MW stood outside on the corner , watching the comings and goings of the patrons of the Salon; "quite an eclectic bunch of folks in there," he thought, as he chewed on the match that he held in his teeth.The tweed tam o' shanter, the brown leather airman's trenchcoat with the extra-high military collar, and the pommel of the broomhandle mauser (model 1895) in its shoulder holster, that showed sometimes from under the coat when he shifted from one foot to the other, marked him as somebody who'd spent most of his life in and around the big silver fish that schooled in the sky and delivered the world's goods. A former customs man, he had struck off on his own to work by the hour for people willing to pay a man to find those lost cargoes, hijacked steamcars, and long-lost relatives who stepped out for a carton o' milk, took a steam zeppelin to Chicago and never made it back...
He saw the blonde leave the establishment, and ducked his head and pretended to give a rodents posterior about the contents of the newspaper section in his hands. When she had stepped aboard the vehicle she was to ride in to wherever she was going, he took the trouble to write the number on the margin of the paper, with an old barrel pencil with the words "Elmo Shipping and Storage Company, Galveston, Texas. printed on the side. Ironic, he often thought, that the company had fired him after he'd lost his eye, refused to help him with the medical bills, and then promptly folded -- but the pencil still worked.
MW folded the newspaper and stuck it in the inside glove pocket of the trenchcoat, adjusted the shoulder holster (he'd been wearing it for ten hours this time, and it was beginning to chafe through the broadcloth shirt and undershirt he wore. having situated everything where he wanted it, he made his way to the door of the establishment, hearing the neon sign going "Bzzsht! Bzzsht! Bzzsht!"
as he drew near. On the street, a vehicle suddenly veered , tires screeching, horn blaring, and MW half-crouched down and his hand reached for teh mauser, but luckily it was just some yahoo with an attitude driving home from work--he hoped. HE quickly turned back around and entered the Salon, the wind chasing him through the door, and kicking up a smell of wet seaweed and dying fish.
Seeing the artfully-arranged mess on the floor, he steps gingerly over , around, and finally is forced to walk through it to get to the bar. "Barkeep, three fingers of Bushmills, or whatever you've got that's that strong, he drawled in what was left of his Texas accent and fumbled in his pocket for the cash to back it up.
