Free Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) by Alex P. Berg

bar was filled with booths—padded bench and polished countertops units—each positioned far enough from each other that conversation wouldn’t carry. Frosted lamps filled the place with a diffuse light, and the few windows in the joint were covered with thick velour drapes in a dark violet.
    As I walked into the establishment, notes from a saxophone and soft drumbeats tickled my ears. A jazz band had commandeered the corner, serenading the patrons with their avant-garde melodic riffing.
    I sauntered over to the bar. Jjade stood behind it, but much to my dismay, she—or he, I’m still not really sure—wasn’t drying mugs, wiping down the counter, or doing any of the sundry stereotypical things you’d expect a barkeep to be up to. Instead, she just stood there listening to the music.
    “What’s up with the band?” I asked as I sat down.
    “I’m trying something new,” said Jjade. “Seeing if it’ll trump up more business.”
    “You seem to be doing fine, as far as I can tell.”
    “Yes, but you can never get too complacent. Adapt or die, they say.”
    “Who’s they?” I asked.
    Jolliet Jjade gave me a reproachful look. Today she wore a zebra print blazer buttoned up to the top with a puffy bowtie roughly the same size and color as a pumpkin spilling out from her neckline. Her long brown hair, parted flawlessly down the middle of her scalp, fell on either side of her shoulders with all the flow of a starched sheet.
    “Are you going to order something, or are you just going to sit there and drive away my more affluent clientele?” Jjade asked.
    “Give me a beer,” I said. “Something with a lot of hops and a thick head.”
    Jjade smiled as she grabbed a pint glass from underneath the counter. “So, you want a beer that’s a lot like you but less jumpy, is that it?”
    I pressed my lips together. “I walked into that, didn’t I?”
    Jjade slapped a coaster on the counter and set the beer on top of it. “It’s a little early for beer, even for you, don’t you think?”
    “Why does everyone insist on telling me it’s too early?” I said. “It’s too early to leave work. It’s too early to drink. Maybe I’m just getting old and plan to fall asleep at seven-thirty.”
    Jjade raised an eyebrow. “ Are you planning on falling asleep at seven-thirty?”
    “No.”
    Jjade peered at me curiously, but I didn’t elaborate. She shrugged and went back to her music. I dove into my beer, coating my throat and innards with its frothy glory, swiveling back and forth on my stool as I drank.
    Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I found myself getting sucked into the progression of the tunes emanating from the corner. The musicians were talented, I had to admit. That didn’t change my opinion that they were wasting their lives, spending countless hours perfecting their craft only to draw crowds of a couple dozen beatniks interspersed with a few indifferent sourpusses like me—but hey, to each his own, right?
    “You’re not going to start having guys like these on a regular basis, are you?” I asked Jjade.
    “I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”
    “I already stick out here enough as it is. I don’t want to become an eyesore. Besides, if you start attracting musicians people actually want to see, I might get squeezed out. Then I’d have to find a new bar at which I could depress people with my presence.”
    Jjade patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll keep a seat open for you, Daggers.”
    I took another gulp of my beer. “Do you mind if I ask you an odd question?”
    “I think most of the questions you ask are odd.”
    I paused. That was neither an affirmation nor a denial of my request.
    Jjade seemed to notice my confusion. “Shoot.”
    “Do you know anything about ancient, custom weaponry?”
    “Wow. You weren’t kidding,” she said. “You really came out of left field with that one.”
    “Told you,” I said.
    “I’m assuming this has to do with work.”
    “You’re very