Steam pours through the open entrance arch of a bustling train station. The thick miasma concealing anyone who wishes from the notice of prying eyes.
Morgan steps onto the platform, and scans the faces of passengers boarding the midnight train. Craning his neck above the crowd, he makes eye contact with Josh who is leaning against a wall watching the exit. Josh touches the brim of his hat in return, and he goes back to pretending to read his paper.
A short man with a brushy moustache puts on his shabby bowler as he hurries out of the station to catch a cab.
"Not him," Josh thinks.
A well dressed business man barrels through a family, knocking a small girl sprawling over her rolling suitcase, and steps directly into the cab hailed by the moustached man.
"Not him."
A blue haired old lady grasps the handrail with both hands, and shakily steps onto the train.
Morgan leers, trying to see her face more clearly. "Just an old bat; not him."
The whistle blows, and the last passenger runs to board. Morgan grabs him by the arm and spins him around to see his face.
"Not him."
"You dropped your ticket" Morgan says, and hands him the ticket he had just lifted from the man.
"Thank you, sir" he says, and rushes through the closing train doors.
The few remaining stragglers shuffle off to their respective destinations. Josh neatly folds his paper, and walks to the canteen as the smoke and steam (no longer being stirred by determined feet) begin to fall back to rest on the station floor.
"Barkeep. Scotch." Josh sighs as he hoists his carcase onto a barstool.
"Rocks?" the barkeep asks, and Josh glares back disappointedly.
"Will I need them?"
The barkeep chips a large, basically clear, chunk of ice off a large block, and puts it in the glass. He pours a malnourished finger of whisky into the glass, and slides it across the counter.
"Thanks... Rich." Josh says, looking at his name tag.
After taking a piss, Morgan joins Josh at the bar swirling his glass in attempt to water it down further. Morgan raises a finger at the barman and says "whatever's cheap."
"I can't believe we missed him, Josh." Morgan says, checking his fly, "He's one slippery... uh-"
"Fish?"
"What? Uh, yeah."
"How do we miss a bastard in a red trenchcoat?"
"I don't know, but I do know he didn't get on a train. He must have got through your way."
"Sure he did, Morgan. He sure couldn't have snuck past under your perceptive gaze."
Rich brings a clean but scratched and worn glass full of what smells like cleaner, and he sets it in front of Morgan. Morgan takes a large swig, and exhales in a growl to recover from the taste.
"Looking for a Filipino in a red trenchcoat, huh?" Rich asks, wiping down the bar.
Josh, his chin resting on the counter, looks at him through his drink and raises an eyebrow.
"I don't recall saying he was Filipino."
"That's right, mister," Morgan says. "What do you know about it?"
"He got a big hat, a small beard, and black glasses?" Rich continues.
"You seem awfully well informed, Richard." Josh says as he sits up straight and eyes the man.
"I see what I see."
"I see," says Josh. He pushes a larger bill than his glass of swill deserves into Rich's palm.
"I saw the guy come through here earlier. He kept looking over his shoulder... you should too."
"What's that?" Morgan says putting his hand on his hip, letting his coat fall open enough for Rich to see his gun holstered inside.
"Naw, naw, naw... Turn around, genius." Rich says, nodding back towards the station.
Josh swivels around on his stool.
There, through the plate glass window, lies Fish, asleep on a wrought iron bench that was covered by the thick smog until now.
This week on the Chompcast we discuss the sequels we wish beyond hope to see. Enjoy.
