Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Evens ❯ Put Another Nickel In ( Chapter 4 )

Chance 4: Put Another Nickel In

Spike wrapped his arms tighter around his chest, and drew his head further in between the raised lapels of his trench coat. This took some of the bite out of the freezing air, but did little to curb the uncomfortable cling of his wet clothes. Every fibre of his every garment was soaked through with tepid rainwater, making for a distracting and inescapable sensation of dampness.

Peering out from beneath the veil of soaking hair that lay pasted to his forehead, Spike surveyed the street ahead. The narrow road stretched off out of view, with most of its length being obscured by the torrential downpour that had been ongoing since his arrival in the quaint little fishing town. On either side of the narrow road rows of terraced buildings huddled together, and appeared to hunch forwards in an effort to protect their cracked and battered faces from the relentless rainfall.

Spike took a sideways glance at the building nearest. Upon its door were nailed two tarnished brass numbers, a five and a two. Giving a grunt of surprise, he looked across the street to the building opposite. He could just about make out a flickering neon sign through the sheets of rain and the grubby window pane, a sure indication he had found what he was looking for.

"Finally," he muttered.

Without checking the deserted street for oncoming traffic, Spike stepped out onto the tarmac and marched purposefully towards his destination.

There was a deafening cry of thunder, followed almost instantly by an angry flash of lightening. It was as if the very heavens themselves were trying to drive away the weary traveller. This wouldn't have surprised Spike, as his journey had been fraught with difficulties of almost every kind. It was remarkable just how difficult it was to move between jurisdictions when one was thought dead by the authorities.

A sudden gust of wind rolled down the narrow road, catching Spike's trench coat and almost lifting him from the ground like lanky kite.

"Damn it!" he rasped, and raised his arms to allow the gust to pass unhindered through his jacket.

He then gave a low growl and folded his arms in defence against the bitter cold. Leaning into the wind he trotted the rest of the way across the street, mounting the pavement and moving quickly to the front of the establishment. The window that was set into the wooden door housed a small sign, which bore the markings "Bar Ichthys" and "Open". Without further delay Spike placed a hand against the steel plate on the left of the door and swept it aside.

With a measure of relief he stepped in from the cold, his arrival heralded by the peel of a tiny bell suspended above the doorway. He then released the door, allowing it to fall gently back into its frame and shut out the frigid breeze.

Now that he was out of the rain, Spike became aware of the stream of water that was coursing down his face from his soaking hair. He gave it a brief, dog-like shake to get rid of the bulk of the water, and then set about removing his waterlogged jacket. This done, he draped the garment over his arm and made his first assessment of his new surroundings.

Spike's vantage point at the top of a short flight of wooden stairs gave him an excellent view of the scene below. Realising that the reverse was true, he quickly descended to the floor.

Mercifully, the bar was murky and poorly patronised, so there was little chance of his having been recognised. The dim flickering lights suspended from its cracked ceiling scarcely penetrated the smoke filled air, and its miserly windows did little to contribute. It was the perfect place for a clandestine rendezvous.

As he moved discretely across the grimy stone floor, Spike made a quick head count. The clientele consisted wholly a semi-conscious barfly hunched awkwardly over the bar, staring blankly into the bottom of an empty shot glass, and a pair of distinctly crusty looking mariner types garbed in grimy overcoats and vinyl rain hats, sat at a round table in the far corner. The faint glimmer of their pipes did more to light their dark alcove than the modest lighting, providing a grotesque accentuation of the fishermen's gnarled features.

Spike had certainly shared bars with more attractive people. Unfortunately, none of those present seemed to be the one for whom he was looking. As he had feared, he had arrived first.

The barfly was sat on a wooden stool at the corner of the bar nearest the door, so Spike began to make his way to the opposite end so as not to encourage unwanted conversation; that, and the barfly's unique odour was none-too inviting.

Reaching the far corner Spike dumped his jacket on the bar, drew out a stool from by the counter and took a seat. No sooner had he done so, a stout man with bald head and full beard emerged from a door behind the bar. The man, clearly the proprietor, paid Spike little heed as he busied himself polishing a pint glass with his stained apron. Turning to his left, the bartender briefly held the glass up to the dim light, then reached up and hung it from a wooden peg above several shelves laden with untidy ranks of spirits and mixers. It was only then that he caught sight of Spike in the dust-streaked mirror that adorned the back wall.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he chortled as he turned around. "I didn't see you there."

Spike drew his head down slightly between his upturned shirt lapels. The volume of the bartender's greeting was making him uneasy.

