Should Have Killed The Kid by R. Frederick Hamilton Read Free Book Online Page B

nixed that idea. He shook his head.
     Why the hell would anyone put this much effort into the interior of such a dump?
    'Hello?' Dave called again as he wiped his feet as best as he could before stepping off the plastic and heading toward the large, dark wood bar that ran the length of the far wall, backed by a mirror and wooden shelves that seemed to scream for lined up bottles.
    The floor creaked slightly beneath his feet. Dave couldn't stop looking around. Every glance revealed new glories. Dave didn't have words for most of them. He jammed on the loop of opulence and the phrase "old-world craftsmanship". The only things breaking up the sheer perfection of the room were the boards covering the windows and the plastic drop-sheet that covered the door on the left hand side of the room, obscuring whatever lay deeper into the Hotel.
    He kept moving slowly, still half-expecting someone to leap out and demand, 'What the fuck are you doing?'
    A large pot belly stove burned away to the right of the bar, a neat stack of logs next to it. Initially that's what Dave headed for. But as he neared his eyes drifted to the gleaming metal taps that lined the bar instead. Go down a treat, he thought, as he picked out the badges topping them. Heineken, Goat's Head, Asahi. Beez Neez, Beck's and, of course, the obligatory Carlton. As he neared, Dave's appreciation grew at the selection. He could taste the first one going down and turned in a quick circle once he reached the bar, no longer quite so concerned about encountering someone. After the long drive, it'd be perfect, Dave thought, bang down one or two. Go have a shower and change out of these wet clothes, then settle in. He had a spare couple of hundred burning a hole in his wallet – originally allocated to a night of fine wining and dining for Naomi – and he was looking forward to not having her there watching him like a hawk. Always ready with a deflating, 'Are you sure you need that one?' or, 'Don't you think you've had enough?'
    Not tonight, though. Tonight he was going to get smashed and he would not have to justify a single solitary pint.
    'What the fuck would you know?' the words from over his shoulder snapped him out of his reverie.
    Startled, he quickly took a step back from the bar so whoever it was wouldn't think he was up to any funny business and turned. He quickly saw that the words weren't directed at him though.
    Over by the covered door, a balding, white haired man stood, holding the sheets open at a previously invisible seam while he shouted back into the other room. His thick accent confused Dave for a second; abruptly turning indecipherable until it dawned on him that the man had dropped into another language. He thought it sounded Italian and the expansive gestures the man was making with his free hand certainly conjured up the stereotype. Dave could faintly hear a much calmer mumbled reply but could not make out the words. Obviously it wasn't to the man's liking. He threw his hands in the air and barked, 'bah!' then let the curtain fall and spun around, eyes blazing, jaw clenched and working, the muscles rippling up down his stubble coated cheeks.
    He looked like he was about to stalk out the front door until he saw Dave and abruptly stopped dead in his tracks.
    'Ah.' The man blinked a few times, making his bushy white eyebrows dance then added, 'How's it going?' after a suitably awkward pause, during which the old guy peered back over his shoulder at the drop-sheet as though he was making sure there were no witnesses to the scene. 'What can I do you for?'
    'I'm David Thomas.' Dave inwardly winced at how awkward the words came out. They sounded almost petulant to his ears, which didn't match the easy going tone he'd been going for at all.
    Not that his words seemed to have any effect on the old geezer anyway. He was still staring at Dave like a stunned mullet and Dave could almost see the gears working away as the man tried to place the name.
    'Are you...' Dave