The Man at the Bar

The Watering Hole had gone quiet. Not normal quiet. Not it’s late and everybody went home quiet. This was different. Glasses stopped halfway to mouths. Conversations disappeared. Even the old ceiling fan seemed to turn a little slower.

Someone important had just walked into the room. Or dangerous. In Midnight Harbor, the distinction isn’t always obvious.

I turned around. Big cat. Leather jacket. Heavy boots. He walked like someone who’d never encountered a door he couldn’t get through. He didn’t look at anyone. Everyone looked at him. Tank sighed. That told me almost everything I needed to know.

The stranger walked directly toward us. He sat on the stool beside mine. Tank reached for a glass. The stranger shook his head. Then he noticed the black matchbook on the counter. Gold lettering.

THE MARLOWE ROOM

His eyes moved from the matchbook to me. “You found something that doesn’t belong to you.”

I put one paw over it. “Funny.”

He waited.

“I was about to say the same thing about Warehouse 17,” I added

Tank stopped breathing. Just for a second. But I noticed.

The stranger smiled. Not a friendly smile. Not an unfriendly one either. More like the smile of someone who had just confirmed something. “Nick Nine Lives.”

“Depends who’s asking,” I answered.

“Gear.” I’d heard the name. Everyone had. Gear handled problems for Dominic Marlowe. Sometimes those problems involved cargo. Sometimes money. Sometimes people.

Nobody seemed entirely sure what happened after Gear handled them.

I decided not to ask.

Yet.

An Invitation

Gear tapped the matchbook. “Mr. Marlowe would like to meet you.”

“Does he?”

“No.”

That wasn’t the answer I’d expected.

Gear stood. “He’d like you to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever you’re doing.”

“I drink coffee.”

“Then stop drinking coffee.”

“That seems unreasonable.”

For the first time, Gear actually smiled. Maybe he wasn’t completely hopeless. Then his expression changed. “Warehouse 17 burned thirty years ago.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Nothing survived.”

“Something did.”

I pulled the newspaper clipping from my coat. Gear didn’t look at it. That interested me. Most people look. Even when they know they shouldn’t.

Gear already knew what it said. “Some stories are better left finished,” he said.

“Then why does everyone keep telling me about this one?”

That earned me another smile. This one wasn’t friendly. “Good night, detective.”

He walked toward the door. I called after him. “Gear.”

He stopped. “What’s in The Marlowe Room?”

He looked back. “People who don’t ask that question.”

Then he left. I waited until the door closed.

Tank exhaled. “You enjoy making my life difficult.”

“I thought you enjoyed my company.”

“I enjoy customers who drink quietly.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“No, you won’t.”

He was right.

Dominic Marlowe

“Tell me about Dom.”

Tank picked up a glass. Started polishing. Of course. “Businessman.”

“What business?”

“Shipping.”

“What else?”

“Imports.”

“What else?”

“Warehouses.”

That caught my attention.

“Which warehouses?”

Tank looked at me. There it was. The thing nobody had said yet.

I put the clipping on the bar. “Did Dom own Warehouse 17?”

“No.”

“Did his family?”

Tank didn’t answer. Sometimes silence is an answer. I stood.

“Where are you going?”

“The Marlowe Room.”

“Nick.”

I put on my hat. “What?”

“Gear just told you to stop.”

“I know.”

“And your response is to walk directly into Dom Marlowe’s club?”

“When you say it like that, it does sound questionable,” I said.

Tank shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“Professional curiosity.”

“Same thing,” was his retort.

The Marlowe Room

The Marlowe Room didn’t advertise. It didn’t need to. No neon sign. No menu outside. Just a black door beneath a small brass plaque.

MARLOWE

I stood across the street. Midnight Harbor fog curled between the buildings. People arrived occasionally. Nice cars. Expensive coats. Nobody waited outside. The door simply opened.

I reached into my pocket. The matchbook was still there. So was the newspaper clipping. Thirty-year-old fire. Missing shipment. Warehouse that officially didn’t exist. Fresh footprints. The Marlowe Room. And now Dominic Marlowe.

I crossed the street. The door opened before I knocked. A voice came from inside. “Mr. Nine Lives.” I couldn’t see who’d spoken. “We’ve been expecting you.”

That’s rarely good news. I stepped inside. The door closed behind me.

CASE STATUS: OPEN

To be continued…