Chapter 10 - Aggression Factor

A chill descended over their small corner of the bar. Not the whole bar–it was too crowded for that, with most folks in attendance having not even heard the man’s booming request. Even less of them had the necessary context–or sobriety of mind, for that matter–to detect the air of menace that had blown in alongside him, wafting off his well-dressed frame like the reek of skunk musk. Despite his drooping eyelids and skinny frame, this man was a killer; Morgan would’ve staked his gun on it if he had one to wager.

The man cast a lazy glance in his direction as their order came up. Glasses were set neatly before them and filled halfway to the brim with warm, syrupy liquor. Morgan’s drinking companion seemed content to nurse his glass awhile, slender fingers closing around the textured vessel without lifting it. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He sat in his stool as surely as if he’d sat on Morgan’s chest–applying pressure, forcing him to react. It was the approach of a truly confident man.

“Funny,” Morgan began, “I tend to remember my friends’ faces. But I can’t seem to place yours.”

The man snickered at that, as if it were an inside joke Morgan wasn’t privy to.

“Got a good memory, do ya?”

The man’s accent allowed Morgan to place him as a big-city Wessoner. His lighter complexion already had him thinking along those lines, but it never paid to make assumptions where dangerous men were concerned.

“Good enough to get by,” he eventually replied.

“Well, that’s what matters, right?” said the smug urbanite, raising his glass in a mock-toast. “Like they say: if ya forget it, it can’t be that important.”

He drained his glass in one swig and called for another.

“Speakin’-a-which, how’d the train robbery go?”

Morgan gritted his teeth. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“The train robbery. You musta just got through with one, judging by the get-up. Did ya make off with enough bullion to keep the boys going through the winter? Or will ya still have to hit a bank or two to make ends meet?”

An insult. Morgan struggled to get a handle on his temper, though the stranger’s roundabout way of poking fun at him was the very least of his aggravations; it was the man’s seeming inability to get to the point that really irked him.

“For your sake, I’m hoping it’s the former,” he continued, purring through a crooked smile. “Ever since Soggy Pete took that nasty fall last month, his leg just ain’t been the same. Can ya really risk another tussle with the law, knowing you’re a man down? What’ll ya tell his wife if it all goes sideways?”

“Doubt I’ll have to worry much about that,” Morgan replied, “seein’ as I’m sure to die right here, waitin’ for you to come around to the meat of this conversation.”

“Maybe so, maybe so,” the man agreed with a nod, peering down at Morgan’s glass with a look of disapproval. “Haven’t touched your drink.”

“Not in the mood.”

“Huh. That’s unlike ya.”

Morgan fixed him with a sharp glare, then, sensing that the tone of their chat was on the verge of turning a corner.

“And just what do you know about me?” he asked.

The man leaned in close. “More than ya’d care to believe,” he answered. “It’s my job, after all–to know as much as I can about the man behind that cheap bandana. What he’s doing… Where he’s going. Who he’s with. And whether or not it’s time to pull the plug.”

Every hair on Morgan’s body bristled. Though the particulars of his life were fuzzy, he’d always had the feeling that many of his past actions skewed immoral. He’d known in his heart of hearts that they’d catch up with him one day.

Was today the day?

“Who sent you? The Moukahlas?'' he grunted.

“I do a little work for ‘em on the side, sure,” the man answered. He sounded oddly disappointed. “But, no–they wouldn’ta sent me. They’re small fry. Not a part of the world you and I come from. You’d know that if… Well, if ya hadn’t crossed the wrong people.”

The man paused, apparently at a loss for words. He leaned away from Morgan and took off his hat, running his fingers through the slick patch of brown hair that lay beneath it.

“It’s a damn shame, y’know? Seeing ya like this… It’s like the moment before ya put down a dog. They just look at ya, no idea about the how’s and why’s. Just a damn shame all over.”

It was then that the Gunslinger realized all the preamble hadn’t been entirely for his benefit. His would-be assassin wasn’t as cold or in control as he seemed; in fact, he seemed downright guilty about the whole business. Morgan thought of using this to his advantage for a brief moment, but quickly reconsidered. He didn’t have the tact for it. Instead he lifted his glass and drained it just as the stranger had a moment ago.

The man smiled and called for a top-up.

“You’re lucky, though, Morgan. I got a bad history with authority–I tend to not be so good with following orders I don’t like. I made my choice yesterday, after your little girlfriend over there iced my partner.”

He tilted his head in the direction of the gambling parlor.

“You could say we kept each other honest, him and me. The boss doesn’t have a lot of pull here in Truvelo, ya see–aside from that one idiot he’s got running around in the jungle down south, I’m basically unsupervised. So I’m inclined to give you a pass here, Morgan. Outta the goodness of my heart, or whatever.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” Morgan replied, taking a sip from his newly-refilled glass. “But you’ll forgive me if I’m a little skeptical. Men like you–like us–don’t do anythin’ out of kindness alone.”

That observation earned him a chuckle. “Good instincts, without the memories to back ‘em up… It’s gotta be hell to be you these days, chief.” The man drained his glass again and motioned to the bartender, slapping down a handful of silverslugs–far more than necessary–on the countertop as he approached.

“I’m leaving in a minute. Give my friend here whatever he wants after I go,” he said, rising to his feet and turning to face Morgan. “You’re right, of course. I’m a… What’s the word, again? A pragmatist. When I see potential in somebody, I don’t just toss ‘em out like yesterday’s trash. An ex-employer of mine taught me that one a long time ago. Guess it stuck.”

“That why you came, even though you’d already decided against killin’ me?” Morgan asked. “My ‘potential’?”

“Nah. I came because I was curious, plain and simple. Have yourself a nice evening, Morgan. Take good care of the kid–from what I’ve seen, she’s pretty good at taking care of you.”

With that, the man straightened out his suit jacket and made for the door. As he did, though, he stopped to rest a hand on Morgan’s shoulder.

“Do what ya can. But not too much, get me? Push too hard and you’ll be seeing me again… And next time, I’ll have to put ya down.”

Morgan didn’t turn to watch him go; his mind was too busy. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the guy knew him personally, forcing him to confront the fact that his lapses in memory were something more than a by-product of his constant drinking. Hell, the man had even alluded to his amnesia once or twice, as if it were an open secret among the ghosts of his past!

Just how many people knew about his predicament, anyway? And how many of them were fixing to kill him?

At that moment he became aware of an ominous presence behind him, and Morgan found himself wondering if his new friend had reconsidered and come back to finish the job. He closed his eyes and gulped down the last of his drink. The conversation had drained him, and acknowledging his condition had left him feeling empty.

What would it matter if someone ended him now? It’d be no worse than scrapping a blank journal. And it’d undoubtedly be easier to become a footnote in someone else’s story than try to write his own from scratch.

“You Morgan?” came a gruff voice from behind him.

“Yeah,” he answered at length. “What d’you want?”

He gradually turned his head; whoever was speaking seemed content to wait for his full attention, loathe as he was to give it. Two burly mooks in staff uniforms stood behind him, and they didn’t look happy.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” said the one in front. “One of our ‘guests’ is on a losing streak. Said she knew you. Started betting with your slugs–swore you were good for it.”

He started cracking his knuckles, an unpleasant smile on his face.