The sound of the baseball bat hitting the pavement is loud in the sudden quiet that surrounds the area, and makes Charlie jump a bit. He turns back to see the bartender holding out open palms in the direction of the officer, who finishes crossing the street and stops in front of the group.
"What's going on here?" he asks, his english heavily accented with Al Amarjan.
François (v2.0) looks at the ground.
"Nothing officer," says the bartender. Charlie notes that a couple of additional patrons are scampering out of the bar.
"Nothing?" asks the officer with feigned surprise. He reaches out with one steel-toed boot and kicks the baseball bat over against the side of the building. "Nothing?" he repeats. "Threatening this Burger with a baseball bat is nothing? You think that's nothing? Hunh! Well, if its nothing, I guess I'll just be on my way then."
The officer makes no move to leave. "Oh, but I forgot. Perhaps you think that creating a public disturbance is nothing, that assault is nothing, that fighting in public is nothing, but Her Exaltedness, Monique D'Aubainne, historic liberator and current shepherdess of Al Amarja respectfully disagrees with you. And since I work for HER and NOT for you I'm going to ask you again - what is going on here?"
"Ask him, officer!" says the bartender, pointing at Charlie. "Him and his friend started this!"
The officer turns to look questioningly at Charlie.
"'tis true, officer, indeed I did. Somebody, I'm sure don't know who, did call 'fire' in yon formerly-crowded bar. I felt it me civic duty to hasten some endangered patrons, including me new frind here from the imminent danger, (indicating F2), which it appears was indeed a chimera. Sure 'twas never me intention to do any harm!"
"Ee ensoolted Charles de Gaulle!" François says, indignant.
"Afzeiken!" responds the bartender quietly, but with authority. "Is that what that was over? He wasn't even talking about de Gaulle!"
"Shut up," says the officer.
Charlie: (Looking around for that god-blasted Frenchman... then turning a smile to the bartender)
"And I'm sure this gentleman meant no threat. Perhaps this... device... is a kind of fire-fighting tool? I'm sure I've seen them used, back in Belfast?"
"Ee was too," whines François.
"He was talking about GOD," responds the bartender. Looking at the officer, "The guy inside, officer, he's the one who yelled 'fire,' officer, I'm certain of it! Now he's gone and scared away all my customers!"
The officer responds in a bored voice. He points first to François, "Drunk and disorderly, $100.00. I'll drop the fighting in public in consideration of your age and...", he snickers slightly, "obvious provocation." Next he points to Charlie. "Fighting in public, $250.00, reduced to $200 because you are obviously a Burger. Don't let me catch you doing this sort of thing again, though, or I'll pin your ears back." He turns to the bartender. "Aggravated assault, and assault with intent to do great bodily harm - $500.00." He sweeps his gaze across all three. "Now, I can run you all down to the station house to pay your fines, or you can pay a 10% cash alternative now in order to save the State the paperwork or I can call in a Judge, but if you lose you'll regret it."
"But ee INSOOLTED Charles de Gaulle," François whines.
"Shut up François," says the bartender, casting a venomous look at Charlie. "All my money is inside," he says to the officer.
"That's fine," says the officer, walking over and picking up the bat. He hefts it and gives a couple of experimental swings. "Nice heft" he mutters, then to the group, "I need to go in to talk to this arsonist anyway."
"I 'aven't got any monee," says François.
"Shut UP, François," says the bartender, then to the police officer, "I'll put it on his tab."
(Oh dear - sorry François...)
Charlie follows the militia inside, hoping sincerely to stay more-or-less
out of trouble...
The crowd is turning sullen and a bit fearful. Mr. Absinth shrugs off François' attempt at camaraderie.
"Wot wuz dat you wuz sayin' about... about... you know... HIM then. You said EE wuz gonna sanctify th' booze. Oi ain't drinkin' no booze dats been sanctified by... HIM."
