Do You Have a Match?

The room was filled with a dense smoke only tempered by dull yellow lights. A rabble of voices and shuffling footsteps passed through the smog. In the back corner of the club sat a man quietly, reclined with his feet on a round table. His gray fedora lay delicately upon his head, angled so only his pursed lips were visible to any passerby. He held a wooden pipe up to his clean face and took a few puffs. His face was obscured completely for a few moments as the smoke flourished from the pipe and danced gracefully around his head. A waitress sauntered up to the man and asked if he wanted a drink. He did not even glance at the waitress and seemed to have not heard her words. She was about to awkwardly leave when the man lifted his face to the young woman.

“I'll have a whiskey on the rocks, if you'd be so kind young lady. And go easy on the ice.” He stared at her, unblinking. The waitress raised her eyebrows high as she realized there were no eyes in the man's sockets, just scarred holes. She coughed uncomfortably and glanced nervously down before answering.

“Of course sir, I'll get it myself.” She shuffled away quietly into the impeding fog. The man followed her movements with a c**k of his head and a vacant expression. Two footsteps forward, one to the left, and straight for five feet. He thought absently as he mapped his surroundings by ear. A fight began on the other side of the club and broken glass shattered the comfortable atmosphere. The entire room began to degrade into a muddle of flailing limbs and broken mugs. The man twitched uncomfortably as it became difficult to discern what was happening by ear. He set down his pipe gingerly on the table top and pulled out a leather bound pocket book. A pen was procured from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. The jacket was so worn it had elbow patches and three buttons missing. It had once been a beautifully sewn garment, but over-use had frayed every stitch and seam. The man carefully opened the book and felt the pages with an index finger. Braille covered the small rectangular pieces of paper, along with printed writing. In the top left corner was the name “James Fenton” and “Union Bank Check #317” in bold letters. James filled out the check and gently placed it in the center of the table. The fight had spilled into the street and the front entrance was blocked, so James placed his pipe in a small wooden box, picked up a long rubber tipped cane, and walked silently towards the back exit. Scream to the right, broken glass three feet forward, and two large men to the far left. James thought methodically.

At the back door, the young waitress cowered from the destructive brawl. James knew it was her by the tone of her small whimpers. He had an ear for voices.

“Young lady, I would recommend leaving this place as soon as possible, it is only going to get worse.” James smiled kindly and presented a hand. The woman shook the disheveled hair from her face, grasped the gentle hand, and was pulled to her feet. She smiled and followed James through the door into a brick walled alley. There were three bowler capped men smoking hand rolled cigarettes in the moonlight. They leaned against the alley wall, took long drags, and blew smoke rings toward the dark sky. The woman glanced toward James and then stared at the ground as they walked slowly by the men. Jame's cane tapped the ground every few seconds. One of the men stepped up behind the pair and asked,

“Do you have a match?” The man exhaled smoke as he asked the question. James stopped suddenly and turned his right ear toward the man.

“I always have a match,” James said quietly, “one for every day of the week.” He whipped the head of his cane around and slammed it into the young waitress's temple. She gasped and crumpled to the ground like a flower petal, unconscious. James sighed sadly and nodded to himself before he began to walk out of the small alley into the open street. He turned left and disappeared.

The three men in the alley picked up the woman gently and shuffled over to a nearby manhole. One set down the legs of the waitress and lifted the manhole cover off with a grunt. The other two men lifted the woman by her shoulders and dropped her into the opening. There was a splash and an echo. All three men filed up and climbed down the ladder into the sewers. The last one slid the cover back into place over the hole quietly and then continued down. A cigarette smoldered on the pavement a few feet from the manhole until it went out with a puff of smoke.