Who: Geralt & Dan Smith What: A detective walks into a bar, and a wanted perp follows right after When: Before the Diablo Plot Where: The Double Tap Rating/Warnings: High for violence, language, references to a sex offender Status: Complete!
Considering its location just outside the infamous Slater Slums, it comes as no surprise that the bar known as the Double Tap was a dive. It wasnât trendy, it wasnât hip. It wasnât fancy. The floor was the original wood, as was the exposed beams in the ceiling. Graffiti, some of which dated back to the sixties was carved into the supports. The air had a lingering smell of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. The windows had the appearance of age-old grime coating them preventing people from seeing in or out. The floor groaned when it was walked across. These were the things that Dan Smith had opted not to fix when he took over the place. Heâd replaced everything else: the cushions in the booths so they wouldnât pinch the asses of those who sat on them; the tables and chairs so they wouldnât collapse under even the slightest bit of weight; the old jukebox that refused to play anything except âMy Sharonaâ; the plumbing that hissed and banged every time a toilet was flushed; the hissing spitting taps that lined the bar and, of course, the long mirror that took up a great deal of space behind the bar itself.
Danâs improvements did nothing, though, to change the overall look and feel of the place, which was what Dan had fallen in love with when heâd arrived in Orange County to collect the bar as payment for a job a year and a half ago. Originally it had been his intent to sell the place, pocket the cash and be on his way again. On to the next job. But there was just something about the place that had made him stay. Dan had once believed it was the bar itself, now he wasnât so sure. He should have left months ago. Hell, he should have left after getting shot by a hitman sent to settle an old score. But no, he remained. Hell if he could explain why.
The air inside the Double Tap was thick and smelled of smoke and alcohol. Dan himself was tending bar tonight, clad in his usual dark dress pants and white dress shirt. A tie hung around his neck, loosely done and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.
Geralt needed a drink. Something stiff, something nasty, from a place where heâd be mostly left the fuck alone but he also knew he couldnât go overboard - technically, he was âoff the clockâ but the detective career was constant if something caught his eye pertaining an old case, new case, current case. Itâd been a long night, the department rowdy with suspects in a cell. He had chased someone through an alley, tumbled in piles of rotten garbage and later on was the victim of gravity when he fell from a broken and rusty fire escape.
His clothes were smeared in dirt, wreaked of days-old takeout and was crinkled, a little ripped, and had seen better days. Much better days. But the amount of shits he gave were none, and he was aggravated, and the surly giant in all his salt-peppered glory (yeah, he prematurely grayed, blame the job, that was also something he gave no shits about) approached the bar, sat, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
âRum. Double. Straight. Thanks.â
Now this was interesting. Customers in the Double Tap consisted primarily of regulars: career bar flies, blue collar workers and grizzled vets. Everyone knew everyone else. It was like fucking Cheers in here, minus all the comedy. And Woody Harrelson.
So new comers were always noticed, no matter how innocuous they may appear and this guy? Rumpled clothes and stinking of yesterdayâs garbage? Yeah, even among societyâs less than trendy folk, he turned a few heads. The usual murmur that permeated the bar lowered and virtually died as the guy made his way straight to the bar.
Dan watched him come up, a mental brow arched. Now if someone ever looked as though they needed a drink. Had to give the guy his props, though. Even with all eyes on him, the guy either didnât notice or didnât care. Given the expression on his face, Dan sided on the latter.
âDonnea âave top shelf,â Dan warned him in his low voice and thick Detroit mixed Irish lilt. He gave the customary warning to all new patrons, but he sincerely doubted this newest one would care. He did reach for one of the better bottles of rum he stocked. Had to give the guy some kind of break. Looked like he needed it.
The bar was practically silent and watching until the drink was poured and handed over to the guy in wrinkled ripped clothing. Once the other had his hands on his glass and had taken his drink, all interest in him seemed to vanish and it was business as usual inside the Double Tap.
âYe wanâ me tâ start a tab fer ya?â Dan asked as though everything was normal.
It was ingrained in him to know when someone (or someones) had eyes on him, to notice when his presence made a difference in the atmosphere - vaguely, he wondered if heâd arrested any them and they recognized this scruffed mug, or his badge must have been dangling from his asshole (it wasnât; hidden in his blazer like usual).
But no one had tapped his shoulder, no one bothered to instigate a round of shit, and the only words Geralt heard was in regards to novelty bottles. His grunt let the drink slinger know that, again, he didnât care.
