Sunday.

I woke to the infernal screaming of alarm clock.

Eyes squinting at the blue curtains, I saw afternoon light peeking through. I rubbed my eyes, annoyed at the still ringing phone. I rolled over and shut it off. For good measure, even deleted the alarm.

Ever so slowly, I sat and leaned back-up on the headboard. Looking up at the ceiling, i sighed. That had been a much needed sleep. The life of a private eye was testing my discipline and routine as a Marine. Unusual hours, rare amounts of sleep and missed sessions at the gym.

Believe it or not, even though as a Marine, who was trained to survive and combat in aforementioned conditions, I liked my schedule. It just made sense to do a specific way. At a specific time. But adaptability was important, so here I am, waking up at 4:30 PM in the afternoon. It was good amount of sleep considering I slept at 7 am.

Another thing changed, my clock system. No 1630 hours or 0700 hours for me. Just regular, old civilian way of reading time.

I waited for some pang to hit me or, anything really. Nothing. I was okay with these little changes. Happy even. And anything wildly unexpected comes along? I'll deal with it.

I smirked. Now, that feels familiar.

Parking my rental Camry near the Tipsy Troll, I exited it. Taking a small piece of a black tape I pasted it on the rental company advertisement, then I casually leaned on my car and made a show of grabbing my jacket and scanned my surroundings, a bunch of bikes, old trucks, beat up cars like my rental and a bicycle or two even. So moderate amount of crowd to mix in, and considering the bikes/motorcycles, a suitable crowd to mix in, assuming they were crowding the bar. I knew of them, Penthorn Goblins, all burly guys, quite contrary to their moniker. I was wearing a white tee, jeans, boots and a leather jacket so I would vanish in quite well. Besides I could be stealthy when I wanted.

Tipsy Troll, offways from Summerton, connected through a road between towns Riveron and Summerton along with a sparsely used dirt road. Known exits are 1 through the kitchen and 1 from the front. 4 windows, likely paned, unsuitable for escape.

I went through my info on the establishment.

7 bikes, 4 trucks, 2 sedans and 3 bicycles in the parking lot. Possible occupants 30, including staff.

More confident at the possible image of the setting, I went in. A bar counter, with barrels and racks of booze behind it. Stools in front the bar, half full. It was 6:30 PM. There booths in front of the bar, on the right side of the room. Total of nine. It offered plenty privacy. From my vantage point, an entrance to the kitchen was visible in the top left corner.

I slowly approached the bar and gave a nod to the bartender and owner, Ron Thaltot. It was an odd name, but no one here dared comment on it. Ron was a mean old man, burly physique and the look about him that had seen all. And plus, once I had seen him busting knee caps of one of the bikers, no less, when a barfight had escalated too much. Unsurprisingly it hadn't gone to police...but what was suprising to me then was no one had came back asking questions or pointing fingers.

To my knowledge and observation, although many legally and morally unsavory lot mingled here, it wasn't a hub of crime. It was a neutral area. No, no, the lovely clubs of these bikers had their own establishments for conducting their business.

Local PDs too, generally, stayed clear of this area.

"Your order?" he asked, his meaty fingers cleaning the shot glasses with a rag. Looking at him, a imaginative person might agree with his business' name. It wasn't an insult, per se. He really looked it. That bulging belly, slightly jutting out of his lower jaw, squinty eyes, lack of facial hair, ruddy skin and that baseball bat he wielded like a club. A little make-up and he'd really look it, a Troll.

"I have someone coming in an hour, so a regular for now." Sliding him a note, I subtly gestured to the booths with my head.

He eyed me for a moment and nodded. "Want to get it there or here?" Seeing as I hadn't moved from my spot.

"I'll be here for a while. Hold my spot?"

He raised his eyebrows, but nodded. He barked for his server and he went on to turned the occupied sign in the booth. I nodded in thanks and slid him another note.

I then observed the rest of the bar. There booths occupied and also some open tables too. I could hear low murmurs, sometimes raucous hearing, some calling out for their orders. A few others were sitting distantly, hunced over the counter, spilled peanuts and glasses of drink in front of them.

I thanked him as my order arrived along with a dish of peanuts, too. Mine though, was just some light brown soda, it tasted fizzy and slightly salty taste, which I was pretty sure was cumin with sweetners. I kind of liked it.

The clock ticked to 7 and my mystery client hadn't turned up yet. It was completely dark outside now, and the bikers had went out a few minutes ago. They were a group of 7 men and 3 women. So 12 of my estimated 30 were confirmed. I nodded, satisfied with myself a little.

I glanced at my watched, and it was 7:03 PM when the bell by the door rang when it opened. I didn't immediately turn. I didn't know who it could be.

As the footsteps sounded and neared, I turned my head slightly as though I was slipping last of my drink. And I observed the stranger.

Heavy set white male, height likely 5 '10, wearing faded brown flannel and plain black pants with boots. The heavy kind, with good amount of dust and scuffs on the bottom. Little oil stains on forearms. Likely, farm help. Hmm, no. I observed again. A farmowner, more likely.

"Booth 7?" he asked in a low voice to Ron. Ron paused, nodded and pointed towards one of the booths. The man said his thanks and there he went. Not once did he glance in my direction.

I didn't turn my head to follow. His footsteps slowed near the booth, a little creak of the small door flap being opened, a pause and shuffling of his footsteps. Likely wondering why was no one inside if it was signed occupied. His footsteps and creak of the door flap sounded, so he went in anyways.

I set my jacket on the stool.

I stood up, grabbed the extra little notepad and a pencil Ron kept tucked in a small corner and approached the booth 7.

Peeking over the little half-doors I saw he was sitting in the corner seat, a little curled on himself but slightly facing the door. He was scratching his forearm, idly, as he stared a hole through the table. Nervous?

I went in, deliberately making a bit of noise, and he jumped a little. Nervous. I nodded internally.

"Order?" I raised the notepad.

"Dear Lord, scared the crap outta me, you did!" He took a breath, "And what are you? A muscle and a server?" He looked me up and down.

"I do many jobs. Order?" I said vaguely and asked.

"What do you have?" Arm scratching resumed. Hmm, yellow nails and if I sniffed a little, smell of cigarettes from his clothes and breath. A chainsmoker or a nervous tick?

"Burger, hotdogs, fries, peanuts." When he looked unimpressed, "Crowd's a bit thin tonight." I added.

He nodded. "I'll uh... have a hotdog, gimme mayo and onion on top if ya got it. Side of fries and a beer."

I wrote it down with an additional dish of fries and my regular.

Stepping out, I walked towards the bar and tore the page containing the order. If I gave it to Ron, I could take our orders and hear him out. Or I could grab my jacket, pay for his order and walk out the door.

Should I stay or leave?