Free Death's Reckoning by Will Molinar

to act nonchalant, as if he wanted to talk about old times in the neighborhood, but it was impossible to ignore a nagging sense of paranoia. Images of the dug up graves and violated bodies crept into his thoughts even among the revelry of the tavern. The atmosphere didn’t give a damn about anything but the moment.
    “Bet it’s nice to be out, isn’t it?” Harvey said. His thirty one years was only three more than Cubbins, but he looked more than a decade older, with graying hair and dirty skin. He slapped Cubbins’ thigh and laughed. “I’ll wager a trip to Dreary’s is in order, eh? What do you think, Merin?”
    Merin shrugged his thin shoulders, such a contrast to Cubbins’ thick, muscular torso. Merin could be mistaken for his son though they were the same age. A frown creased his pimpled face. “If he’s got the gold, sure. It’s his money.”
    “Hey there, Merin. Maybe we could swing some of it. It’s the least we could do. The guy spent a week in jail, he did. His own jail! Ha, ha!”
    Harvey laughed and slapped the table while Merin didn’t crack a smile; instead, he sipped his drink. Cubbins had to admit he liked the sound of the idea, but there was too much on his mind to spend time at the house of ill repute.
    Their conversation turned to other things, and other people joined their table. It was something he counted on. With friends already present, it would appear natural that he would be there, socializing with everyone. Most citizens didn’t trust the police. They didn’t hate them either because Cubbins forced them to be nicer to regular people than his predecessor had, and his recent jail time had bought him some credibility as a man of the people. The captain would use it for all it was worth.
    “Ain’t right what they did to you, Cubbins,” a sailor named Archie said. He was a big man, taller and fatter than Cubbins. He took a drink from his mug and belched. “Ain’t right at all, damn bureaucra-bureau….”
    “Bureaucratic,” Harvey said and snickered.
    “Yeah, bureaucratic bastards. You wanna do your job, and they wanna hang you for it. Ain’t right.”
    “They need him too much to hang,” Harvey said and slapped him on the back. Cubbins bought them another round of drinks and received more praise and applause for his bravery and dedication for his job.
    His motivation for the generosity was less congenial and more manipulative. Drunken men had looser tongues and oftentimes let things slip when they wouldn’t otherwise. They spoke. Cubbins listened. There was nothing about the recent grave robbing, no buzz of conversation even from the other tables. All they did was bitch about the city and officials behind the government. And how shitty their lives were. Cubbins had heard all that before, countless times.
    Later he left The Frothy Tankard and visited a dive called Stern’s Place. A dirty rat hole frequented by pirate scum, murderers, and members of the local toughs. Cubbins and his ilk had put them behind bars all too often. Cubbins knew Marko, the nominal leader of the toughs. The band of street youths used their strength, brawling ability, and no questions asked attitudes. Marko was young and impressionable but had a strange sense of honor and loyalty about him.
    Stern’s Place was a rough spot, but Cubbins decided to chance it. All eyes turned his way and things went quiet for a beat until he walked over to the bar and ordered a drink. People went about their business.
    The bar tender regarded him. “Whatcha want?”
    Cubbins took his whiskey and leaned back to the bar to watch the room, breathing easy. He’d let his facial hair grow out a bit in the last couple of days, in hopes the scruff made him look more like one of them. Not every citizen knew what the police captain in Sea Haven looked like.
    Some of the toughs were engaged in a contest of strength. They grappled with each other, hand to hand; fingers intertwined overhead, and the crowd yelled for the man they