Eventually, however, he gave his first audible answer, and that was âfine.â And his was a voice that sounded as rugged as he looked, like he once gargled glass and was never the same afterwards. âMust be the outsider here tonight. Friendly crowd youâve got.â
âDonnea mind them,â Dan said with a dismissive wave of his hand. âNone oâem seem tâ âave the sense or manners they were born with. Ainât that right, Aggie?â He looked pointedly at the end of the bar where a woman easily old enough to be his mother (or more likely grandmother) was seated with a pronounced slouch and a cigarette clutched between gnarled fingers. She was making no attempts to hide the fact that she at least was still staring. Her watery pale eyes darted from the grizzled man to Dan, and not one to be admonished, sat up straighter on the stool (or as straight as her back would allow her after years of poor posture) and gave a crooked smile, showing off yellowed stained teeth. âHeâs an interesting one, Danny,â she cackled. Then her attention was diverted elsewhere.
âYe did kinda stroll inâere lookinâ like Hell on Earth,â Danâs attention was back on the customer in front of him. âEven drunks are gonna take notice oâ that.â
Now doubt he probably smelled like Hell on Earth, too. A hand brushed through that disheveled mop called hair, and his finger caught onto a fucking noodle that he irritably flung into the ground. âA bar with observant drunks, what a concept,â Geralt responded brusquely, little attention even paid to the womanâs âcomplimentâ (heâd been called worse things, anyway), and then he went to finally quench that thirst.
Double-rum went down, and the burn did little to jolt and warm him. âAnother if you please -â Despite appearances the man had manners, most of the time. âAnd a question or two, if you donât mind.â
Geralt reached into his blazer and there it was, the flash of gold and black. A badge, but that wasnât what he took out - from his inner pocket he retrieved a mugshot of a man. Tattooed neck, smug, like he knew he was about to get away with something. âHavenât seen this guy around, have you?â
Unbeknownst to the man with disheveled clothing and old food in his hair, the term âinterestingâ was an actual compliment from olâ Agnes -- or Aggie, as only a select handful of few could get away calling her. Had the man come in not looking as though heâd been swimming in a dumpster, she probably would have invited herself right over to chat him up all friendly-like. A new best friend, whether he wanted one or not. Might even pinch a cheek or pat the rear as Dan himself was sometimes subject to should he decide to make the mistake of coming around from behind the bar while Aggie was at her post. She was harmless, though. Olâ Agnes. Didnât really mean anything by it.
Her attention was elsewhere now, chatting with one of the other regulars and acting like everyoneâs grandmother (if Granny had a three-pack-a-day habit and a mouth that would make sailors blush) so, the barâs newest customer was free to drink his rum without intrusion.
Dan eyed the noodle the man pulled out of his unruly hair, his eyes following it as was flicked away onto the floor. He didnât look disgusted by it, but he wasnât exactly pleased that his floor was being treated like a rubbish bin. Despite how the bar may have looked to someone on the outside looking in, Dan ran a clean ship here. The last thing he needed was the Health Department all over his shit.
He fulfilled the request for a second drink and opened up a tab for the guy since it looked as though he would be needing one. As he placed the glass on the bartop he noticed the flash of a badge under the manâs coat. Ahhh, well, that certainly explained a few things. Not everything, but Dan had a better view of the larger picture now. On the one hand, having a cop in his bar instantly put him on edge, but on the other, he had enormous sympathy for what the poor S.O.B. must have gone through tonight in the name of Law and Order. His own Brothers in Blue had frozen him out in Detroit, but Dan still harbored a little loyalty to the badge.
âI gotta bathroom upstairs witha shower ifân ye wanna get cleaned up a littleâŠâ Dan trailed as the cop pulled out a picture from inside his coat. His eyes settled on the photo, the babyface trying to look tough with ink all over his throat. Dan knew that shit-eating smirk too. Heâd seen it in person and always it was all he could do to not reach across the bar and smack it off the kidâs face. Dan snorted. âAye, Iâve seenâim,â he said. âHeâs inâere a couplea times a week. Allus stirs up shit. Last week âe tried hittinâ on some ladies in the back booth over there,â he nodded his head towards a booth along the far wall. âThey werenâ interested, but âe wouldnâ leaveâem alone. I âad tâ toss the asshole out when he started gettinâ grabby.â He raised his eyes up towards the detective, his voice turning a bit darker and a frown pulling tight at the corners of his mouth. âWhatâs âe done?â
Lucky Dan, the detective here had very little interest in things out of his jurisdiction - he knew how the world worked, he wasnât about to bring down the hammer of justice on every single existing scum out there. His cases were particularly heinous; they were grotesque in a vastly different way, and twisted the proverbial knife in the gut painfully. Whatever happened in this bar could stay in this bar.
Unless it had something to do with whatever the fuck he was investigating.
