Charade

Benji

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

"Ash? You there?"

"Benji!" She answered, yelling into the phone. "What's going on? Are you locked up?"

I smiled.

"No," I said. "I'm a free man."

Ashley sighed into the phone.

"Thank god," she said. "Do you know how worried I've been all day, you little prick? Gave me a goddamn heart attack."

"Sorry, sis." I said.

"Shut up, I'm still mad at you. Now tell me what happened."

"Not much," I said. "Vic made a deal with the judge. We'd give the name of the guy who sold me the skimmers in return for community service. It worked."

"Thank god," she said again. "Why do have to do shit like this? Do you know how dangerous your little stunt was?"

"Ash," I groaned. "Please, I'm fine. Just drop it."

"No I will not just drop it. What the hell is wrong with you? You know you're the only family I have. I can't have you locked up behind bars."

Vic walked into the room, having showered and changed into what he called, 'casual wear', and smiled.

"Yeah, okay, Ash. I've got to go."

"What? No way – "

"Yep, okay, bye."

I hung up.

"Hey, Vic," I said.

"Put your shoes on," he said. "We're going out to celebrate."

***********************************

Between two dark and empty buildings sat the tiny pub of Wuster's. Typically, smart people don't go there unless they're looking for trouble, but Vic had insisted that it was a good place to go to celebrate my release. I didn't object.

The doors opened and the overwhelming scent of smoke and beer flooded my senses. Classic rock played through an old fifties jukebox, turned down low and filling the air with a nineties vibe, while the crack of pool cues, grumbled curse words, and the sound of beer pouring into tall glasses reminded me how dangerous this place was. The dim yellow lighting fell over hundreds of prison tattoos and highlighted thick swirls of cigarette smoke. It was a simple little place – the bar to your left as you walked in, pool tables up the back, booths along the wall and small tables with high stools in the middle. It could've been cosy, if not for the dangerous criminals who occupied it.

I followed Vic to the bar where we perched on wooden stools and I caught a glimpse of the bartender – one-eyed, tattooed, with greasy hair and weathered skin. He looked like someone who chases you in nightmares.

"Hey Pirate," Vic called.

The bartender hobbled over with an obvious limp and I looked down to see his wooden leg. That plus the patch over his left eye made the nickname 'Pirate' somewhat fitting.

"Vic," he smiled, revealing two rows of a dentist's worst nightmare. "Haven't seen you round here in yonks! Where you been, mate? Off with some new fling, I hear."

"Not quite, buddy. Here, meet my new friend, Benjamin."

"Benji," I corrected as Pirate's one good eye turned to me. He slumped down, leaning on his scarred arm, looking at me.

"Well, isn't he adorable?" He said in a baby voice, head cocked.

I scowled.

"Go fuck yourself, Barbossa." I snapped.