"We don't get too many new faces around here these days," the bartender went on. "So I guess I just didn't think to look."

"Don't worry about it," Spike said, taking a glance over at the door.

"So, can I get you anything?"

The question escaped Spike for a moment as he tried to see past the dirty windows and driving rain to anyone who might be passing outside.

"Hey son, you listening?"

Spike's head snapped back to the bartender, but still he didn't make eye contact.

"No, thanks," Spike declined.

The bartender looked at Spike in puzzlement for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders.

"Okay, suit yourself," he said. "I mean this is a public house, after all. So, I suppose it's alright if you just wanna sit there and take in the ambience. Not that you'll get much of that around here, isn't that right fellas?"

The bartender's open question was greeted with a deep grunt that emanated from the bar's one occupied table.

"As you can see, this isn't really much of a social spot," the barman continued. "In fact, since the fish stocks started to dwindle, I could probably count my regulars on two hands."

Spike was becoming rather impatient with the bartenders prattling.

"I changed my mind about that drink," he said, aiming to break the stream of consciousness.

"Ah, I thought you might. What can I get you?"

"Whisky."

"Single or double?"

"Double."

"On the rocks or straight?"

Spike sighed.

"Straight."

"That's just as well," said the bartender. "The freezer's not working anyway. Hasn't done for two months. Can't really afford to pay repair bills, not since the fish stocks started to dwindle. So of course I can't serve food any more, save peanuts that is, so that just makes things worse. Kind of a vicious cycle, you know? Oh, that reminds me…"

The bartender reached beneath the counter.

Sensing possible danger, Spike's head jumped up slightly and his right hand made the leap for the inside of his suit jacket.

After a couple of seconds of fumbling beneath the bar, the bartender produced a small bowl and presented it to Spike.

"Peanut?"

Spike gave a grunt of annoyance.

"No, thanks," he growled as he relaxed back into his initial slouch. "Listen, do you have the time?"

"The time?" the barman echoed.

Reaching beneath his apron he extracted a small, steel pocket watch. He flicked it open, and glanced briefly at its face and answered,

"Its ten past seven," he then looked back to Spike, catching him as he stole another look at the door. "Why, are you waiting for someone?"

Spike's eyes widened. He had only wanted to shut the guy up, not give the game away.

"C'mon," the bartender went on. "You can tell me. I don't often get people as interesting as you in here."

He then glanced down the bar.

"No offence, Jim."

The barfly didn't respond.

Spike was becoming agitated. He didn't know how he could have given so much away whilst having hardly said a word. He might have kicked himself, had he not thought the barman would ask why.

Regaining his composure, he looked straight into the bartender's inquisitive eyes.

"Where's that whisky I asked for?"

The bartender drew his head back in surprise, and then shrugged.

"Alright then," he sighed. "Guess that's what I get for trying to be friendly."

Spike rolled his eyes. He wasn't about to be drawn in by the rotund landlord's sulk; his heart had done quite enough bleeding for one lifetime.

The bartender turned around and plucked a half-full bottle of dark liquid from the lowest shelf. He looked down at the bottle, and then blew some dust from the label.

"I don't know," he sighed as he took a whisky glass from the open cabinet at his waist. "It's getting so that a guy can't even take an interest in his customers anymore."

Spike crossed his arms on the bar, and allowed his head to rest wearily upon them. Still, the man refused to shut up.

"Once upon a time, I used to have all kinds of interesting conversations with all kinds interesting people," the bartender reminisced, paying a little less attention to pouring the drink than perhaps he should have. "People would come from all over the moons to drink here, back when things here were good. These days though, you'll be lucky to get a tip of a hat and a good morning. Nobody wants to talk to their friendly barkeep anymore; they just wanna sip their fancy drinks with a slice of lemon and a little umbrella, and make their private little meetings and such."

The bartender replaced the bottle on the shelf and turned to face Spike.

"Ah, but what am I telling you all this for," he sighed, placing the slightly stale smelling whisky under Spike's nose. "A slick Martian type such as y'self wouldn't understand."

Spike grunted with surprise and raised his head suddenly, causing him to make momentary, unintentional eye contact with the bartender. The bartender returned Spike's stare for a moment, before a look of realisation came across his face.

"Oh, you're wondering how I know where you're from," he said. "Well, for your information, a guy like you sticks out like a sore thumb around these parts, what with that snazzy suit and trendy bouffant hair o' yours. No self-respecting Ganymede dweller would step outside his front door dressed like that."

"Is that right?" said Spike.

