![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"Blackouts On Demand"
May. 28th, 2022 09:05 pm"Blackouts On Demand"
2/22-2/23/1934
I.
Callagan had been expecting trouble from Black Bill all night. Around three-thirty, the carousing and singing had ebbed to silence as most of the regulars had drifted out the door into the freezing night. All that remained were a few near-limp barflies, a faded hooker past her prime earning years and two elderly Chinese gentlemen playing some esoteric card game in the corner. The haze of cigarette smoke and the stink of the kerosene heater in one corner did not improve the ANCHOR's usually dismal aroma.
Black Bill had evidently earned his nickname from the bristling ebony beard which stood out from his jaw as stiff as a whiskbroom. His greasy hair, parted in the middle, was the same hue but the bright red of his bulbous nose made a lively contrast. Bill was big enough, well over six feet and maybe two hundred and fifty pounds of which everything except the round belly was hard muscle and bone. And he had been making loud comments toward J. Erwin Callagan with the intention of provoking a fight since he had come into the bar.
Until Bill's entrance, Callagan had been unobtrusively occupying a table in one corner, putting away rotgut not hastily but steadily. Four inches shorter and almost a hundred pounds lighter than his tormentor, Callagan seemed to be an unimposing man about fifty, with short reddish-blond hair under a pushed-back captain's cap, and his dark blue eyes were watchful. But he had taken off his peacoat in the warm room and the arms showing below his rolled-eyed sleeves were as dark and gnarled as if carved from oak. There were numerous white scars on his knobby knuckles, too.
When Black Bill announced to an uncaring clientele that anyone who had ever sailed on the UNDINE under Dutchman Dirkan was still picking lice out their hair, Callagan sighed. This would keep escalating until Bill was yelling in his face from inches away. Might as well get it over with. He pushed back his rickety chair and rose, hitching up his faded bellbottoms. "Aw, Bill," he drawled. "You know I'm retired from the bare-knuckle game."
"Because you was afraid you'd gonna have to take a pastin' from ME!" the huge man roared, thumping a fist to his own chest. "I was in Manila the last time our paths crossed, a lot of money was changing hands with each slugfest. But you never showed."
"Got enough savings to live on," Callagan said simply. "I'm still an Able Bodied Seaman, I'll sign on for a few more jobs as needed but I don't care to pick other men's teeth out of my mitts anymore."
Black Bill raised his fists and began weaving them in small circles. "Yeah! So you say. I claim yer yellow. You lost your nerve. Come on, I'll leave you an opening, take yer best shot."
"Fine. Be that way. Over here, away from the furniture." Callagan took a few steps toward the most open area. He noticed the two Chinese had unobtrusively headed for the door, but the old floozy was watching with interest and making a gleeful comment to the bartender.
Black Bill circled clockwise, surprisingly light on his feet considering how overweight he was. He faked a left jab and threw a right in the classic maneuever. While his right fist was still moving on its trajectory, his head was rudely slewed around by a left cross that nearly broke his jaw. The impact sounded like a hammer hitting a frozen slab of beef. Black Bill sagged at the knees and Callagan followed with a straight right arm to the abdomen, shoving the dazed man off his feet to land in a heap.
Stepping back, Callagan kneaded his hands together to keep them from stiffening. Toughened as he had made them by years of striking ropes tied around masts, human fists hadn't evolved to punch solid bone without taking some damage. He concluded that Black Bill wasn't kayoed but he was stunned enough to not be enthusiastic about sudden movement for a while.
Wrestling his long peacoat on and finishing his shot glass, Callagan regretted that this meant he had better go home now. Even if Bill didn't demand another chance, it would be awkward having him sprawled there. It made drinking uncomfortable. He bundled up, got his wool scarf adjusted around his neck and headed for the door.
"Hey, Callagan? Can I ask you something?" said the bartender.
"Questions are free," was the reply. "You may not like the answers."
"Did I see that right? Did you throw your punch after Bill had already started to swing? How is that even possible?"
Callagan gave his crooked wry grin and laughed. "What I think is, he heard his conscience finally trying to get his attention. That slowed him down some, arf arf."
That got some guffaws from the five people at the bar, and Callagan touched the shiny bill of his white cap as he swung open the door and stepped out into Winter's last assault. Snow still lingered in many spots, hard as rock as the temperatures hadn't gotten risen much above freezing for a week. Callagan hunched his shoulders up and swung left on the cobblestone street. He should have bought a bottle at the bar to take with him, but he didn't want to go back in there. From a pocket, he drew out a corncob pipe already packed and scratched a match into flame with his thumbnail. A fragrant minty aroma drifted around him.
At the corner of Fleet Lane ahead, a long gleaming Pontiac stood with its motor running. Callagan watched it suspiciously, always ready for trouble. But the driver door opened and a slightly built man in a well-tailored suit with white topcoat called over, "Jack? Ah, J. Erwin Callagan. There you are. Do you have a minute? I would like a few words."
Recognizing Kenneth Dred, Callagan raised an eyebrow and strolled over with sudden curiosity. Whenever Dred turned up, the Midnight War was near.
