Greywalker - Kat Richardson [43]
“Hi, Harper. You out partying, or working?”
I glanced up and around. Quinton was standing beneath the next iron arch, grinning at me from under a much-battered drover’s hat.
“I was working, but I’m quitting for the night. What about you?”
“Just goofing off. Can I buy you a drink?”
“If you know someplace quiet where no one will complain if I take my shoes off,” I replied.
“You bet I do. Come with me, fair maiden,” he added, motioning me along.
Quinton struck off east, then turned and led me into a saloon along the angled block of rather disreputable buildings on the Second Avenue Extension. The name of the place seemed to be some kind of double entendre that I was too tired to puzzle out.
From the outside, I expected low, dim, and smoky, but it wasn’t. Broad, deep, and high-ceilinged, the original carved turn-of-the-century backbar and brass-railed front bar still dominated the room. The place was pretty empty. Of the three men at the bar, one was the bar-tender. A couple sat at a front table and conversed with the guys at the bar. Across the room, another couple shot pool, observed by two single men seated on high stools, bantering and kibitzing. The place hadn’t changed since it was built.
Quinton noticed my assessment. “It’s a dive, all right, but it’s quiet, decent, and the owner”—he pointed to the bartender—“doesn’t care if you take your shoes off, so long as you keep your socks on. What would you like to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having. Oh, and ask the owner if he’s ever seen this guy,” I added, shoving a copy of Cameron’s picture into his hands.
Quinton returned with two large glasses of beer. He handed me the photo. “He said he doesn’t recognize him.”
“Thanks. Hey, you never left me your bill,” I reminded him.
“Haven’t gotten around to writing it up yet. I’ll drop it off Monday. In the meantime, I got my own pager, so if you need me, you can page me.” He handed me a card with his first name and number printed on it. “Do you shoot pool?”
I blinked at the non sequitur and shook my head. “Never learned how.”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
He wasn’t a great teacher, but I wasn’t a great student, so we had fun making mistakes and sending pool balls everywhere but where intended. I was a little tired and a little lit. I giggled a lot and forgot to worry about ghoulies and ghosties, and they seemed to forget about me.
I lined up a doomed shot. “What do you do, Quinton? I mean besides rescuing damsels in distress?”
He watched me miss completely. “I pretty much do whatever comes up. Jack of all trades and master of none, and all that crud. Got an electronics degree once, hung around college, did some programming, worked on cars, did a little wiring and construction, whatever was available.”
“So, no steady job?”
“Nah. Steady jobs are for slaves. You just trade hours for dollars. I don’t like that. So I don’t do it.” He bent over the table and muffed a long shot. “There’s always someone around who just needs something quick and dirty and I’m the quick-and-dirty expert.”
I sank the wrong ball. “Sounds criminal.”
“Heck, no. All aboveboard and honest, I swear. Sometimes I get a bit of contract work, sometimes things come up that are a little longer term, but I never let myself become a cog, you know?”
I sat down and drank beer and watched him make a run of three balls.
“Freelance troubleshooter?”
He tipped his head and smiled thoughtfully. “Pretty much. Got a lot of esoteric information stuffed in my head, so I’m often a better guy for a small but complex problem than a guy with a specialized degree and a ton of specialized experience. Flexible. That’s the best thing to be.