"Guess you'd be wanting to close up now, Clay?"

Old Bill swayed slightly on his barstool, rocking like a stagecoach with crooked wheels.

Clay swept back his sweaty fringe and gauged the depth of drunk he was dealing with.

A sway to the left with a kick up of the boot usually meant too much for Bill to be capable of walking out unaided this evening. However, a pair of sure-footed boots, toe curling round the lower bar of the stool, indicated an uneven path across the hardwood floor and out into the night with no assistance necessary.

"Hey, Hickey, get your grabbing mitts offa my damn drink. Get your own."

Clay watched half in amusement and half in fear. It made him nervous anytime old Bill started talking to his dead drinking buddy. What had it been? Three years now? And still, still the old fella couldn't let it go. Always bringing Hickey up at the wrong time, spurting out ridiculous speeches of how Hickey Harrison had been sent to his grave in the most inhumane and indecent manner.

In this, yeah, he had to agree with the old soak. Being shot with your pants down while availing yourself of the once most beautiful piece of ass this town had to offer, sure was a terrible way to clock out. But man, on the other hand, it wouldn't be such a bad way to go, right?

Boy, he wouldn't admit it out loud, but he could lose himself in the ample bosom of good ol' Molly Stockholme himself. But as luck would have it, Clayton happened to be the first man to admit that he had lost his touch with the ladies. Exactly when, he couldn't remember.

There used to be a time when he helped out upstairs with more than changing the bedlinen and bathwater. Those were the days.

His mama had run the girls for the rich, faceless owner back in New York. His father had been the manager. Clay's childhood memories consisted of hoisting laundry up and down the street to the river ladies, and washing away tobacco spit from the floor boards. Occasionally, only occasionally mind, as his mother ran a tight ship and tolerated no such violence, dark stains of blood came to be in need of eradication.

Clay remembered every single mark. Every position. Each patch of bloodied faded floorboard, along with every fake smile on the girl's equally stained red lips.

He lost count of the number of times he'd wanted to run out into the night. Scream down the cowards as they strode away, all cocksure, self-satisfied and generally inebriated.

Young Clay could have changed the Saloon. Might have transformed the lives of the young women who lived there. Lived there? No. More like survived there. Either way, he could have made a difference. If only he'd possessed the strength of conviction he held now.

Thirty years gave a man something. Knowledge.

Sighing to himself, Clay raised an eloquent eyebrow and caught his reflection in the gloomy mirror behind the bar. The opportunity for change had once again crawled in closer.

He held his own gaze while his body went through the motions of wiping down the sticky ledge of walnut that ran along underneath the collection of bottles.

"Hey."

Old Bill interrupted his thoughts, by craning his neck sideways to match Clay's eyeline in the mirror.

"You gonna pour me one for the road, or stand there making googly eyes at yourself?"

Yawning, Clay dropped his shoulders and got on with business.
"Sure thing, Bill."

He flicked off the stopper of the whiskey bottle and emptied the dregs into Bill's well-loved glass of the day.

"That's the lot, old man."

Bill sniffed loudly, even the tinny tune from the piano across the room failed to hide his disgust.
"Thanks for nothing." He slurred as he grasped at the glass. It evaded him for a few seconds while his stubby fingers slipped on the residue of spit and booze on the surface. He glared once again into the barman's eyes.
"And less of the old man."

Bodies started to leave. Patrons familiar and liked, as well as the disliked, hoisted themselves up from the tables, out from the shadows and drifted through the half-doors.

Noticing the clientele abandoning the room, the pianist held his fingers and gratefully snapped the lid down on the keys. He slipped away amongst the crowd. Nobody to play for meant no money for tunes.

Bill's boots squeaked as they slid from the bottom rung of the stool.

Clay recognised the sound and strode to the end of the bar to lift up the exit panel.
"Okay there, Bill ol' boy. Let's get you on home."

Bill raised his hand and swiped away at the air around his head. A rush of body odour mixed with horses flew free with his motions.
"Ah, you ain't gotta worry nothing 'bout me now, Clay. I ain't gonna give you no trouble. Jus' trippin' the light fantastic I am. Watch this...."

Either believing himself stable or capable on his feet, old Bill staggered off his perch and began to attempt a tap dance across the length of the bar.

Before he could reach out a helping and understanding hand, Clay looked on while the drab, middle-aged man came crashing to a halt against the last stool to the right of the bar.

Sweeping his rough hand across his forehead, old Bill muttered.
"Goddamn you, Hickey. You're always in the way."

Clay shook his head and pulled the bar panel shut behind him. He'd had enough for one night. Stepping out onto the hardwood floor, his steel toe caps clinked resoundingly. They were echoed by the swinging hinges of the doors, banging behind the last retreating customers.

"Slow night, Mr. Samuels?"

Clay's back shot ramrod straight. He changed direction from assisting old Bill to one of marching up to the staircase. Once at the foot of the stairs he clasped a sweaty hand over the wooden globe of the newel post. The slickness of his skin denied him a firm hold. He cleared his throat and winced up at the brooding figure at the top of the stairs.
"Can't say as that I complain much, Mr. Zimmerman."

