Osa sat hunched on a barstool, elbows on the counter, listening to the band strumming guitars on the stage. The music was soft. His thoughts were louder.
"Osa!"
He turned. Noah stood behind him, older—wrinkles around his brown eyes, but still sporting the short afro Osa remembered from their cruise ship days. That job had ended in blood. Ethan had been shot and killed on board—a violent memory Osa couldn't scrape out of his head.
"Remember me, we used to work together as servants for Milton Sudan?" Noah said.
"I remember," Osa said, taking a swig of beer. "You still work for Milton?"
Noah shook his head. "I was replaced. Rob speaks Aka-pa. Milton likes that."
"I quit," Osa muttered. "Milton mocked my accent. I'm from Sumer. Came to Cascadia for better work."
"How long have you been here for?"
"Since I was eighteen. I'm forty now. I worked for Milton to learn English—he dealt with foreigners. My parents couldn't afford school."
"Another beer?" The bartender asked Osa.
"Yes," Osa replied.
"I'll have a glass of Sangria," Noah said.
"One thousand dollars." The bartender replied.
"What!" Noah gasped. "Why are you taxing so hard?"
"Because grape phylloxera insects are destroying the grape wines in Catwerp."
"I thought we imported our wine from Purple Island?" Noah asked.
The bartender shook his head. "That place no longer exists. Destroyed by the bombing. All of Cascadia's red wine is imported from Catwerp, and now inflation is through the roof. Renee Clinton has blamed David Trescot, the ruler of Sumer. She says a shipment of cotton that Catwerp received from Sumer was infected with phylloxera insects."
"That's absurd!" Osa stated. "Phylloxera insects don't even fucking live in Sumer." He slammed his fist down on the counter. "The climate in Sumer is too hot for Phylloxera insects! Does Renee Clinton not know her geography?"
"Makes you wonder why Renee is even sitting in power," Noah grumbled, his excitement draining away. "Just get me a beer instead.
The bartender nodded, retreating toward the taps to fulfill the order.
Osa shook his head. "Both my parents died from the measles outbreak when Renee Clinton refused to send the vaccine over to Sumer."
Noah's mouth dropped open. "I remember! It's because Sumer helped Intermarium during the Ossory war."
"Sumer never helped Intermarium during the Ossory war! Renee is making up stupid excuses for why she couldn't help citizens in Sumer. Yesmin Trixie from Jayland did ship vaccines to Sumer, but it was too late for my parents."
The bartender returned, sliding two bottles onto the counter. "That'll be fifteen dollars each."
They dropped the cash onto the damp wood. The bartender slid away to attend to a group at the end of the bar.
"Renee really is the devil, making it too expensive to afford my favourite drink!" Noah drank from his glass. "I remember when it was only ten dollars!"
"Renee is a bitch!" Osa slammed his empty bottle down. "She won't admit that she is racist; that's why she won't help people of black ancestry!"
"What do you do now?" Noah asked Osa.
"I don't talk about my work."
"Come on, man. You can tell me."
"I can't." Osa slid off the stool and headed for the door. "It's late. I'm heading home."
He pushed through the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. The city's lampposts cast long, hazy cones of light that gleamed off his black shoes.
"You can trust me," Noah said, catching up. "I'm not gonna run my mouth."
Osa kept walking, eyes forward. "You're better off not knowing what I do."
"Come on, I already know your job's dirty." Noah smiled gleefully.
Osa stuck his hand in the pocket of his black leather coat. "Zo-pak speakers can't find any legitimate work anymore."
Noah's eyes gleamed under the streetlights. "Let me guess—you're dealing?"
Osa stopped dead in his tracks, narrowing his eyes into sharp slits. "What makes you say that?"
Noah laughed, shaking his head. "Your jacket, man. It smells like straight-up product. You reek of it."
Osa stepped closer, his shadow overlapping Noah's. "Since you're sniffing jackets like a damn hound dog, mind telling me what your hustle is?"
Noah smirked. "I make arrangements. Some people call me Cupid. Now tell me — what kind of stuff are you moving?"
"What's it to you?" Osa growled.
"I came strapped with cash," Noah said eagerly.
"How much are you carrying?" Osa asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Five hundred bucks," Noah said eagerly. "You got any Coke on you?"
Osa hesitated. He hadn't planned to sell tonight — trust was rare, and cash was even rarer.
"Yeah, I got you," Osa replied, his voice barely louder than the wind rustling the trash in the gutter. "My crib's two blocks from here. Keep your eyes on the street when we make the deal. Make sure it's clean."
"Man, I just need to get straight. Don't sweat it, I'll have the streets on lock like a hawk," Noah responded, flashing a confident grin.
"You better," Osa growled, his eyes narrowing. "I don't need any drama brought to my door."
They walked until Osa stopped before a run-down convenience store.
"You live in a grocery joint?" Noah asked, scratching the back of his neck.
"Upstairs. Just a little one-beddy spot," Osa inserted a heavy key into the door adjacent to the storefront. "Wait for me out here. If I'm not back in two minutes, walk away."
Noah nodded, keeping his eyes on the street. Then the door swung open. Osa stepped out. Without a word, he dug into the pocket of his light-blue jeans and produced a plastic bag filled with white powder.
"For five hundred?" Noah asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Osa's tone turned cold. "Best in Zo-Zo City. Don't haggle."
Noah slid cash across his palm with a grin. "Still cheaper than that bar's Sangria. My beer wasn't even cold."
Osa pocketed the money, his eyes tracking Noah's hands. Noah reached into his coat and handed over a torn scrap of paper. "Here's my line. Stay in touch. Cupid can open a lot of doors for you."
Osa tucked the paper into his coat's pocket. He paused in the stairwell, glanced back at Noah, then disappeared into the night.