The price of a pint can be a necessary business expense when unloading ill-gotten games. In the Gutter, some people pay so much more.
The Contender by Paul Brazill
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It was a Saturday
night and The Cobble Bar was only slightly busier than it was midweek, which really
wasn’t very. Indeed, if the place hadn’t been useful for the local criminal
fraternity–money laundering, distribution of contraband and the like—it would
have closed down years ago.
A big screen
television was silently showing a 24-hour weather channel though no one seemed
to be watching it. Status Quo’s ‘Paper
Plane’ blasted out as I walked up to the bar and took off my raincoat.
‘What can I get
you?’ said the barmaid.
She was short,
with dyed black hair and a blood encrusted nose piercing. She had a sharp
Eastern European accent and a sharper scowl.
‘A pint of John
Smith’s, please,’ I said.
I pointed toward Sniffy,
who was coming back from the Gents toilets sniffing his fingers. ‘And whatever
he’s having.’
She poured Sniffy
a pint of Stella Artois before pouring my pint of bitter.
‘Ta much, Aneta,
my little antenna,’ said Sniffy.
He winked at the
barmaid.
I watched Aneta struggle
to put the head on my beer as Sniffy knocked back half of his pint in one go.
He burped. And sniffed. He seemed to have slicked back his long black hair
while he was in the toilets and his Deep Purple sweatshirt was soaked.
‘Been for a quick
shower have you?’ I said.
I took my pint
from Aneta. It was more head than beer but I just smiled and said nowt.
‘Just thought I’d
freshen up in case any talent turns up,’ he said.
I looked around
the pub. All men. All middle-aged or over. All as rough as fuck. Aging barflies
and wastrels. Like Sniffy. Like me.
‘You never know,
you might be in luck,’ I said. ‘There’s a school for the blind nearby.’
‘I’m so horny I’d
do the blind dog,’ said Sniffy.
He cackled and
sniffed.
I shoved aside the
image and looked at some notes I’d made on a soggy beermat. I had a holdall
full of hooky Ukrainian cigarettes I was hoping to offload to Mad Frank, the pub
landlord, if he ever showed his face. I’d been in the pub two nights running and
hadn’t clapped eyes on him. In fact, I couldn’t remember having seen him in the
pub for some time. I needed to get some dosh soon, though. It was a coming up to rent day and I’d
already missed two months’ payments. Pete Patel, my landlord, had been giving
me the evil eye of late and a bloodshot one it was, too.
Sniffy swigged the
last of his beer. He nodded to Aneta who poured him another pint.
‘Same again?’ he
said.
‘No, I’ll have a
Stella,’ I said. ‘I can’t cope with the stress of watching Aneta pouring
another pint of John Smiths.’
Aneta put the
drinks on the bar.
‘My dogs are
barking,’ I said.
I picked up my
pint and took a seat in the corner while Sniffy played on a quiz machine. He
came over a few minutes later holding out a handful of coins, grinning.
‘I’m not just a
pretty face,’ he said.
‘Not even,’ I
said.
‘Ha bloody ha,’
said Sniffy.
He sat opposite
me.
A short, stocky
man with a wild, ginger beard walked into the pub. He was wearing an old combat
jacket a and carried an acoustic guitar covered in garish, Day-Glo stickers. He
nodded to Sniffy and went to the bar.
‘Oh, for fuck
sake,’ said Sniffy. ‘I didn’t know he was back out of the loony bin.’
‘Who’s that,
then?’
‘That’s Jeff. He
fancies himself as Seatown’s answer to Bob Dylan although he sounds more like
Bob Hope. He was alright once upon a time but all the prescription meds and
booze have cramped his style a bit and then some.’
Sniffy took out a
Vicks Inhaler and jammed it up his nose.
Jeff climbed onto
a table and tuned his guitar.
‘I didn’t know
there was live music on in here,’ I said.
‘There isn’t usually
but Jeff has a special dispensation, like. What with him being Mad Frank’s son
and that,’ said Sniffy.
He sneezed.
‘I’ll just pop
outside for a breath of fresh air,’ said Sniffy, holding up a packet of Silk
Cut cigarettes.
Five increasingly
torturous versions of ‘Hurricane’ later, I was ready to go home when Jeff
stopped playing and went and sat on a barstool.
Sniffy came back
into the pub, stuffing his Nokia into his pocket and shaking the rain off like a
soggy mongrel. He winked to Aneta who winked back and poured Jeff a double
whiskey. He downed it in one. She poured him another one.
‘Important call
was it?’ I said.
‘As a matter of
fact it was. I’m on a promise,’ said Sniffy.
There was a crash.
I looked up to see Jeff sprawled on the floor. Aneta ran over to him and took
out her iPhone. A few minutes later a couple of paramedics ran in. After
examining him, they took Jeff out on a stretcher.
‘I wonder if he’ll
be alright,’ I said.
‘I doubt it,’ said
Sniffy. ‘That booze and drugs combination is pretty damned fatal.’
He winked.
‘Shouldn’t someone
let his dad know?’ I said.
‘A bit difficult,
that. Frank’s down in the cellar and he won’t be coming back up. I hope!’
He cackled and
sniffed.
‘Who’s going to
take over the pub then?’ I said.
‘You’re looking at
the new owner.’
He grinned and ran
a hand through his hair. He sniffed loudly.
‘I told you I was
on a promise,’ he said.
Aneta walked over
and sat on Sniffy’s knee. She kissed him on the lips.
‘Isn’t the
entrance to the cellar located in the gent’s toilets?’ I said.
‘It is,’ said
Sniffy.
He and Aneta
started cackling. I was lost in thought
for a moment and then shrugged.
‘Can I interest
you in some dodgy cigarettes?’ I said.
