Chapter 2.1
Today was a truly strange day.
As he shook vodka, apple liqueur, and lime juice in a shaker, Cyril thought so. It wasnât something to brag about, but Kyrie, the bar where Cyril worked, didnât get many customers in a day. 80% of the sales came from regulars, so that said enough. The manager of Kyrie would just nod and say it was fine.
But today, theyâd already had their sixth customer.
Even though it was still earlyâŠ
Having many customers was a good thing, so he could let that slide. But the fact that every single one of them seemed suspicious, well. How was he supposed to feel about that?
On top of that, three were regulars, while the other three were either infrequent visitors or new faces. You could say it was a good balance, and that stable income was always welcome, but there was an odd, ominous feeling in the air.
Pouring the finished Apple Martini into a cocktail glass, Cyril glanced at the three customers seated at the counter in front of him, and then at the two customers sitting separately at a distant table.
The first to arrive was the person now seated on the far left among the three at the bar counter. Had he come around 5:30 p.m.? Since the bar opened at 5 p.m., it wasnât an exaggeration to say he had entered the moment the doors were unlocked.
He was a regular who usually showed up an hour or two before closing, had two drinks, and left. For him to show up this early today, now that was strange. He was a welcome regular who came by almost daily, but Cyril found him a bit much.
He claimed to work as a gem appraiser near Middletown. But since he had never once mentioned any actual expertise related to that, it was hard to believe at face value.
Instead, heâd go on about who owned what kind of jewel, or how a recently excavated artifact happened to include a piece of the famed Hope Diamond. His grasp of market gossip was uncanny, which led Cyril to wonder if he wasnât a gem appraiser at all, but rather a thieving magpie in disguise.
If that had been the extent of it, he wouldnât have made it onto Cyrilâs mental blacklist. After all, this place was visited by alcoholics and gamblersâwhat harm could a petty thief do?
But on the very first day he showed up, he asked to be called not just âRaniâ but âRani-nyaâ. He was proud of his long, curly hair that reached down to his waist and offered to let Cyril touch itâif he would wash it with wine.
He boasted that the texture of his newly treated baby-smooth skin was soft and adorable, and insisted Cyril feel it for himself. When he refused, the man held both of Cyrilâs hands tightly and kept muttering, âIf I could entrust my body to these hands, I could die happy.â
The soft-hearted manager suggested, âMaybe Raniâs got a thing for you,â butâ No. No, no, absolutely not.
Knowing Rani was a regular at Nevaeia Hospital, where they flay and sell off skin, Cyril simply couldnât take it lightly. He feared that one night Rani would sneak in, sever his hands, and leave behind a single ruby ring in their place. And then heâd show up again at Kyrie, bragging about the new set of hands heâd had grafted on.
The next customer was a woman who had gone to the restroom and was not at her seat now. She had arrived at exactly 5:43 p.m. The reason Cyril remembered so precisely was because heâd been so drained from dealing with Rani, who had shown up earlier than usual, that he had kept checking the time over and over.
Cyril had been silently praying for another customer to walk through the door, so when this woman entered the bar, he couldnât help but break into a wide smile. That is, until he saw the womanâs face and tilted his head in confusion.
She always came to Kyrie after 9 p.mâŠ
So it was strange. Night owl customers were showing up while the sun was still out.
Her name was Simo, and she always wore a beige cardigan. Like Rani, there was no way to know if that was her real name. What Cyril did know about Simo was only that her shift ended at 9 p.m. So he had wanted to ask what brought her here so early today, but hesitated, worried that such a question might offend her. Instead, they exchanged a few remarks about the weather.
Simo ordered a Blue Hawaiian, then headed off to the restroom.
To throw up.
This was why Cyril found it difficult to deal with the otherwise well-mannered Simo. Simo had a ridiculously low tolerance for alcohol.
And yet, she loved drinking.
So she made a restroom trip after every single drink. It wouldâve been fine if she just went to quietly throw up and return. But Simo had awful drinking habits.
She played with her own vomit. Like a child playing with mud.
Now that he thought about it, it had been quite a while since Simo went into the restroom. Cyril was afraid to imagine what on earth she might be doing in there all this time. Hopefully, she had only thrown up on the floor and rolled around in it again, like last timeâŠ
