Final Showdown at The GK: Intro to Week 14

He pulled his black 2005, Cadillac Escalade onto 84th Street, the strains of Air Supply's "All Outta Love" audible to all he passed. A broad shouldered man stepped out, dressed impeccably in a crisp blue cotton shirt and newly pressed slacks. The gang of local punks sitting on the stoop across the street eyed this strange figure... and his fine car. The man locked eyes with the leader of the crew, a bandanaed tough with a scar running the length of his eye, and walked directly over to him. The crew stirred uneasily.

The broad shouldered man spoke.

"You see that car?" he said, "That car has a stereo in it. And it's tuned to 106.7 Light FM, soft rock hits from the 70s, 80s, and 90s... it better be that way when I get back. Capice?" The punk nodded. The man took a sawbuck from his coat pocket and slipped it into his hand. Then he turned and made his way around the corner to the saloon.

The ladies on the corner saw him coming, whispered to each other and nodded. "Hey, Mistah! You wanna date?" The man looked up at the streetwalker. He grinned, then shook his head. "Not tonight, sweetheart." Tonight there was something else on his mind. The final showdown with some Hell's Kitchen boys who had wandered too far north. He'd met this crew before down in their neighborhood. They were not to be taken lightly. No, tonight wasn't about pleasure. It was about business. And it was an emergency.

They always call me in an emergency, he thought.

He pushed open the finely engraved door that said "George Keeley" and entered. The man behind the bar was drying glasses with a white cloth. He saw him enter and immediately began pouring a Magic Hat #9. The bartender set it down with a fresh copy of the New York Post so that it was waiting for the man at his seat.

"And some aiming fluid."

"Comin' right up, Mr. Yoo!". The bartender poured three fingers of Jameson's Irish Whiskey.

The broad shouldered man downed the whiskey in one slow motion.

"Another one, Mr. Yoo?", the bartender said, reaching for the bottle.

"Not yet, Drew. Gotta stay sharp tonight." He jerked his head toward the dartboard in the corner, "I got business to take care of." Then he tucked a copy of the Post under his arm and got up from his barstool. "But first," he continued, "... I got business to take care of." And with that, the broad shouldered man strode past the board and disappeared into the back of the bar...

To be continued...