a poor sinner's hand

It's not that the joint was seedy. There were no leaks in the ceiling, no cracks in the walls; the ambience just happened to be a little lacking. The gramophone in the corner was a double hand-me-down that tended to wheeze and sputter more often than it played music, and the mismatched light fixtures all around the room winked out intermittently, syncing up once in a while to throw the whole place into a few seconds of darkness. It had its regulars, and that was what mattered; they brought in enough cash to keep the lights on and got just drunk enough to not notice when they flickered out. This far toward the edge of town, there just wasn't much need for the bustle and pizazz that speakeasies kept up in the heart of the city. Besides — selling booze these days meant discretion, and pouring a boatload of cash into tiling a basement or painting its walls weren't exactly discrete endeavors.

Not that Husk gave a shit what the place looked like; the only thing that mattered much to him was having a wad of cash in his pocket at the end of each week. Washing dishes behind the bar wasn't the thrill he'd been chasing when he found this place, but it gave him what he needed to play the tables out on the floor when he wasn't working. He hardly saw sunlight these days with how much time he spent either cleaning up after the drunks or joining them on the barstools. The smells of alcohol and a lingering dampness filled his nose more often than fresh air.

The dinginess of the place attracted equally dingy patrons; younger men with patchy stubble in suits two sizes too big, older gentlemen who frowned at an evening paper clutched between greasy fingers, ladies wearing smudged-to-hell lipstick and far too much rouge. As far as speakeasies went, even if the place was nice enough, its clientele did admittedly lean to the seedy side. It was a fact Husk had grown accustomed to, like that damp smell that hung around the edges of the place.

It was also a fact which justified Husk's frankly tactless double-take at the entrance when a snappily-dressed young man strode through the door, bypassing the bouncer as he stepped around a drunken couple stumbling out into the hot, humid night. There was something just the slightest bit disheveled about him — the bottom button undone on his neat brown vest, a smear of something dark on the knee of his slacks — but his straight spine and dazzling smile drew the eye away from all that.

Catching himself just before the man noticed him gawking, Husk spun around and snatched up the nearest bottle. The place was just about empty for the night, and the bartender had vanished into the back for a smoke; nobody was going to rat on him for throwing together a cheap cocktail (unless this dapper bastard turned out to be a narc). He got lost enough in the pouring and the shaking and the whatever-the-fuck-else-ing to nearly miss it when the man stepped up to the bar just in front of him, hands situated primly behind his back, and peered down the slope of his nose at Husk through gold-rimmed glasses.

"Good evening, friend!" he said, sounding remarkably chipper for such a late hour. Rather than taking a seat, he remained standing, posture rigid and eyes a little too bright. "I don't suppose you could spare a bit of whiskey?"

"Don't suppose I could," Husk said, sliding his drink behind a stack of napkins in a laughably obvious attempt to hide it from view. "Last call was five minutes ago. We're packin' up. And besides," he went on when the man lifted a finger as if to interject, "the guy who's actually qualified to pour you something's busy smokin' up the back room. I ain't much of a bartender."

"I would respectfully disagree." The man bent forward a bit at the waist as if to make the compliment easier for Husk to reach. His mop of brown hair bounced cartoonishly with the movement. "I just watched you pour yourself a drink rather beautifully, if I may say."

Husk just barely succeeded in holding back a snort. He'd figured that cat hadn't really fit into the bag to begin with. "You think flattery's gonna get you whiskey after hours?" he asked, grabbing his glass from its hiding place and tossing its contents back.