, much less like a gangster, but still not a man to mess with.
The red-haired woman appeared at his side, three drinks held carefully, and which she placed on the now empty shelf.
She gave the man the Scotch and offered a pint to me. Same beer as my last.
He grinned. “Take it, son. It’s a peace offering.”
“I didn’t know we were at war.”
“We might be. It depends on what you say next.”
Harry accepted the drink and sipped it. It seemed foolish not to. “Would it make any difference what I said?”“Not really, but a truthful answer will help your cause. Are you the latest piece of shit PI my wife has sent after me?”
© Charles Heath 2016-2018