Cal settled in on a stool at the bar as another shot of whiskey was delivered by another flirtatious waitress in another near empty dive bar. Was this the fourth or fifth place today? He had lost count. The entire week was a haze of whiskey and waitresses as he bar hopped around Ghost Town. So far none of the places he stepped into appeared to have much to offer. They were all infested with same breed of small time hoods that dealt strictly in misinformation. Still, he continued to scour Ghost Town, needing to lay down roots, preferably somewhere he could trade favors and grease palms as opposed to pistol whipping and shattering kneecaps for the information he'd need down the line. As of yet he hadn't come across a spot where either course of action would prove viable. If his employment became long term as Madison had suggested he needed to make contact with someone that specialized in dispensing information. Information was a valuable commodity in this town, especially in his line of work.
This place didn't appear to have any more promise than the others. With a crowd of a dozen, a dilapidated sign outside that one could barely make out to read "Big Red's Saloon", and a staff that consisted of an overweight barkeep and a lone waitress, he didn't expect to spend much time there. Cal casually upended his shot glass, sending the whiskey slithering down his throat. He knew very well that there were eyes on him, there had been since he stepped foot in the door. The regulars could pick out an unfamiliar face with ease and he was just that, an unfamiliar face. He expected one would approach in due time to engage him in conversation or threaten him in an effort to judge his character and motives. This time was slightly different though. Someone did stand from their seat, a burly fellow with scars crisscrossed about his face.
Cal watched in his periphery as the man approached a corner booth, its inhabitant concealed by a curtain drawn across the length of it. Words were exchanged and the scarred man held up two fingers. Even without swiveling about in his seat it was apparent that trouble was on the horizon, as the fat barkeep waddled down the bar, away from Cal. His right hand dropped beneath the lip of the bar to rest on his thigh and he scooped up his shot glass in his left, making a show of examining the amber liquid. Cal grinned in anticipation of things taking a turn for the worst, meaning he may have finally found what he was looking for.
This place didn't appear to have any more promise than the others. With a crowd of a dozen, a dilapidated sign outside that one could barely make out to read "Big Red's Saloon", and a staff that consisted of an overweight barkeep and a lone waitress, he didn't expect to spend much time there. Cal casually upended his shot glass, sending the whiskey slithering down his throat. He knew very well that there were eyes on him, there had been since he stepped foot in the door. The regulars could pick out an unfamiliar face with ease and he was just that, an unfamiliar face. He expected one would approach in due time to engage him in conversation or threaten him in an effort to judge his character and motives. This time was slightly different though. Someone did stand from their seat, a burly fellow with scars crisscrossed about his face.
Cal watched in his periphery as the man approached a corner booth, its inhabitant concealed by a curtain drawn across the length of it. Words were exchanged and the scarred man held up two fingers. Even without swiveling about in his seat it was apparent that trouble was on the horizon, as the fat barkeep waddled down the bar, away from Cal. His right hand dropped beneath the lip of the bar to rest on his thigh and he scooped up his shot glass in his left, making a show of examining the amber liquid. Cal grinned in anticipation of things taking a turn for the worst, meaning he may have finally found what he was looking for.