Hennesy

David Hurley

In the cool night air of the city, a woman named Moe walks down the street. She walks past dozens of rich town businesses while several men try unsuccessfully to gesture to her. She is firm and steadfast. Her figure is an endless gaze into the stars. The dress she wears is a velvet black with overlapping slits on both sides; they conceal the holsters on her thighs. Around her waist is a red band that matches the red of her hat, a Kentucky derby style. So too, her gloves ran up to her elbows, a slightly darker red. In her right hand: a large, blue suitcase blotched with paint.

It was for traveling out of town and for work. Dotted and streaked with an endless array of colors, it was large and sturdy enough to carry tools for various jobs. It was clean when her sister gifted it to her, now the last connection Moe has to that past.

She comes up to an old building. Several stories tall, it has a pristine garden between it and the sidewalk with perfectly cut grass and exotic plants. A fountain was dancing amidst some palm trees. The front of the building has no windows, and instead is built with gothic designs and statues. Gargoyles look down at the onlookers while arches cover the doors and walls. She stops in front, looking at the old architecture and its dark ambience. It does not dissuade her.

Clenched in her free hand is a note written on parchment. She looks it over one more time. In cursive and with a heavy ink, it says, “The Benson’s on Friday. Dress up.” She then lets go of the note, its frailty sweeping away, and proceeds up to the front doors.

A modest looking man dressed in a sharp black suit is there. He looks her over. It is quick and professional. He opens one of the double doors for her with a high level of courtesy, even directing her with an open hand to come inside. She accepts without hesitation and steps through the stone archway.

Inside is a sharply dressed woman standing opposite of the door, waiting for patrons who leave. There is a hallway to the back with a large flight of stairs on one side. On this floor the lights are

 dim and illuminate only large, locked doors. The stairs, however, lead up to a brighter set of lights. And there is a faint sound of music. Moe heads up the stairs.

Her steps echo through the hall but are overshadowed whenever the bulky suitcase clunks against the stairs. About halfway up, several people in white suits and dresses come over the ledge. Before they reach her, she tries to tuck the suitcase between her and the wall. The action catches their attention, of whom give her a quizzical look. Moe’s eyes return a defensive moxy. But upon seeing the suitcase, they laugh and proceed down. Moe takes the moment to breathe and think about what’s coming.

She eventually makes it to the top, dragging the case with her. Here, there is a small lobby with two oak doors leading into The Benson’s. Carvings run along them, depicting a dragon gobbling up a smaller beast. Another doorman opens these for her.

A wave of smoke and smooth jazz hits Moe as she moves onto the polished oakwood floor. People are everywhere—in the great hall, in booths along the exterior, and huddled next to the bar itself. It is stocked with liquors from all over the world, its gatekeeper a charming looking man with a pleasant laugh. He leans on the counter’s river fractal design. While looking around, Moe bumps a couple of the patrons. Dressed in either the finest black or white attire, they shoot her dirty looks while they hold cigars or cigarettes in their off hands. She moves away and is careful to navigate onward.

Eventually she makes it to the edge of the sea. Here, there is a glass wall, the cold night air beyond. Extending from the floor to the ceiling, it replaced the old gothic structure, save for two columns that supported the floor and roof above. A double set of clear doors opens to a balcony. Made of clear crystal, one could look down through them at the edge of the wilderness. It continues for miles, from the edge of the city to the edge of the lake. Serene, the moon reflected upon it. The snow-capped mountains lie beyond. 

There, in the middle of the balcony, he stands. A tall figure, wearing a brown suit and with scruffy hair that stood on its curls, is watching the lake. 

Moe steps through the glass doors and approaches him, once again with the steadfast walk. She comes up to his right side and against the railing, stopping just a couple of feet away. His gaze continues off into the distance, even as she can see her reflection out of the corner of his glasses. 

“Lester.” Her voice comes across stern. The man takes in a slow breath, the ruffles on his jacket’s collar showing themselves. 

“It’s good to see you again Moe.” His voice is calm.

“I have it here. All of it.” 

Lester turns his head to see her holding up the suitcase with both arms. 

“Now tell me!” she demands of him.

“A bit rash, aren’t we Moe?” 

Lester turns his entire body to face her now. Taller than her, she looks up at his sandstone face, no longer the chiseled and immaculate look of granite.

Moe smirks. “They say the dead have all the time in the world. I guess I’m fortunate to not have that luxury.”

Lester pauses, allowing for the steam to cool in Moe. “They also rest in that everlasting existence. But you owe me a great deal.” 

“Then take this and tell me where she is.” 

“No. That’s not enough.” 

Moe drops the case. In its stead, she reaches to one of her thigh holsters and pulls out a small pistol. The barrel aims at his head. 

“You said you would tell me.”

