HAWK

ELDERLAND

"We want a drink," he said. His smile was gone.

"Let go of me."

The man didn't. He was about to say something else when there came a cough from the back of the room. Startled, the two men turned around.

In the darkest corner of the cafe where the lighting had failed, a man was sitting alone in a booth, drenched in shadow. He was so still and quiet that he blended in perfectly with the drab furniture, curled up over his little table and staring down into the abyss of his coffee cup.

"Who's there?" the short man asked.

The stranger in the shadows said nothing.

The woman snatched her hand back. "I'm closing now," she said, but the two men ignored her; they were staring hard at the fellow in the corner. They started towards him in unison.

If the stranger knew they were approaching, he didn't seem to care. He wore a thick brown coat with the collar turned up and a tatty black felt hat tilted forwards to cover his eyes, despite the darkness. As the two men came within six feet of him, they discerned him to be a black man of about forty. A small, brown suitcase rested on the seat beside him.

"It's closing time," the short man said.

The stranger didn't move his gaze from his coffee cup. "I haven't finished my drink," he said.

Calmly, the short man reached out and plucked the stranger's cup from the table. There was only a spit of drink left inside. He sniffed it before turning it upside down, pouring the last few drops of coffee onto the floor.

"You've finished," he informed the stranger, and he replaced the empty cup back on the table.

The stranger looked at his cup for a long moment before gently placing his palms on the table and pushing himself to his feet. It was only as he straightened up that the two men realised just how big he was. Even the tall man, who was an inch over six-foot, had to lift his chin to look into the stranger's hard brown eyes. Not only was he tall but he had the frame of a heavyweight boxer with broad shoulders and a thick chest—though his eyes were a little on the gaunt side. As the light touched his face, it highlighted the edge of a scar that ran from the outer corner of his left eye down to his chin.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"Not yet," the short man said, and he pulled back just enough of his coat to reveal the butt of the pistol strapped to his side.

The stranger saw it but gave no reaction. He adjusted his hat and picked up the case from his seat. "Excuse me," he said, and the two men stepped apart. They watched him closely as he crossed to the bar.

"The door's over there," the tall man said.

"Need to pay for my drink first," the stranger replied. He dug his free hand into his trouser pocket as he arrived at the counter and put two nickels down beside the ten dollar bill.

"Thanks for the coffee," he said.

"You're welcome," the woman replied. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"Now get out," the short man said.

But the stranger didn't budge.

"I said move!" The air cracked with the unmistakable sound of a gun-slide being pulled back. The woman's eyes widened. The stranger turned slowly to see the pistol aimed at him. Slowly, he lowered his case to the floor and set it down, then straightened up keeping both arms held slightly out to the sides.

"You some kind of gangster?" he asked.

The short man baulked. "Are you some kind of idiot? I told you to leave."