|He walked into the bar unseen. He was tall and black and no one even knew he was there until he was halfway inside and we heard the back-door slam. He was dressed in a black shirt and black pants. The three Moore brothers, my only customers, looked around once after the door slammed and then turned back to the soccer on the TV over my head. They completely missed the shotgun the man carried on the other side of his body.
I watched, frozen, as he walked past and sat down at a far booth in the corner . He stood the shotgun between his knees. He stared straight ahead at a sputtering electric Coors sign and I knew he was watching me in its reflection.
The Moore brothers were silently watching the game. I thought about a-hemming or psssting or doing something to call their attention to this nightmare event unfolding before us, but before I could do anything--Charley Nichols came in the front-door just as Manchester United scored another goal and the Moores slammed their palms on the bar in glee.
I tried to make eye-contact with Charley as he was saying hi to the Moores and the Moores, jumping up and down, formed a circle around Charley, slapping him on the back. I moved my eye-brows up and down and to the side and nodded my head repeatedly toward the corner and nobody saw me.
All of a sudden the man was there with his shot gun.
Charley said, “Frankie! You brought the Ithica!” and pulled it from his hands. He admired the gun, and the Moore brothers admired the gun, and even I commented briefly on it's fine craftsmanship before I put it away behind the bar and poured myself a drink.
© Copyright 2010 Winchester Jones (UN: ty.gregory at Writing.Com).
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