"Yeah, I've seen thousands of people sitting on that same stool you are. I've gotten pretty good at guessing things about people. In fact, I could probably guess a whole barrel of things about you right now, if you wanted."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Now let's see. Well, I already got that you were from Mars. I guess, from the way you keep looking at the door…"

Spike quickly looked away from the door.

"…that you're in here waiting for some one -- probably a man, since you don't seem to have made much of an effort, if you know what I mean. And then there are those lapels; you must have them pulled up that high for a reason. My guess is you don't want to be seen. Are you hiding from something, or perhaps from someone?"

Spike stood up from his stool, much to the bartender's surprise.

"Hey, where are you going?" he asked.

Spike wanted more than anything to announce his departure, but he still had business to take care of. For now, he looked around for an excuse to get away from the bartender's uncomfortably accurate rambling. Upon glancing over his right shoulder he spied an antique duke box stood in the far corner of the bar. Bathed in the glow of a single shade-less bulb that hung above it, the arch-shaped machine stared forlornly across the room.

"Does that thing work?" Spike asked.

"Well yes, but…"

Spike turned and walked away before the bartender could complete his sentence. Slipping his hands into his pockets he began to make his way casually across the room, sensing the eyes of the haggard seamen following him as he went.

Upon reaching the duke box Spike fumbled around in his right pocket and extracted a small coin. Holding it up to the light to check its denomination, he found the face to be embossed with the number one hundred and a large `w' intersected by two horizontal lines. One didn't see many one hundred woolong pieces these days; in these times of hyperinflation, such piffling sums were worth little more than a shot of cheap bourbon or a tune from a crummy record player.

Spike reached out and dropped the coin into the slot in the face of the machine, and listened as it tumbled through its innards. Then to his surprise, the coin emerged, regurgitated into the returned-change tray a few inches beneath where it had been inserted.

Spike cocked an eyebrow. Retrieving the coin he tried again, only to have it spat back at him once more. He tried again, and again, becoming more agitated with each failed attempt to operate the contraption.

"Works better when it's plugged in," a voice came from behind.

Spike looked over his shoulder in surprise. It was the bartender.

Why? Why couldn't he just be left alone?

Reluctantly Spike turned back to the duke box and leaned over to one side slightly. Peering down to the left of the machine, he found that its power cord was indeed disconnected from the nearby mains socket. At this point however, Spike was too disgruntled to be embarrassed. He simply rolled his eyes as if he had expected nothing less.

"Don't let it bother you," the bartender placated. "I sometimes forget myself. And besides, the old girl doesn't have any records to play for you. Hasn't done in a good while."

Figured.

At that moment, the bell above the front door sounded, catching both men by surprise. Both turned to look at the doorway. There, at the top of the stairs was stood a man, broad in build and gruff in expression, surveying the bar room from behind the mask of a well-maintained beard. The drops of water that trickled from his balding head glinted in the dim light, as did the cybernetic implant that cradled his left eye socket, and the artificial arm that hung fist clenched at his side.

Spike found his own eyes lingering on the prosthetic. He hadn't seen anything like that since his last visit to a mob doctor on Mars, as such crude replacement limbs were considered obsolete among the more reputable and affordable medics.

The newcomer's piercing stare swept over Spike. Quickly, but not so quickly as to attract attention, he looked away.

"That's the guy, huh," the bartender asked in a hushed tone, clearly enjoying the thrill of what he considered to be an exiting change of pace. "I mean, the guy you've been waiting for?"

Spike sighed at his misfortune. If only he himself had insisted on choosing the meeting place. Of course, he didn't answer the question. He couldn't even if he wanted to, since he wasn't sure whether this was the man he had been in contact with these last few days.

"Ah, I don't blame you for not going over," the bartender went on. "Doesn't look like your kind of guy, what with that serious look and rigid posture. He's probably a bit of a by-the-book type."

Presumptuousness aside, he was right. Even Spike had noticed these things about the arrival, and was not at all encouraged. He had yet to make a positive I.D, however, so he would reserve his judgement for now.

The sound of heavy boots striking wood carried across the room. Carefully Spike edged aside, so he could see a reflection of the newcomer in the Perspex face of the duke box.

The man descended the stairs and, after a brief second glance around the room, walked across the bar took a seat a few stools along from the barfly.

Spike stole a look over his shoulder. As he had suspected, the back of the man's grey, sleeveless overall was adorned by the image of an eagle, rendered in gold with wings outstretched. With neither man having seen the other before today, this was the distinguishing feature by which Spike had been told he would recognise his would-be business associate.

