The afternoon passed without much happening at The Departed.
John spent most of his time behind the counter, serving drinks and listening to the regulars complain about everything from rising rent to the latest mess caused by superheroes. Apparently, a fight between Iron Man and one of Hammer's drones had damaged several buildings downtown, and the city was still arguing about who should pay for the repairs.
John didn't have much to contribute to the conversation. He had enough problems of his own without worrying about the financial consequences of a man flying around in a metal suit.
Besides, he was beginning to appreciate the simplicity of his new life.
Wake up early, take Duke for a run, eat breakfast, work at the bar, and sleep when the day was over. There were no contracts to worry about, no assassins waiting for an opportunity to put a bullet in his head, and no one demanding that he return to a world he had spent years trying to leave behind.
It wasn't a perfect life, but it was peaceful and for now, that was enough for him
"John, table four needs another round."
Frank's voice pulled him away from his thoughts.
John picked up a tray of beers and carried them toward a group of three men sitting near the television. They were regular customers, though he hadn't learned all their names yet. One was a construction worker who complained about his back every time he came in, another worked somewhere in the financial district, and the third seemed to spend most of his afternoons drinking beer and arguing with strangers about politics.
"Here you go."
"Thanks, kid." The construction worker took his bottle and looked John over. "You feeling better? You looked like you got hit by a truck when Frank brought you in."
"Something like that."
"Well, whatever happened, you should be grateful you're still walking around. People don't usually recover from injuries like yours in a hurry."
John placed the remaining bottles on the table.
"Guess I got lucky."
The man laughed and returned his attention to the television.
John wasn't particularly interested in explaining how he had ended up in an alley with several broken ribs and enough blood on his clothes to make the situation look like a murder scene. Frank hadn't asked too many questions after their first conversation, and John intended to keep it that way.
He returned behind the counter and began arranging the clean glasses.
"You're getting better at this," Frank said.
"At washing glasses?"
"At working without looking like you'd rather be somewhere else."
John glanced at him. "Would you prefer I looked miserable?"
"No, but you could at least pretend to enjoy yourself. Customers like a friendly face."
"Then you should hire someone friendly."
Frank snorted.
"Smartass."
John allowed himself a faint smile before returning to his work.
The older man had been surprisingly easy to live with. He complained about almost everything, drank too much coffee, and had a habit of talking to the television whenever the news annoyed him. However, he paid John fairly, provided him with food, and hadn't tried to pry into his past beyond what was necessary.
Considering the circumstances, John couldn't complain.
He had met people who were far less generous with far more money.
Around five in the afternoon, the bar started getting busier. A few office workers came in for drinks after finishing their shifts, followed by a group of construction workers who had apparently decided that The Departed was the best place to spend their evening.
John moved between the tables, taking orders and collecting empty glasses. His ribs still hurt occasionally, particularly when he bent too quickly, but the pain had become manageable.
He was beginning to feel like himself again.
Then the front door opened, and three men walked inside.
At first, John barely paid attention to them. They were dressed in dark jackets and jeans, and none of them looked particularly unusual. However, unlike the other customers, they didn't look at the television, check the menu, or head toward an empty table.
Instead, they looked directly at Frank.
The older man noticed them almost immediately.
His expression didn't change much, but John caught the brief pause in his movements as he arranged the bottles behind the counter.
That was enough to make John pay attention.
He continued collecting glasses while keeping the three men within his peripheral vision.
The tallest of them walked toward the counter. He had a shaved head, a thick neck, and a tattoo disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. The other two followed a few steps behind him, stopping near the entrance.
"Evening, Frank."
Frank put down the bottle in his hand.
"Vincent."
"You remember me. That's good."
"Hard to forget someone who keeps showing up when I don't want company."
Vincent smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
"Come on, Frank. Don't make this difficult. We're just here to talk."
"Then talk."
Vincent glanced around the bar before leaning his elbows against the counter.
"You know why we're here."
"I have a few guesses."
"Then I'll save us both some time. Mr. Russo wants the money you owe him."
Frank's jaw tightened slightly.
John was standing several feet away, wiping down a table. He didn't turn around, but he could hear every word.
"Tell Russo I'll have it next week," Frank replied.
"You said that last week."
"And I'm saying it again."
Vincent sighed as though Frank were being unreasonable.
"Look, I understand you're having a difficult time. Business isn't what it used to be, and you've got bills to pay. Nobody's blaming you for that. But Mr. Russo has been patient enough."
"Then he can be patient for another week."
The smile disappeared from Vincent's face.
"You don't seem to understand. This isn't a negotiation."
Frank leaned forward slightly.
"And you don't seem to understand that this is my bar. If you want to have a conversation with me, you can do it without bringing your little friends inside to intimidate my customers."
Several people had started paying attention to the exchange. The man sitting at table four lowered his beer, while a woman near the window quietly pulled out her phone.
Vincent noticed them looking.
He straightened and glanced toward the entrance.
"Let's take this somewhere private."
"No."
"Frank."
"I said no."
For a moment, neither man spoke.
John put the cloth down.
He didn't know who Mr. Russo was, and he had no intention of involving himself in Frank's financial problems. The man had given him a place to stay when he had nowhere else to go, but that didn't mean John needed to turn every disagreement in the bar into his personal responsibility.
Still, he didn't like the way Vincent was looking at Frank.
He had seen that expression many times before. It was the look of a man who had grown accustomed to getting his way and had reached the point where he no longer understood the meaning of refusal.
Vincent tapped the counter twice.
"You're making a mistake."
"Then I'll have to live with it."
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
One of his men moved away from the entrance and approached a customer sitting near the wall.
"Hey, buddy. Time to leave."
The customer looked up from his beer.
"What?"
"You heard me. We're having a private conversation."
"I'm drinking here."
"Not anymore."
The man looked toward Frank, apparently expecting the bartender to intervene.
Frank immediately stepped out from behind the counter.
"Leave him alone. He's done nothing to you."
Vincent shook his head.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about. You make everything difficult for yourself."
His companion grabbed the customer's shoulder and attempted to pull him out of his chair.
The customer shoved his hand away.
"Get off me!"