THIRTY EIGHT

The doors to Vegas flew open, Rudlow strolling in like some cowboy, flanked by Furlong and two uniforms.

He surveyed the bar.

Every face that wasn’t zoning looked back.

The Bar Man set his glass down, flung his towel over one shoulder.

‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ he asked.

Rudlow ignored him, instead pointing to a man sitting at a table by the door: ‘Him,’ he said, then looked to someone else, ‘And her as well.’

The uniforms moved in and scooped everyone the chief picked out.

The Bar Man reached for his cell and turned the music off. He found his charge gun below the bar, slipped it under his apron. Approached one of the goons, blocking him from carrying out Rudlow’s orders.

‘Sir, I need you to move,’ the goon said.

Rudlow intervened: ‘I’ll handle this, Jones,’ he said, stepping up to the Bar Man.

Furlong moved in beside his boss, reaching into his trench coat.

‘You’re obstructing justice, pal,’ he said.

The Bar Man spoke, his voice calm and measured: ‘Justice? Is that what this is?’ He watched a young throwback, across the floor, struggling as a uniform cuffed him. One hand slid into his apron pocket, closing around the charge gun. ‘These are my customers. You’ve no business here.’

Rudlow laughed.

‘Well, some of your customers are needed in our investigation,’ he said darkly.

‘All of them?’

‘No, just the ones I point out.’ The corner of his mouth curled into a sneer. ‘For now.’

The Bar Man stared at Rudlow, holding his gaze, hand still clasping the charge gun under his apron. He looked to Furlong, the other man’s hand easing slowly from his trench coat. His eyes found the uniforms next, also armed. Reluctantly, he removed his hand from the apron, unfurled the towel from across his shoulder, rolled it into a ball and started dusting a nearby table.

Rudlow nodded: ‘Wise move.’

The goons went back to work, plucking more revellers from the bemused crowd.

As the shakedown continued, the Bar Man kept watch, all the while tidying, trying to avoid the gaze of his bemused clientele. And then they were gone, most of his punters leaving with them, many never to return.

The Bar Man stood in the middle of an empty Vegas.

He flicked open his cell, eyes falling upon the Box, where the latest episode of deathstar was interrupted by a news report. Trouble over on River quarter, a Humanist protest outside City Hall turning ugly. Seemed to be about the new Jesus VR. Everything was about Jesus these days.

The Bar Man made a call.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Trouble?’ came McBride’s voice from the other end of the line.

‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’