A tall dark figure leered out from the surrounding blackness of the hallway behind him. Rays of lamplight greased the flights of stairs through the paraffin glass globes and failed to reach the third set of creaky steps.

Clay had no need to get a better look at his boss's expression. He knew instinctively of the sneer and perfectly manicured eyebrow that would be arched in distaste.

Zimmerman's booming voice rolled down the steps.
"Then that would assertain as to the reasons behind your lack of position in this world, Mr. Samuels."

Clay swallowed hard. His grip on the banister crippled his knuckle joints.

"Perhaps if you passed less time entertaining the riff-raff that abide here in my commercial interest, then you'd be more willing to encourage the higher class of clientele to open their wallets. What say you, Mr. Samuels?"

The last venomous sentence stung Clay's ears. He bit the inside of his bottom lip, wincing at the pain.

Carl Zimmerman strode down the stairs. The rustle of his long overcoat preceeded the breeze of his heady cologne. Almost like cough syrup mixed up with old creosote.

As he made it to the third stair from the bottom, the wan lamplight reflected on the toes of his shiny, spotless boots.

Clay stepped back, but his grip on the banister refused to give way. He slid to the left with his arm at full stretch while Zimmerman's impressive bulk emerged into the semi-lit bar.

"Care to step aside there, Mr Samuels?"

The rise in intonation at the end of the big man's instruction provided Clay with the incentive he needed to set his cramped hand free. His fingers snapped up and he shuffled backwards into the bar, all the while shaking his stiff fingers at his side.

Zimmerman halted at the foot of the stairs. He passed a leather-gloved hand thoughtfully over the end of the bannister. A crease of a smile on his stubbled lips.
"The ladies have settled in for the night, Mr. Samuels, and I for one am looking forward to my bed. Be so good as to lock up behind me."

Clay took in his boss's features. His grey coat, black riding boots and black town suit were spotless as always. A triangle of a burgundy silk handkerchief sat proudly in his top right waistcoat pocket. The matching red lining visible from in between his waistcoat buttons with every heavy breath he took.

The crash of a breaking glass reminded Clay that old Bill hadn't left yet. He sucked air through his teeth and glanced round to fix his position.

He saw Bill attempt to lean down and scrape up the shattered glass with his thick fingers. His body wavered and his knees began to buckle under the strain.

"Damn it." Clay hissed as he rushed up to the drunk at the bar to catch him before he fell. It had proved much tougher to hoist the old fella to his feet than steady his downward trajectory.

While he concentrated on wrestling old Bill to the upward position, Clay heard the steady approach of Zimmerman's spurred footfalls across the floorboards. The barman glanced over to see him pass beside the swaying couple without turning his head. The ponytail of mid-length greying hair swept from side to side across the man's broad shoulders in time with his paces. Once at the bar, Zimmerman dropped onto the center stool, facing out towards them. He rested his elbows behind him on the bar, his long legs crunched at the knee with his boots resting on the bottom rung. He pointed a leather finger at Bill.
"Get that good for nothing piece of garbage out of here."

Old Bill's body stiffened, he drew himself up to his full height, reaching Clay's shoulder. He pushed Clay's supporting arms away and sniffed loudly.
"I don't think I care for your tone there, Mister."

Clay cursed inwardly. He searched Zimmerman's broad, pale face for a sign of what was to come. The man fixed his steely-blue eyes on a point beyond the two men. His chin raised and his gloved hands crunched into fists.

The bartender moved aside to the left of old Bill. A drop in the pressure of the atmosphere caused his neck hairs to stand on end. The same sensation he got when a heavy storm brewed at night. He had to change the course of the interaction before old Bill found himself lying face down on the floor with a bullet hole in his skull.

Clearing his dry throat, Clay raised his arms slowly, his palms held out flat in front of him. He stepped sideways on shaky legs to bring himself between the old man and his boss.

Zimmerman never took his eyes off the target of his stare behind Clayton. His thin top lip snarled up under his nose as if offended by some terrible smell.

"I don't think he meant anything by it." Clayton spluttered. "I'll get his sorry old ass outta here. He's always talking shit."

All the words Clay spoke were delivered calmly and in as level a tone as he could muster. The tendons in his right shin flickered and threatened to make him move in a rash manner to ease the twitch. He couldn't afford to do that right now, so he curled up his toes and dug them together. The untrimmed nails took over his physical attention, painfully stabbing into the sides of his toes.

Old Bill slammed forward up against Clay's back, the force nearly pushed him off balance. The bartender held his eyes on Zimmerman and swept a hand back to steady the old man.

Bill burped loudly, after which, a sickly, alcohol infused stench wafted under Clay's nose.

Zimmerman lifted himself off the stool. Without so much as a glance at the two men, he stamped his way to the door and out into the night.

Clay's shoulders dropped. He turned round to hoist his arm around old Bill's sweaty body and shuffled him to the door.

Old Bill accepted the support and leaned hard against him. His breathing came out fast and deep. He slurred up into Clay's ear.
"That man's an asshole."