Free Port of Sorrow by Grant McKenzie Page A

Gilles’ black Camaro stood out in a reserved parking stall beside the warehouse’s bright yellow door. Julia slid in beside it. She saw what the deputy meant by a lousy mural as she walked to the door and tried the handle. It was locked.
    After rapping on it with her knuckles, Julia waited until a gin-joint peephole opened at eye level.
    “Who are you?” asked a blinking, chocolate-brown eye.
    Julia held up her badge. “I need to see Gilles.”
    “You see him anytime,” said the eye. “I not coffee shop.”
    Gritting her teeth, Julia answered, “I also need a drink.”
    “Okay, you come in.”
    An electronic lock clicked open and Julia found herself standing at the entrance to a male fantasy: pool tables, dart boards, neon jukebox, big-screen television with satellite sports, bikini-clad beer girls framed on the walls, peanut shells cluttering the floor, overstuffed chairs, and a mahogany bar that stretched as far as the eye could see.
    The owner of the chocolate eye grinned with delight at Julia’s stunned reaction. He was a short, big-bellied man with a flattened nose, chubby cheeks and dark skin. Julia immediately pegged him as Inuit, probably from Alaska or across the border in Nunavut.
    “You like?” he asked. “You want scotch?”
    “No thanks.”
    “What you want then? I have draft beer and any liquor you want. You look like scotch drink. I have Grants, Glenfiddich, Bells, Black and White, Famous Grouse. You name it.”
    “Thanks, but a glass of orange juice would be fine.”
    “What you want in it? Tequila, vodka, gin, rum?”
    “Nothing.” Julia was losing her patience.
    “You told me you want drink. Now you don’t. I not like that.”
    “Fine! I’ll have a beer.”
    “What kind?”
    “I don’t care.”
    “You like Weinhardt? Good beer.”
    “Sure.”
    “You want chaser with that? Scotch, maybe.”
    “No!”
    The fat man flashed a wide grin, unfazed by the anger in her voice. He darted behind the bar, his reflection dancing off a hundred half-empty bottles.
    When her eyes adjusted to the dark, Julia saw Gilles sitting at the far end of the bar by himself. As she approached, she noted a half-dozen empty shooter glasses and five empty beer mugs littering the space around him. A sixth mug of beer sat in front of him, half-full.
    When she sat on the vacant stool beside him, the bartender slid her glass of beer along the bar as though it was a curling rink. She grabbed it inches before it smashed into Gilles’ glass sentinels.
    “Good reflexes,” said the bartender, his cheeks straining to hold in his smile. “That’ll be two fifty.”
    Julia dug in her pocket, fished out a five, and slapped it on the bar. Ignoring the beer, she turned to Gilles who hadn’t seemed to notice her arrival.
    “When did you release Finn?” she asked.
    Gilles’ head snapped back and he turned to face her with bleary, bloodshot eyes. His mouth formed a crooked grin.
    “Well, well,” he slurred. “If it ain’t the rook. What brings you to the boys’ club?” He slapped his hand onto her thigh and squeezed, smiling wider when Julia knocked it away.
    “I asked you a question,” she said.
    “Give us a kiss.”
    She slapped his hand away again and repeated, “I asked you a question.”
    “Oh?” Gilles rocked back in mock shock, nearly falling off his stool. “How impolite of me. Of course you can lick my balls.”
    Julia’s balled-up fist smashed into Gilles face before she could stop it, sending him to the floor with a bloody lip. Flat on his ass, he began to laugh.
    “You like to be on top, rook?” he taunted. “All you have to do is ask.”
    “Fuck you!”
    “That’s what I’m talking about,” he laughed. “Come and get it.”
    Julia couldn’t believe the anger that reddened her face and made her body tremble. She should have known it was a mistake coming here.
    “I not like fighting,” said the bartender, leaning over the bar. “It bad for me.”
    Julia glared at Gilles then