âRegistered sex offender,â Geralt explained, swirling the glass in his hand. âViolated parole. Victimâs a friend.â That tended to happen against his better judgment sometimes - becoming close to the people he helped, developing a sense of protectiveness, and he wanted to do right by them. To make sure they got closure and could almost feel safe again walking the streets, to make sure they slept as soundly as they could at night even if their trauma never completely went away. It was hard for things to not get personal. âAnd heâs a fucking moron if heâs making unwanted advances with eyewitnesses. Iâm glad to see heâs unwanted company around here.â
There was human trash, and then there were literal shitstains on this Earth and the guy he was trailing? One of them. And as he spoke words about the devil in question, behind him he could hear the doors open and the shuffling of footsteps. A man all too smug with an inked neck covered in a sheen of sweat, and conveniently out of breath.
Almost like heâd been running from someone.
Geralt didnât turn around.
The bar had grown quiet again. Not nearly as silent as it had when Geralt had entered, but there was a new level of tension in the air that you could practically reach out and touch. It was as if the entire bar had collectively taken a breath and was holding it. It would appear as though the copâs target wasnât particularly well liked by anyone in the room.
âSpeak oâ the devil,â Dan murmured, just loud enough for the man in front of him to overhear.
Conversations were still happening, but distractedly. Eyes were subtly moving from the young man at the bar towards where Dan stood. Most everyone here now had been there when Dan had tossed the little shit out on his ass last week. Everyone had heard Dan threaten the kid with what would happen if he came back and all of them, understood very well what happened when you crossed the bar owner on his own turf.
Danâs eyes narrowed dangerously, and he did nothing to give away the fact that a cop was literally sitting in front of him. âYe want this shitter, aye?â Dan asked softly. âIâll be âappy tâ gift wrapâim for ye.â
âOi!â He shouted angrily and with enough force to make those seated in his immediate area to jump. âWhaddya think yer doin?! Yer not welcome âere!â
The kid snorted. âYou donât scare me, you mick,â he said. He swaggered towards the bar. It was obvious by how he was walking that his escape from the law had filled him with some kind of unwarranted confidence.
The reactions said it all. Really, Geralt didnât need to turn around - the floating whispers, the change in Danâs face, the sound of voice heâd been chasing for the night. But he was levelheaded about it all, cool and stoic like still waters.
A contrast from the bartender, rightfully upset that his establishment was now being dirtied by the aforementioned shitstain.
It was time to finish the drink. Time to close out for the night, too, as he pulled his wallet and slipped out cash to pay for his poison with something extra. Or, well, a lot of extra. He couldnât guarantee he wouldnât break something. âDonât steal all the fun from me,â he deadpanned, itching for a little bit of a show - heâd been trailing the fucker all night and here he strolls in like heâs hot shit owning the place. He wanted this done.
Then he swiveled around to show his rugged mug, the smile he wore absolutely nasty. Hidden by his crinkled blazer on a belt was a holstered gun, but he didnât think it was necessary to use yet.
Instead? A bar stool was hoisted up, and he went swung it at the perp like he was knocking to aim his smug head off his smug shoulders.
The moment Dan shouted at the door, all conversation ceased immediately, and the bar once again had taken in a collective breath and held it. All eyes were so fixated on the young kid who was sauntering through the room like he was the King of Slater Slums, no one seemed to notice Geralt get off his stool.
Dan did and he was moving too. His hand closed around something beneath the bar. He had two weapons under there: a gun and a billy club. The club was what he drew out and held loosely at his side. It was his go to for situations like this. The gun was used for much more dire situations.
âFind a shady spot, Aggie,â he said lowly to the old woman as he past her on his way around to the front of the bar. She glanced at him and instantly knew what was about to happen. She scooted off her stool and nudged one of the women sheâd been chatting with and took the other one by the arm. She then guided them both around to the other side of the bar where she pulled them down and out of sight.
While Aggie and her little fledglings took cover, Dan stepped towards the middle of the room. All eyes were on him. Good. Thatâs where he wanted them, especially the beady little eyes of the deviant who had come in and effectively ruined everyoneâs night. Keep watching me, you little fucker. Thatâs right. Ooooh, boy are you in for a surprise.
Dan had been just itching for a fight for days now, ever since his Dreams had revealed to him that he was dead. Murdered and betrayed by the people heâd trusted and no nothing more than a pawn being used to someone elseâs ends. It was an affront to his ego.
He tapped the billy club against his leg, drawing the kidâs eyes downward. The kid may talk a big game and walk with a swagger, but it was all for show and all unearned. Dan knew a coward when he saw one. The little prick had barely put up a fight when Dan had thrown him out last week. All swings with no power. Feeble. Pathetic. Dan wasnât going to get any satisfaction out of fucking up the kidâs face.
But his new cop buddy over there. That was a different story.
The kidâs eyes darted up from the billy club to Danâs face, a sneer pulled across his features. âWhatcha gonna do? Eh? Fucking Irish cunt.â
âNuthinâ,â Dan responded cooly. âBut him on the other âandâŠâ he pointed with the club over the kidâs shoulder.