His face remains sullen.  

“I said we would talk next time we met.”

Her finger tightens around the trigger.

A breeze blows past them, Lester’s loose jacket trailing with the wind. He tells her, “I know how to make money. I spent a lifetime working with it, making sure that what came in matched against the money that went out and would grow. Spreadsheets, finances, even gambling were all part of the equation. That was, until we met. And out of everyone I’ve dealt with, everyone that hindered me, you were the only one that shattered my dream. You took everything from me in Vegas. 

“Bullshit.”

Lester’s eyebrows shift inward, thickening his gaze.

“You love to gamble,” he reminds her.

“No. Not anymore. This is the end of that life.”

“Is that so? Then perhaps humor me. One last bet. A coin toss. If you call the toss correctly, I’ll tell you where your sister is. If you’re wrong, then at least you can keep the money.”

Moe’s teeth begin to grind against each other. “You’re a sick man, Lester.”

“No. I just want what I’m owed. A final gamble.”

She shoves the gun to his head. “You’re lying, Lester. It’s easy to tell, even with a face as dead as yours.”

“Then I might as well leave. Goodbye, Moe,” he says with his cold flesh.

Lester starts to walk off, the gun slowly streaking across his brow as he turns. Moe presses the gun harder against his head, even catching the skin of his temple as he keeps moving. The force she uses causes her to stumble past him. Knees feeling weak, she catches herself after a few steps. She corrects herself to look at Lester’s back side. A tear starts to well up in her eye. She looks around for any of the other patrons, but most are inside, and the few on the balcony stand distant and guarded. They back up when she connects her sight with them, not afraid, but cautious. Lester plods a couple more stops before she speaks up.

“OK! Ok. Flip the coin.”

Lester stops. His hand reaches into deep pockets and pulls out an old silver dollar. He returns to the rail and holds the coin up for her to see.

“What’s the call?”

“Heads. You tell me where my sister is if its heads.” Her voice caves.

Lester flicks it up, and she watches. Time slows to a crawl as it flies into the air. The patrons in the distance turn to mannequins. The wind takes its time swaying Lester’s curls. And Lester’s right arm moves steadily and with purpose. But Moe loses sight of all of this as her tears blocks it out and only registers the reverberations from the flips of the silver dollar. It shines and sparkles in the moonlight. 

Bang.

Moe’s eyes fly open as a hot molten spike enters her stomach. The noise calls the attention of the bar patrons as well as the other balcony patrons. No one runs. Many are ready to draw.

Moe, however, slumps to the ground. Above her, Lester is holding a smoking colt, his face unflinching and paying no heed to her action. Holding out the hand that flipped the coin, the silver dollar lands in the palm. He turns his gaze slowly to it, and then, gently, he puts it back in his pocket.

“You’ll find her at the docks under the old Hennesy fish market, pier 22, lot 432. She was well taken care of and will be fine for days.” 

Lester then puts the colt back in his holster and grabs the suitcase.

Moe, feeling hot liquid pour from her belly, looks back at him, the little gun in her hand. She feeds him a face: teeth barred, eyes hot as lightening. Lester looks straight back at her, pausing and waiting. Her grip starts to fade as she moves the pistol closer between the two of them. A terrible tremble starts to shoot through her weakening arm. When she reaches near her stomach, she drops it. Her hand continues to reach forth for the phone in the other holster under her dress. She pulls it out, and with it, accidentally spills her wallet.

Moe is quick to dial. She slams the device to her ear. Meanwhile, Lester looks at the wallet. Its leather hide free on the ground. He picks it up, and stuffs it into his pocket. 

“Roger.” She gasps and spits. “Shut up! Just shut it. Go to the docks under the old Hennesy fish market, pier 22, lot 432. You got it? Read it back… No. 432… Yes. Now go!” 

She coughs up blood as she drops the phone. It hits and cracks against the crystal floor. Meanwhile, an eyebrow raises on Lester’s heavy face. 

“That is a fine memory you have. Perhaps it wasn’t all luck after all.” He snickers. “Maybe I’ll even see my face in an exhibit someday. It will be the only way you see me again.”

Lester then walks off, his prim shoes clacking on the floor, his gait a steady pace. Moe follows him with one final glare. Her teeth are no longer bare, her eyes freed of rage. The pain unbearable. When he steps through the glass doors, she looks back at her wound.

“I’m coming, sis,” she says weakly.

She puts a mountain’s worth of pressure on her wound. With it, Moe tries to get up, but stops when she sees more movement out of the corner of her eye. A couple of patrons are running over to her.

Lester makes it to the lobby unabated. He stops there. Standing tall, he adjusts his collar. The rumpled form straightens out. And when he walks down the stairs, a smile of obsidian chips up his right cheek.