One Last Job

A droubble by EwanL

Dave put down the glass. It was best to do that when you started believing it would look good in someone's face. The man was still talking. Dave put both hands palm down on the copper-topped bar: the spilled beer was cooling. He wondered if you could suck that cool up through your arms into your head. Probably not. The man stopped talking; Dave had turned his head towards him. The flabby 40 or so guy stepped backwards, knocking over the high-stool behind him.

'I've retired.' Dave said.

The man started talking again, 'I've got...'

'Nothing I want,' Dave's right hand was palm out in the stranger's face.

'But they told...'

'Lies. They always do.'

Dave laughed, and it felt good. He picked up his glass again and took a long swig of San Miguel. He felt sorry for the guy. He felt sorry for all of them, but you couldn't encourage them. Not if you'd retired.

'Try down at The Frog, 2nd Line, near the Marina. Ask for Ceaudescu,' Dave said.

Ceaudescu would do a good job, despite the language barrier. Dave had hung up the wig, put away the make-up and shoes. He'd never do another children's party.

Published on 26/08/13