Bar None

by Mark Malcolm

Copyright Mark Malcolm 2015

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing by Mark Malcolm and Firstchevalier Books, Atlanta, GA. Requests for permission should be addressed in writing to Mark Malcolm; 4571 Kings Crossing Dr, Kennesaw, GA 30144 or via email to thecavalier@firstchevalier.com.

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  Disclaimer: This work is a collaboration between multiple authors. Each author contributed one character to the collaboration, which each of the respective multiverse authors reimagined into a new and unique story set in a unique multiverse. All rights to their created characters remain with the contributing authors. Some characters may appear in other works by the contributing authors, but stories featuring characters in the Realms of our Own Multiverse are not considered canon for the other author’s works. Differences in the Realms of our Own stories and details of these characters as they appear in the mainstream works by the contributing author are results of differences in the multiverse.

  Contributing authors and their respective characters are:

  Karyn Littleton - Zerubbabel Emunah

  Molon Hawkins - David G. Johnson

  Indalrion “Indal” Tay - K.M. Carroll

  Grayson Floyd - Jeremy Bullard

  Cathair - Othniel Emunah

  Weebles - Lemuel

  Natasha Genesis - Parker J. Cole

  Azor - Mark Malcolm

  Jesse - Michael Carney

  Sophia “Sophie” Sanchez - Stanley Dixon

  Bar None

  By

  Mark Malcolm

  Karyn was having one of those dreams, the kind of dream where you’re at work in your underwear, only she wasn’t in her underwear. She was still in her adult-sized footy pajamas made of that wonderful microfiber fleece that felt so soft against the skin. The feet were starting to wear thin. To preserve them as wearable for as long as possible, she usually wore slippers.

  The pajamas had been the last gift John had given her. It had been the night of their eighth anniversary. A week later, he was killed in what police called “an unsolvable random act of violence.” It wasn’t random, it hadn’t gone unsolved, and she had made sure it hadn’t gone unpunished as well. After all, the people she did business with might lose faith in her abilities if she couldn’t track down and deal with the person who killed her own husband. The usual tears began to form just thinking about him again.

  “It’s all right, Karyn,” a comforting, manly voice said, as a hand came to rest on her right elbow.

  She turned but couldn’t quite make out a face. She looked around. Was she in a dimly lit bar of some kind? The room was lit well enough that she could clearly make out the tall bartender well enough. He made instant eye contact with her, smiled, and winked.

  When she turned to look at the man just a few feet away, it was like someone smeared Vaseline on her vision. The man’s outline was blurred. She could make out his arms and hair, but when she tried to focus on his face her vision softened to a skin-tone blur. She rubbed her eyes, but that didn’t help.

  “It’s all right, Karyn,” the man repeated.

  She didn’t think it would be alright at all. She started to think about the words she’d heard and form a response that it wasn’t all right, then a strange calm descended upon her mind and she realized it really was going to be okay.

  Something intruded on the warm sense of calm that crept over her. The remarkable eyes of this man seemed to be the source of this soothing calm that crept through her body reaching all the way to her fingers and toes or was it his light touch on her elbow? She couldn’t decide. The thought of her fingers made her realize she held something, something familiar but that it had no place here. She pressed her fingers against the weight slightly and realized her job of dealing with unsavory characters in dangerous parts of the world had caused an unconscious reaction that was unneeded.

  Karyn flushed bright red as she tried to subtly re-place the small-caliber pistol she’d instinctively palmed out of the little pocket in her pajamas. She hoped she could put it away before anyone noticed. She was more worried the man across from her would become suspicious when he noticed the flush of her face matched the red of her strawberry-blonde hair rather than anyone actually noticing the weapon.

  The man never moved, never wavered in his gaze, as Karyn replaced the pistol. She started to mentally admonish herself sternly for being as jumpy as if she were on her first job again, but experience told her there wasn’t any threat, that this was just a dream. Her sight drifted across the room to the bartender, who, again, made instant eye contact with her, smiling that inviting smile, as if to ask if she wanted anything. She did, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted a glass of wine or something harder.

  “I’ll get it,” the man sitting with her said. He rose and crossed the room to the bar. During his brief conversation with the bartender, Karyn analyzed what she could see.

  The bar was an L shape, and her table sat opposite the very end of the short side. About thirty feet away from her was the front door with a podium and a man about her age standing patiently there. He checked something on the podium, then resumed his sentry position over the mostly empty bar. Perhaps it was a reservation book, but she couldn’t tell from here.

  A much younger man, about twenty, walked over to the podium and spoke in short sentences. He was well built. Karyn had been in enough bars to recognize an able bouncer when she saw one. He moved away with that same smooth grace Karyn, and all high-level marital artists, acquired after years of hard, dedicated training. She mentally marked the young man as someone not to lose track of in the room.

  A woman of African descent in a wheelchair sat at a small table by the door. A chess board dominated the table before her with one of those special double clocks used for timing chess matches. The seat opposite her was empty. She had a glass of red wine, half consumed, and a book she was reading, though Karyn couldn’t make out the title.

  At the bar, a man on a stool nursed a highball of some amber liquor; Karyn guessed it was scotch. He sipped his beverage, and, when he lifted his glass, the cuff of his sleeve slid back to reveal a wide silver bracelet. Karyn noticed the hint of a matching bracelet hiding under the other sleeve as well. The metal was about two inches wide on both. The hint of ornate engraving on the bracelet flash as he set the glass down and the sleeve of his, yes he wore a robe she realized, the sleeve of his robe dropped back to cover the bracelet.

  The cocktail waitress came over and stood by Karyn’s table. Karyn guessed she was only eighteen years old. She wore the traditional bar-server outfit of black slacks and a black button down. Karyn met the woman’s eyes and noted the dull return gaze of someone who’d run out of energy to care. The smeared mascara and dull eye shadow hinted at makeup applied days ago. Karyn wanted to reach out and take her hand, but at the last minute the man getting her drink from the bar returned.

  “Oh, you’ve already ordered. Well, I’m Sophie, and I’ll be your server if you need anything.” Sophie paused, waiting for a response as the man set a glass of chardonnay in front of Karyn and sat back down holding another glass of red wine.

  Sophie started to say something and Karyn waited expectantly to hear what the woman had to say. The moment drew out and Karyn grew concerned. Sophie’s eyes glazed over with that thousand-yard stare Karyn had seen on shell-shocked combat veterans. That look was never a good thing and Karyn adjusted her chair slightly to allow her to get up and away from Sophie in case things went sout
h. The movement snapped Sophie from her reverie. She blinked twice, refocused on Karyn, and then silently walked away.

  “She’ll be fine,” the man said, setting down the glass he held without drinking from it.

  Karyn held her chardonnay with suspicion. She had a rule to never drink any beverage she didn’t see poured or open the cap herself. One never knew what some low-life might do to your drink in places like this.

  “I promise its fine. I’d take a sip for you, but I know you’d think that was gross,” the man said, and for some reason she believed him.

  Karyn lifted her glass and tasted the cold, golden liquid inside. It was the single most fantastic chardonnay she’d ever tasted, and she had consumed some of the finest wines known to man on several of her high-dollar operations. She took a full pull of the beverage her second time and a thought occurred to her. Everything, with the exception of the man’s face sitting next to her, was