June 1, 2018 The Last Drop

Edmund sat in a booth in the corner of The Last Drop. He’d been here for almost an hour now, munching pale, soggy steak fries and drinking several Diet Cokes. And though he was not in love with the atmosphere, he wasn’t in any particular hurry either.

There were three other customers at the moment, one was sitting up at the bar watching a rerun of a UFC match on a TV mounted near the end of the bar. All were black men, as far as Edmund could tell, under 40. The only white man in the place was the bartender, a fat, pale fifty-ish man with long, thin grey hair combed straight back. The best succinct description for his appearance would be “unwell.” His face was puffy and his watery eyes looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

There was also Edmund, of course, but in the dim light of the bar, he was successfully passing as Mexican for the evening. In between keeping an eye on the bar, he would watch a soccer game on the TV in the corner or consult his dummy smartphone. It wasn’t connected to a network, but they were so ubiquitous that not having one would look odd.

A little before 6:30, Darryl walked in with two other men and a woman. Edmund watched, but was careful to not appear too interested.

Darryl ordered a drink and sat at the bar to watch the fight while his two friends started a game at the second pool table. The bartender pulled Darryl a pint glass from the Michelob tap. Good, that would make his plan a little easier.

But it was not time quite yet. Edmund waited and watched, and drank his Diet Coke. Darryl’s friends joked and argued as they played pool, one of them occasionally getting handsy with the woman who’d come in with them.

About fifteen minutes passed. Darryl nursed his beer, joked with his friends. A few more blacks came and one white girl. Blues music continued to play just a little too loud, not rap, thank God.

Darryl finished his first beer, ordered a second, and got up to use the small bathroom in the corner of the bar. Edmund watched him walk away, quickly got up and sat down next to where Darryl had been. The bartender set Darryl’s new mug down and turned his bleary eyes to Edmund, who ordered a beer and another basket of fries. As Edmund gave him a twenty, his hand passed over Darryl’s new beer. If anyone had been watching closely, they might have seen a fine white powder spill into the beer and quickly dissolve. In the dim, noisy bar, though, no one noticed. Edmund picked up his drink and returned to his corner booth to wait for his fries and watch. When Darryl returned from the bathroom, he resumed his barstool and, in contrast to his first, drank this beer all down in one long draft. Edmund sighed in relief. That also made things a little easier. He started a timer on his watch, and, after a few minutes, left the bar.

Twenty minutes later, he returned, makeup cleared off, and wearing sunglasses and a hooded sweatshirt. As Edmund entered, he called out, “Is there a Darryl Simmons here?”

Darryl was somewhat slumped over at the bar, but he turned and answered.

Edmund came over to him.

Darryl looked up at him and squinted. “Who you, cracka?”

“Uber. Some of your friends over there thought you’d had enough, needed a ride home.”

“Muhfugga, I’m fine.” Darryl stood up to push Edmund away, stumbled and fell back onto his stool.

He shook his head a little, then said, “Maybe not.” He turned to the friends he’d come with, who were still playing pool. “Headed home, bitches.” One of the men nodded back in reply.

Edmund helped Darryl to his feet, wincing as he did so, and walked him out of the bar.

Next chapter