"You mean that you actually believe in Satan?", François sounds incredulous. He didn't know that anyone bothered much with fundamentalism in Europe these days. "Are you telling me that some people round here actually, openely, worship the devil?" François slips off his barstool, he has a far off, sort of calculating look in his eye. As if he just can't help it, a smile spreads slowly across his face, "Eh bien merde alors!1" he laughs, "Where do these funny people live, mon bon homme2?" he asks of his drinking pal.
This last is enough to clear the bar entirely, with the exception of Mr. Abysinth who is blocked from retreat by François himself, and so clings obstinately to his bar stool.
"Ow the' 'ell should oi know?" he responds, fearful and somewhat irritated, "Oi don't associate wif dat sort. Oim a law aboidin' citizen. Now push off!" He pointedly turns his back on François and hunches his shoulders, as if willing him to disappear.
Reaching over the bar, François grabs the bottle of Absynthe and pours a rather large measure for himslef and his friend. "Come on, you'll have to tell me now, you took my drink and you foreswore le Grand J3", François half turns as if to leave, keeping a sly eye on his aquaintance, "I have already got your soul and who knows what I could do with it."
"Oi ain't touchin' yer stinkin' drink, Lucy!" shouts the man, "an th' joke's on you - oi ain't no christian anyway! Oim a atheist! Oi ain't got no soul fer ya ta be twerpin' around wif in da firs' place! Now go chase yerself!"
Before François can respond an Al Amarjan Peace Force officer walks into the bar, carrying a baseball bat over one shoulder, followed by the bartender, the old man, and Charlie.
"Oid shut me gob f' oi were you," mumbles Mr. barstool.
"What's this I hear about you yelling 'fire' in here?" asks the officer.
The bartender walks around the bar and over to the cash register. Spying the bottle and the two glasses on the bar, he yells, "Hey! You been getting into my booze?" Mr. Barstool hooks a thumb in François direction. "Ee poured one fer me, but oi dinnt drink it." He taps the full glass in front of him.
"Tsk, tsk," the officer chimes in, "reckless endangerment AND petty theft. You're a very naughty Burger! Got anything to say for yourself naughty Burger?"
"Well I am very sorry, Officer. I was attacked by some old man and I panicked. Al Amarja is different from other places and I haven't found my feet yet", François manages to sound almost sincere. "As for the drink, I wanted to buy some drinks for my thirsty friends and as you can see I have put some money on the bar", François indicates the $50 that he is holding to the bar. Unfortunately, having found this explanation he starts to look a little smug.
Charlie: "Sure and 'tis the custom in France, I believe, if the barkeep goes to relieve himself, that the honest and law-abiding patrons do arrange what's known as a 'service libre,' or a barroom buffet..."
The officer looks from Charlie to François to Charlie to the bartender.
"You got a problem with that?" the officer asks.
The bartender holds out a hand for François money.
"Don't know yet," he replies.
"Please accept this sum with my compliments, for the drinks purchased and your excellent service", François hands all the money to the barkeep. He seems to be enjoying the moment and is finding it very hard not to grin.
The bartender shoves the money in the till and says "No problem, officer."
The officer nods, and turns back to Francois. "Now then, what's this about yelling 'Fire!'?"
Charlie: "And is it the custom here, as in Corfu, to offer a small gratuity to an officer of the law?"
The officer turns back to Charlie, "Attempted bribery of an Al Amarjan law enforcement officer is a felony offense, punishable by death by hanging." He turns back to Francois.
François ignores Charlie's helpful suggestion,"Well, I am very sorry Officer, I was under attack and I panicked. Is there anyway in which I can make amends?"
Charlie scratches his head in wonder. What was that about a 10% pro-rata...? Well, he's not about to pursue it!
"Creating a public nuisance, $500.00 fine, violation of the Al Amarjan fire code, $500.00 fine, but I'll drop the latter since you're a Burger. You can go down to the Arms Barrio to pay, or pay a 10% cash alternative now to save the state the paperwork."
