The lunch hour, however long it became, eventually had to end. Colinaude parted with renewed promise from Cassie Dawes and returned to Tin Can, having all but forgotten the point of the meal at Marco’s had been to monitor the Cad. He hadn’t really overlooked that purpose, but the emphasis, the point of most importance, had shifted. He had gained an ally; more than a possibility, more than a means for reference, Cassie revealed herself to be an unqualified asset, someone he could invest what he had so long held, miserly, to himself: trust. As to the reasons why such a connection could have so easily been made, Colinaude would not begin to speculate. It was something he would not ruin for himself.
In a way, it was almost comforting to know the Cad had not really changed. His temperament, his disposition, was exactly as Colinaude had always known it. There was a constant in this moment of transition, an ingredient free from flux. That meant the footing on which Colinaude depended could still be counted on. The Cad was the same; it was his context that had changed. This Colinaude considered to be entirely in line with the rest of his philosophy, and he was comforted, and he became more relaxed as a result.
Tin Can was also now comfortably patronized. This was not good news for Alonzo, but it wasn’t bad news, either. He gave Colinaude an irritated look, then flashed him a smile, when at last Colinaude was back behind the bar. A number of orders needed to be filled on the spot, and they got to work on them right away. The experience of diving back in to the hectic pace sat well with Colinaude, who enjoyed keeping himself busy. If he was in the right mood, and he was, it could almost be pleasing. There was no criticism, not from the patrons and not from some overseer, and certainly not from himself or Alonzo. Pour a glass, mix a drink, serve the shots; it was all reassuringly simple, like second nature. Colinaude could relax into the unmitigated tranquility of it.
This was not the time conversation usually presented itself, not anything more complicated than haggling over what to drink how to pay for it where to go and nurse it. The music was swelling now, as if it were crafting a buffet around the bar, isolating it from the rest of the world; it created the atmosphere at much as the walls, or the drinks. Patrons grew rowdy as much from the alcohol as from trying to keep up with broken hearts and pick-up trucks reveling in serenade. Then there were the games of pool, around which concentrated those looking for epiphanies. Competition had a way of cutting through the everyday milieu, whether it was between players or just one and the table itself. The balls were never the challenge, but rather the means through which the table was conquered.
As it happened, there was a solitary player now. His name was Marty Jennings, and he was not one of the better cue handlers Colinaude had seen in his day. But what Jennings lacked in skill he made up for in tenacity. He never gave up, and that characteristic made him better than anyone else in Tin Can. He was feared despite himself. At the moment, he was negotiating one of the trickier angles, where he had arrived after two unfortunate misfires. The mistakes he made were amateur, like grazing the white ball or missing the target ball entirely. These moments never failed to catch one of the onlookers off guard. They would make a remark to the effect that Jennings’ exceptional streak of victories was over, that he couldn’t possibly rebound because his perceived axis of control had shattered.
And he would go on and win anyway, catwalking the rest of the game as if it were effortless, as if he had no opponent at all except himself, and he had long ago mastered self-discipline. The goosed onlooker would be shamed into silence, back into the aura of awe around Marty Jennings. This time was no different. Colinaude was always suitably amazed, and amused. That was the whole point. Jennings would win a free beer after each win, and from an always-alternating admirer a new tie. The one drawback Jennings consistently followed was a lack of fashion sense, and he was all the more loved for it. He fit right in with the rest of them.
Sooner or later, the streak would end, and Marty would probably never play again. He had as much as said so, and would say that it had been a good run when it finally happened. He was an admirably modest success story. When that day came, Tin Can would lose a little of its luster, but Colinaude had known it before and knew the bar would survive. It could definitely survive without Cotton Colinaude, but for the moment he was as integral as anything else. Well, maybe not Alonzo. Or the booze.
Another patron entered. His name was Buck Bukowski, and he was the only informant who ever set foot in Tin Can. He was under the impression that Colinaude was a relay for the Eidolon, and never seemed to question that conclusion. Buck walked with a limp, a condition he’d had since childhood, and he didn’t know whether to blame his parents, his doctors, or some higher power for the infirmity, but he had long since learned to live with it; in his case that meant a never-ending stream of grumbling, which his familiars had to either reduce to ambience or develop a high threshold for pain. Threshold himself would not likely have put up with it for more than a millisecond. Colinaude could deal with it.
Buck slid his way toward the bar. Normally when he was sliding his leg it meant he had grown interminably irritated with it and was attempting to punish it. Other times the act signified that the pain had increased and he was going to be ordering something stiff, at least twice more than usual. From Buck’s particular gate, Colinaude correctly assumed the case to be the latter this evening. "Give me something stiff," was Buck’s shorthand, in case Colinaude had not already guessed. Stiff in this case would have been enough to satisfy any trophy hunter’s collection.
There was one other occasion Buck drank this heavily. That was when he had something sobering to reveal, and this was normally indicated by the length of time that he took contenting himself before speaking again to his friend. It took him five minutes. He took a few peanuts and took the time to enjoy them as well. "There’s some news, Cotty," he said. "It concerns your reporter friend."
There was only one reporter friend Colinaude had. Buck had gotten to understand the connection between Colinaude and Cooley during one of Colinaude’s marathon sessions with the paper. His studies had not been going well, and he had decided it was because the "Traverse Tracks" editors had left out significant portions of the stories he was interested in. He’d called Cooley. It was the only time he ever did. Buck overheard, brought it up once, and remained mum about it since. Until now.
"Word has it that he’s gotten himself into some trouble," Buck said. "He went poking around where he shouldn’t have, and got bit. I’m not saying I know whether that should be taken literally or not, but that’s the way I heard it. Either way it swings, that doesn’t sound good to me. If you ask me, trouble in this iteration boils down to trouble in the literal sense. You might find a report on him tomorrow. Understand I don’t say that lightly."
Colinaude understood, and he knew what had probably happened, or at least how Cooley would have gotten to that point. This after what had gone on between them the last time they spoke. It must have been Hopper’s paper. "I appreciate it," he finally said.
"Hey, don’t take it so hard," Buck said. "These things happen. It’s the sadistic nature of things. You can either deal with it or boil under. And you really don’t want to go and boil under."
"No," Colinaude said. "No…Do you have anything else?"
"Not about your reporter friend," Buck said, "and not about anything else. And as of now, not of my drink. But I’m already feeling the effects of that, so I’m going to back off now. You really do have the best poison in town. Keep that up, will ya?"
"I’d love to," Colinaude said. "Thanks as always."
"It’s always my pleasure," Buck said. It was odd, too, because he always seemed to come with rotten news, and leave with a more pronounced limp than before, as if the weight of what he had to say didn’t leave him after he relieved it but rather only increased. Perhaps it was some kind of curse, inflicted upon him for transgressions he was never able to determine. His grumbling, like a heavy cloud, left with him. Another cloud lingered, from the smoking the patrons of Tin Can were allowed to maintain long after most other establishments had banned it. Colinaude couldn’t help but note that none of the Cad’s party had ever lit up, and neither had himself or Cassie. Other diners had, though, and it was as if the mere presence was enough to sustain those who were not partaking. As if they had a reason to indulge, even if it was vicariously.
If there was a cloud over Colinaude now, he had good reason for it. After the experience with Lou, he had already known something was up with Peter Cooley. What he had needed was confirmation, but after having gotten it he wasn’t sure he had really wanted it. What he hadn’t needed was for this day to escalate its stakes any further. And yet, they had. Colinaude had to accept that. But he didn’t have to like it.
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