Chapter 5

The Black Sheep sat at the corner of an alley. Its two stories occupied one half of what was once a firehouse. The garage portion had been annexed by the row home on the other side, while the living quarters, offices and everything else were turned into this English pub. They had buffed out the lettering, but a century of being protected from the light left a discoloration in the faint shape of Station 27. A mark of history the city couldn't erase.

Ezra circled around the block twice, trying to get a feel for the place, before parking a few streets away. No meters here, just rusted signs that no one bothered to enforce. He killed the engine, took a long breath, then stepped into the world.

Ezra squinted in the sunshine, stumbled a bit. It was bright, but the breeze was a bit damp. One of those days where no matter how it felt now, rain could always be right around the corner.

The facade was well worn. Familiar, tired, necessary. A wooden sign hung out over the entrance. The large front window had decades of dust distorting the view of inside. The city's grit had been permanently etched into the glass.

Ezra pulled the door open and the hinges groaned with exhaustion. Inside on the wall was a community cork board. Tucked between old flyers for open mics and missing cats was pinned a small stack of business cards. Arlo Voss, attorney at law. No case too strange, it said.

The inside was dim, not dark, deliberately so. It wanted to be a sanctuary from the outside world. The cloudy front window allowed a muted sunlight to filter through. Floor boards creaked under his footsteps. The painted fixtures had long since lost their luster. This did nothing but comfort him.

Ezra slid onto a stool near the end of the bar, where the curve of its L shape gave him a good sightline to the door. The bar smelled of varnish and citrus cleaner, just a yeasty hint of stale beer. Ezra rested his hands on the once polished wood, cool beneath his fingertips, rough from spots where the lacquer wore away.

A quiet clatter of billiard balls came from the back room, where someone was passing the time alone. A TV above the shelves played silent news, plastic anchors repeating phrases with mechanical precision.

"First time here?" the bartender asked as he tossed a coaster in front of Ezra.

"Yeah, someone from the office suggested I check this place out."

"This little hole?" he asked with a chuckle.

"No accounting for taste, I guess."

"What'll it be?" he asked with a smile that was both practiced and sincere.

"Bourbon on the rocks, something decent but not pricey."

While the bartender pulled a bottle from the second shelf, Ezra continued to take the place in. Its relaxing nature pressed against Ezra's armor. Quiet chatter mixed with even quieter tunes. Songs he knew by sound, but not by name.

His chest slowly opened up, breathing steadily and deeply. The place began to settle around him, like all the dust on all the sconces.

After setting the glass in front of Ezra with a cheers, the bartender walked back halfway down the bar to continue his chat with another customer. The man looked familiar, but Ezra couldn't place it. He was older, heavyset, wearing a suit with no intention of impressing anyone. The top shirt button was undone, and his tie was just loose enough to let him breathe.

As they spoke, the man glanced down at Ezra, and it dawned on him.

"Excuse me," Ezra said. "Are those your cards on the wall there? The lawyer?"

The man turned on his stool with the smugness of someone who expected to be recognized eventually.

"Depends who's asking," he said. His voice was strained from all the extra weight around his windpipe.

Ezra barely lifted his glass in a loose half-toast. "Ezra Calloway."

"That so?" The man smiled, not surprised. "Arlo Voss, attorney at law. No case too strange."

"You really put that on your card?"

Arlo gave a small shrug. "People remember strange more than they remember useful."

Ezra took a sip, letting the whiskey's burn linger a bit before swallowing.

"So what brings you to our little sanctuary?" the lawyer asked, always aware of how to keep the conversation moving.

"I was telling your friend, someone from the office told me I should come check the place out."

"Yeah, where do you work?"

"Mutual Life and Property," Ezra replied.

At the mention of that name, Arlo's eyes lit up. "This friend of yours," he asked, "it's not Barry Glass, is it?"

"Maybe, didn't catch his name," replied Ezra. He tried to conceal the knot in his stomach, as the peaceful strangeness of the place quickly became tense with familiarity.

"That's funny, we were just talking about him." Arlo turned toward the bartender. "Oafy motherfucker, isn't he?"

"That's him," said Ezra.

Ezra finished his drink and pushed the empty glass towards the inner edge of the bar.

"Another?" asked the bartender.

"Sure."

"This one's on me," said Arlo.

The bartender came back over, placed a fresh drink in front of Ezra, and returned to leaning against the bar by Arlo, who proceeded to grill Ezra about his work.

Unnerved, Ezra tried his best to remain honest but not let his answers get too deep. Countless hours of corporate training kicked in, reminding him not to create more risk. There was so much inside him that needed to be let out, but he had no idea who this man was or why he'd want to know so much about the company.

Every evasive maneuver Ezra attempted was met with the rhetorical precision of a man who had argued in front of many judges. The briefest pause gave Arlo space to interject, continuing to guide the conversation.

Half answers were pressed further, and Arlo appeared to process the information at a speed just slightly faster than thought. It was impossible for Ezra to understand all that Arlo wanted from him.

When both of their drinks were empty, Ezra offered to return the favor.

"Next time," replied Arlo. "I have to get back to work, but it was good to meet you."

"Yeah…"

Ezra's voice trailed off, unsure whether it was actually nice.

The room's silence returned with Arlo's departure. It had been hidden by the lawyer's boisterousness, but it had been there the whole time.

Ezra tried his best to sit in it while the bartender busied himself with washing glasses and wiping down the bar. But the longer this lasted, the tighter his chest felt. Had he said too much?

"What's that guy's shtick?" he asked the bartender, unable to take it any longer.

"Arlo?" he asked with a chuckle. "He wants what any lawyer wants, for you to think he's right."

Back to the quiet, where all the nebulous thoughts had space to float around freely.

"Another drink?"

"No, I should get going too."

On his way out, Ezra paused at the bulletin board. There was his face, in high gloss card stock. Even in his head shot, Arlo couldn't keep the top buttoned and the tie up tight. Impulsively, Ezra grabbed one. Next time, he thought.

Walking back to the car, a sense of synchronicity crept in. Cloud cover started to coat the sky, and Ezra knew the sunlight was too good to last.

He climbed in and turned the key. As soon as the engine started, air rushed out of the defroster at full speed. The whirl of the blower motor came as a shock, his mind half numbed from the booze. By the time he understood what was happening, letters started to appear on the inside of the windshield.

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