"Certainly Officer", François draws two twenties and a ten from his breast pocket and pays. "I must say I admire your expedience and understanding. In New York I would probably be dead by now and in France, well in France la Gendarmerie would be attempting to work out my Arab eighths." François comes over all conspiratorial, leaning closer to the Officer he asks, "You wouldn't happen to know what a 'Lucy' was would you, Officer?"
The bar, already quiet, becomes silent as a tomb. The head of the bartender snaps around to stare intently at Francois, and the single remaining patron hunches his shoulders further and pointedly ignores him.
The officer, for his part, merely asks, "Why do you ask?"
There is a sudden clatter from behind the bar. The patron, using a cocktail napkin so as not to actually touch the glass, has pushed his drink off the bar.
François leans back against the bar adopting a Noel Coward pose, "Well, it is a term I have heard around town and as a... how do you say?... Burger? I wondered what it meant." François listens, slightly disinteresredly, for for an answer.
"Its nothing you should worry about, Scarab," says the officer. The bartender snickers. "Just keep your nose clean and your ass wiped, and don't mix into impolite company, and you'll do just fine." He turns to leave.
Mutter, to Francois: "Hmmm... Lucy... back in Belfast if they give a fellow a Lucy, he sorta loses interest in jogging, if you know what I mean. O'course thissear ain't Belfast." Charlie is studying that last rummy at the end of the bar. He look interesting? Worth buying a drink? Or have we completely poisoned the atmosphere yet?
"A Lucy, is that a Lutherian? That would make a scarab one of those sales scientologistes. I think perhaps it is otherwise. You say it has something to do with jogging. I say we ask around. I love a mystère4, don't you Charlie? The thrill of the chase, the disappointment of chasing the wild turkey, the excitement of the dénouement5! Almost worth selling your soul for!"
François calls the barman over, "Our money is still good in here, n'est-ce pas6? No hard feelings? Well get yourself a drink with this, and while you at it, give us a couple of whiskeys." François waves a $20 at him, "You wouldn't happen to know what the brave officer was talking about would you?"
(Bloody hell) "Orright... I'm game!"
François stretches out his arms, as if to encompass the whole bar, "Les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus7," he exclaims to no one in particular. Turning to his friend he yawns and says, "Well it's nothing that won't wait for the morning. Let's have one for the road, see if the barman can set us on the right track and retire for the night."
Charlie slaps a tenner on the bar and calls for some Irish.
The officer, seeing that law and order has been restored to this small corner of Al Amarja, departs. The bartender pours. "Just don't become regulars," he says. "Your friend there is trouble."
Once the officer departs so does the guy on the barstool, leaving the bar completely empty save for Charlie and a strangely quiet François.
Finding the conversation rather quiet, Charlie will drink and then take his companion back to the hotel, having a lookabout for other familiar faces.
François isn't moving at all. He isn't unconscious or slumped. He appears more as a statue. He certainly isn't breathing. François is as unmoving as a statue, and certainly not breathing.
The bartender is staring at him with horrified fascination. He's been like this for over a minute now.
Charlie gives François a gentle poke in the gut, and the Frenchman bounces away, with all the bouyancy of a balloon. He drifts for a moment before settling on his back on the floor of the bar.
"Eep," says the barman.
Charlie crosses himself and backs away, horrified. This IS the gent I was just chatting with? The one who insulted Charles de Gaulle?
Charlie considers his options. Here we are, in a strange land. Can't do the research we came for. Only people we know have scattered across the island. This fellow has turned 'imself into a Macy's balloon. Bar is empty - even the police informant has left. I suppose it's time to toddle along.
Charlie will head back to the hotel to 'ave a look for familiar faces, or anything lively along the way. Keeping an eye out for a spare cannister of helium for François...
Charlie turns to leave the bar and pulls up short. Where the bartender once stood there is only an empty white space outlining the bartender's shape.
To Be Continued...