The kid whirled around and got a good look at Geralt, that sick twisted grin on grizzled features, and his eyes practically bugged out of his head. Jaw dropped wide open, the kid barely had time to register and pull back when the stool swung at his head.
Yes, him on the other hand. Geralt wasnât above brutality when necessary - and this situation, it definitely called for it. Oh, he tried to be civil and make it quick and painless for the fucker but he just had to run, didnât he? He just had to have the detective trail him around the city and he just had to have the nerve to keep up with his antics, like his actions wouldnât yield any formal consequence.
Wrong.
So fucking wrong.
He made a note to formally thank the bartender for his contribution - it seemed like the man had a kind of experience that wasnât merely confined to mixing drinks and calling cabs for drunkards who couldnât tell their asshole from the ground - when the stool made contact with the side of his head. Enough for him to blackout a little. Death was a kind end to asshats like this.
Let them rot behind bars. Slowly.
And just like that, the body went thump to the ground. âTry running from that, shithead,â snarled Geralt, a rumble so deep in his throat that it could have been the equivalent to thunder rolling over a storm. There was a very subtle squirm the perpetrator gave off, but the man was quick to stand over him, pulled out the cuffs and slap it on - his identity as an officer of law fully revealed to the fine patrons of this bar.
âDetective Geralt Wiedzmin, Special Victims Unit.â It was his formal introduction. Might as well exchange pleasantries as he tightened the cuffs on the latest convict, and let him know that he wasnât interested in busting anything else but what was relevant to his career. âThanks for the help.â
âYer welcome,â Dan responded. He watched Detective Geralt Wiedzmin cuff his prisoner. He didnât think Geralt was going to be swinging any more bar stools or flipping any tables now that he had his man. Danâs eyes did move to the bar stool that now lay on the floor with a busted leg and its seat more or less torn off. He was going to have to replace that. All for a good cause though, and it didnât appear as though this little stain was going to be harassing anymore women. SoâŠoh well.
Danâs attention moved from the stool to his other customers. A few of them had gotten out of their seats in anticipation of a larger brawl, some had even made for the door â Dan noticed a number of half-finished glasses abandoned on tables â but most were staring as if they couldnât believe what had just happened and werenât sure what was going to happen next.
Most of Danâs customers were decent people. Hard working men and women just looking for a place to unwind for a few hours between work and home; drown their woes; relieve their stress; catch up with friends. With the exception of the vets, they werenât used to seeing someone get beat down and arrested and even the vets werenât to seeing that kind of thing here, dive or not.
âShows over, folks,â Dan announced, raising his arms and drawing attention away from the detective and his perp and back to him. Back to normal. âNext round oâ beers is on tha âouse.â
Giving away free beer was going to cost Dan more than $300, easy in profits for the night. The point, though, was to keep his patrons coming back. $300 now is better than the thousands of dollars he could potentially lose later. Plus, given how much his last job paid him, he could take the smaller financial hit right now.
And it seemed to work. Slowly, everyone went back to their own business and the buzz of the bar slowly increased until it was almost to the level it had been when Geralt had entered. All was not forgotten though. People were still casting weary uncertain looks around.
That out of the way, Dan turned his attention back to Geralt and his prisoner. He reached down and helped the detective haul the groggy cuffed kid to his feet. âNameâs Dan Smith,â he said to Geralt now that introductions seemed appropriate. âI own this place. Next time yer in, yer first drinks free. Just so long as ye keep this little shit offa the streets, aye?â
Geralt hadnât meant to disrupt the regular flow but, ah - shit happened, didnât it? At least Dan seemed to understand. There was a quick relay of rights when the perp stirred back into the realm of dreary consciousness, and he did his best not pay a second thought to all those eyes on him. Cops around these parts really werenât that popular, but for the most part?
He came in peace.
âThanks,â he rumbled, surprised at the offer - and the shithead in custody was about to spat out a rant before the detective silenced him with a tug and extra tightening of the cuffs, steel digging into his wrists painfully. âIâll be sure to remember that, and come here when Iâm off the job. To avoid more instances like this.â Pleasure instead of business, that sort of thing.
But he figured heâd go and take out the trash - literally and figuratively. Nothing to see here, people. âLet me get the hell out of your hair tonight. Donât want to spoil your revenue for the night.â
âQuitcher bitchinâ,â Dan warned the perp when the kid looked as though he was going to start protesting his arrest. âYe got off easy tânight. Easier than ye deserve.â Dan couldnât say the same for the long prison sentence that now lay ahead of the sonofabitch.
Eyes moved up to the detective. He grinned slightly. âLittle late tâ worry âbout the nightâs profits,â he said. âDonnea fret too much over it. Considerinâ the circumstances, Iâd rather have this P.O.S. put away.â His grin broadened. âNext time yer in, though, try tâ avoid anymore property damage, aye?â