( the rest of the story )
2/22-2/23/1934
I.
Callagan had been expecting trouble from Black Bill all night. Around three-thirty, the carousing and singing had ebbed to silence as most of the regulars had drifted out the door into the freezing night. All that remained were a few near-limp barflies, a faded hooker past her prime earning years and two elderly Chinese gentlemen playing some esoteric card game in the corner. The haze of cigarette smoke and the stink of the kerosene heater in one corner did not improve the ANCHOR's usually dismal aroma.
Black Bill had evidently earned his nickname from the bristling ebony beard which stood out from his jaw as stiff as a whiskbroom. His greasy hair, parted in the middle, was the same hue but the bright red of his bulbous nose made a lively contrast. Bill was big enough, well over six feet and maybe two hundred and fifty pounds of which everything except the round belly was hard muscle and bone. And he had been making loud comments toward J. Erwin Callagan with the intention of provoking a fight since he had come into the bar.
Until Bill's entrance, Callagan had been unobtrusively occupying a table in one corner, putting away rotgut not hastily but steadily. Four inches shorter and almost a hundred pounds lighter than his tormentor, Callagan seemed to be an unimposing man about fifty, with short reddish-blond hair under a pushed-back captain's cap, and his dark blue eyes were watchful. But he had taken off his peacoat in the warm room and the arms showing below his rolled-eyed sleeves were as dark and gnarled as if carved from oak. There were numerous white scars on his knobby knuckles, too.
When Black Bill announced to an uncaring clientele that anyone who had ever sailed on the UNDINE under Dutchman Dirkan was still picking lice out their hair, Callagan sighed. This would keep escalating until Bill was yelling in his face from inches away. Might as well get it over with. He pushed back his rickety chair and rose, hitching up his faded bellbottoms. "Aw, Bill," he drawled. "You know I'm retired from the bare-knuckle game."
"Because you was afraid you'd gonna have to take a pastin' from ME!" the huge man roared, thumping a fist to his own chest. "I was in Manila the last time our paths crossed, a lot of money was changing hands with each slugfest. But you never showed."
"Got enough savings to live on," Callagan said simply. "I'm still an Able Bodied Seaman, I'll sign on for a few more jobs as needed but I don't care to pick other men's teeth out of my mitts anymore."
Black Bill raised his fists and began weaving them in small circles. "Yeah! So you say. I claim yer yellow. You lost your nerve. Come on, I'll leave you an opening, take yer best shot."
"Fine. Be that way. Over here, away from the furniture." Callagan took a few steps toward the most open area. He noticed the two Chinese had unobtrusively headed for the door, but the old floozy was watching with interest and making a gleeful comment to the bartender.
Black Bill circled clockwise, surprisingly light on his feet considering how overweight he was. He faked a left jab and threw a right in the classic maneuever. While his right fist was still moving on its trajectory, his head was rudely slewed around by a left cross that nearly broke his jaw. The impact sounded like a hammer hitting a frozen slab of beef. Black Bill sagged at the knees and Callagan followed with a straight right arm to the abdomen, shoving the dazed man off his feet to land in a heap.
Stepping back, Callagan kneaded his hands together to keep them from stiffening. Toughened as he had made them by years of striking ropes tied around masts, human fists hadn't evolved to punch solid bone without taking some damage. He concluded that Black Bill wasn't kayoed but he was stunned enough to not be enthusiastic about sudden movement for a while.
Wrestling his long peacoat on and finishing his shot glass, Callagan regretted that this meant he had better go home now. Even if Bill didn't demand another chance, it would be awkward having him sprawled there. It made drinking uncomfortable. He bundled up, got his wool scarf adjusted around his neck and headed for the door.
"Hey, Callagan? Can I ask you something?" said the bartender.
"Questions are free," was the reply. "You may not like the answers."
"Did I see that right? Did you throw your punch after Bill had already started to swing? How is that even possible?"
Callagan gave his crooked wry grin and laughed. "What I think is, he heard his conscience finally trying to get his attention. That slowed him down some, arf arf."
That got some guffaws from the five people at the bar, and Callagan touched the shiny bill of his white cap as he swung open the door and stepped out into Winter's last assault. Snow still lingered in many spots, hard as rock as the temperatures hadn't gotten risen much above freezing for a week. Callagan hunched his shoulders up and swung left on the cobblestone street. He should have bought a bottle at the bar to take with him, but he didn't want to go back in there. From a pocket, he drew out a corncob pipe already packed and scratched a match into flame with his thumbnail. A fragrant minty aroma drifted around him.
At the corner of Fleet Lane ahead, a long gleaming Pontiac stood with its motor running. Callagan watched it suspiciously, always ready for trouble. But the driver door opened and a slightly built man in a well-tailored suit with white topcoat called over, "Jack? Ah, J. Erwin Callagan. There you are. Do you have a minute? I would like a few words."
Recognizing Kenneth Dred, Callagan raised an eyebrow and strolled over with sudden curiosity. Whenever Dred turned up, the Midnight War was near.
( the rest of the story )