Spike too had given a distinguishing feature; it was just that the distinguishing feature he had given wasn't his own. He knew better than that. As it was, the head that bore the shoulder length silver hair was now several months, and several million kilometres behind him.

"I don't think he recognised you," the bartender observed quietly. "You know, you could probably walk right out of here and he'd be none the wiser."

He was right. Indeed, that had been the idea when Spike had given a false description of himself.

"And besides, I know it isn't any if my business but I think you'd be better off going back and dealing with whoever or whatever it is you're trying to get away from."

He was right. It wasn't any of his business.

A gruff voice arose from by the bar.

"Hey, barkeep!"

"I'd better get over there," said the bartender. "But I'd decide what you're gonna do now if I were you, before he starts asking questions. Believe it or not, I can be a bit of a blabbermouth."

Spike rolled his eyes.

"Hey, barkeep!" The call was repeated, this time a little louder than before.

"Be right there," the bartender replied, and with that, left Spike's side.

Spike peered out the corner of his eye at the bartender as he returned to his station. He then returned his gaze to the duke box. Staring into the Perspex face of the contraption he contemplated the gaunt, almost emaciated features of his reflection.

Times had been hard since Spike had left Mars. It had proven difficult to maintain his low profile, while at the same time generating sufficient funds upon which to live. Hopping from planet to planet, satellite to satellite, he had scarcely known from where his next meal would come. For as long as he could remember he had always had some affiliation to lean upon, both socially and financially, and it was his need for this that was now driving him to forge a new alliance.

The problem was that, as much as Spike had become accustomed to running with the pack, he was not one to have his movements stifled. He had known from day one that the man had once been a member of the ISSP, an organisation that was more than a little at odds with his own-- those members that weren't on the syndicates' payroll, that is. He also knew that this would present something of a risk, but at the time, the contrast had held a perverse attraction. But now that he saw his contact in the flesh, he was beginning to lose his enthusiasm. Spike feared that this rigid individual might introduce an unwelcome voice of reason to the new life he was crafting for himself, and the last thing he needed was a conscience.

The question now was could he afford to walk out on the only promising offer to date? If he did, then there would be only one place he could go.

Spike placed both hands against the Duke box and lowered his head wearily. These past few months had been fraught with difficult decisions, and he could hardly bring himself to make another.

It was then that he spied his one hundred woolong piece, staring back at him from the change tray. Picking it from its resting place he looked it over, then smiled vaguely to himself.

"Why not?" He uttered.

Heads he would remain, and accept the offer of a partnership, or tails, he would leave and settle the business that had driven him from his home world.

It was quick, simple, and required minimal thought; just like all the best things in life.

Without further hesitation, Spike placed the coin on his right thumb and flicked it gently into the air. The disk tumbled briefly through space, winking in the sombre light before being plucked unceremoniously from its freefall. Spike then held up his clenched fist to the light, and slowly opened his hand.

Tails.

Spike stood motionless for a moment. He did not know why, but for some reason this was not the outcome he had expected. And yet, there it was.

Trying his best not to be moved, Spike shrugged nonchalantly.

"Guess it must be fate," he mused.

He then flicked the coin into the air once more, grabbed it and dropped back into his right trouser pocket.

Turning, he began a brisk march back to the bar where the bartender was now pouring a double scotch for Spike's would-be business partner. Without stopping to acknowledge either man, Spike pulled his jacket from the counter and headed for the door.

Perhaps this would be for the best. After all, how could he live the carefree life he desired when the edges of his existence were so frayed with loose ends?

Spike placed one foot on the bottom step, but then stopped. Looking up, he peered through the window in the door.

He could see nothing.

Be it the grimy glass or driving rain, Spike could see nothing beyond the door of the little bar on Ganymede.

It was only then that he became acutely aware of the sensation of something cold pressing against his right leg. Reaching into his pocket, Spike once more brought the coin out into the light.

Still tails.

"Fate," Spike muttered, and then chuckled to himself. "What was I thinking?"

Pulling his foot from the step, he turned back to the bar.

"Hey Jim," he called to the barfly. "Have one on me."

Spike tossed the coin into the air. The little disc arced across the room, and landed squarely in Jim's empty shot glass with a shrill clink.

Paying little attention to the fortuitousness of his throw, Spike began to make his way back across the bar. He resolved then and there that he had no need of invisible forces to decide his actions, nor would he allow them to do so. The old life was dead and gone, and no measure of fate would bring it back. He was free, free to make his own decisions, free to walk his own path, free to live his own life.

Spike Spiegel was the author of his own fate.

***

The End