At night, Owen arrived at Knight's Bar, which turned out to be located near New York's famous Central Park.
After his phone call with McClane at noon, Owen had checked into a hotel and taken a nap. He hadn't felt tired until he lay down, but once he did, he nearly didn't wake up.
He slept for a solid six hours and was only roused by his alarm. Thankfully, he'd remembered to set it before lying down.
"Over here, buddy—"
As soon as Owen entered the bar, he saw McClane waving at him. Clearly, he'd been there for a while.
Owen walked over.
"You're late, Owen. Bartender, a vodka for him—"
"New York traffic's insane. Wait, make that a whiskey instead. Vodka, I…"
Owen tried to explain and motioned for the bartender to hold off, but McClane cut him off.
"No, no, buddy—just trust me, get the vodka. This place has the best vodka in town. You come here, you drink vodka. Trust me on this one."
Owen shrugged and gave in. He wasn't a huge fan of hard liquor like vodka, but since McClane insisted, he figured he might as well give it a shot. Normally, he preferred tequila for its flavor, and whiskey occasionally.
The bartender quickly brought over his drink. Owen took a sip—the flavor was definitely unique. Other than the pure scent of alcohol, it had almost no other aroma. The taste was fierce, the burn sharp and piercing—it felt like swallowing fire.
To be honest, it was tough to swallow. But after drinking it, there was something oddly satisfying about it.
"Well? Didn't lie to you, did I?"
McClane grinned, clearly enjoying Owen's reaction. He took a sip himself, looking completely content.
"How've you been lately?"
Owen set down his glass. This stuff was too strong—it was best to take it slow. He didn't want to end up passed out on the street his first night in New York.
"Don't get me started. Just watch the news and you'll see."
Owen then noticed the TV in the bar was playing the news. McClane motioned for the bartender to turn up the volume. The broadcast talked endlessly about bad bank loans, defaults, more Wall Street companies going bankrupt, people losing their savings…
Owen shook his head. It had been the same back in Los Angeles before he left—rampant overspending, bad debt leading to a financial crisis, and economic despair sweeping across the country. Thankfully, his family didn't have much debt, and Owen's own salary was very generous, so the impact on them was minimal.
But Owen knew plenty of people who were hit hard. Their assets shrank, and some couldn't even make loan payments anymore.
The screen then showed people protesting, causing disturbances, with police everywhere trying to maintain order and looking overwhelmed.
"See that? There are protests all over New York. A lot of those cops? They've suffered big losses in this financial mess too. They'd rather be in the protest lines than standing there opposing them."
"Can't be helped. The government refuses to step in. The guys on Wall Street are just trying to cover their own losses. All that money ordinary people entrusted to them is being funneled into their own financial holes…"
Owen wasn't exactly an economics expert, but what McClane said rang true. Many investment funds had suffered huge losses—but funds were opaque, and most of the money lost had belonged to everyday people.
"Alright, enough of that. You mentioned the movie premiere bombing the other day. Tell me more about it."
The two had touched on the subject during their reunion last night, but only briefly. Clearly, McClane was a lot more interested.
Owen nodded. Some of the details about the L.A. premiere bombing had already been made public through the media. Of course, things like the White Mask hadn't been mentioned—mainly to avoid causing trouble, not because it was classified.
Owen gave McClane a rough summary of how the investigation had unfolded. As a seasoned detective and sergeant, McClane naturally picked up on how dangerous it had been.
"Buddy, maybe I should think about joining CTU. Cop work's gotten way too boring. Most of my time's spent dealing with petty crap, and when there's a major case, I have to fight the FBI and DEA just to stay involved…"
"You'd give up being a cop?"
Owen asked, knowing full well how much McClane loved being one. Honestly, that had been a major reason behind his divorce. Years of long-distance strained their relationship to the breaking point.
Back then, Holly had suggested a compromise—he could transfer to the LAPD so he could stay a cop while the family stayed together. With Holly's company connections, that would've been easy to arrange. But McClane refused. No matter what, he didn't want to leave New York.
Sure enough, McClane gave a self-deprecating shake of his head.
Owen still had no idea what went through the guy's mind—he never explained it.
The two clinked glasses. McClane drank faster and faster. His alcohol tolerance was impressive. Owen just paced himself, but even then, after several rounds, McClane still looked fresh as ever while Owen was starting to feel tipsy.
Vodka was no joke.
Ring ring ring~~~
They had just downed another round when the bartender refilled their glasses and McClane's phone rang.
He answered and exchanged a few words, his expression turning annoyed, though eventually he said, "Got it. I'm on my way."
That's the life of a cop.
Seeing McClane's apologetic look, Owen waved it off. "If you've got something urgent, go ahead. I used to be a cop too—I totally get it."
McClane sighed, apologetic. "Sorry, man. Really. Emergency call. Those damn protestors—something went wrong during the march. NYPD doesn't have enough manpower, so even all the plainclothes have to help out."
"Alright, alright. Go. Don't worry about me. You think I can't find my way home?"
Owen waved him off.
"Okay, buddy. I'm out then…"
McClane grabbed his coat and headed to the door. Before leaving, he knocked on the bar and told the bartender, "Put everything my friend drinks on my tab."
Owen didn't protest McClane's generosity. Watching him leave, Owen tipped back the rest of his drink.
Bored, he turned back to the TV—and sure enough, the news was covering the protest that had gone wrong, reporting clashes between marchers and police.
The bartender came over to refill his drink, but Owen waved him off. This vodka really packed a punch. He hadn't had much, but his head was already spinning.
He stepped out of the bar alone. The cool night air helped clear his mind a bit. He wasn't exactly drunk—just a little buzzed from trying vodka for the first time. His mind was still clear.
Owen decided not to call a cab. Instead, he walked along the road to sober up and take in the nighttime atmosphere of New York.
------------------
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