Concerning the Note

  The paper was soggy from the wet jacket, the penciled words smudged. “3rd stall, Mens” it read, the style cramped and laborious. He wouldn’t wonder if a lot of effort had gone into it.
  Taylor let it drop into his pocket, and fighting the irritation of a children’s game left the bar and Mary’s hospitality to the men's room across the floor. The barman barely glanced up as he passed.
  He felt Renfeild’s eyes following as he pushed the door open, releasing the sound of running water, and a semi-automatic abruptly shoved beneath his chin.
  He blinked a few times incomprehensibly, attempting to assimilate just what happened, and then someone bumped into him from behind. “Whoa, shit,” Renfeild said nervously, and yet containing a lilt of almost flippancy.
  “Who’re you?” the gun ordered.
  “It’s cool, man,” Renfeild said.
  “Shut up.”
  Goddamn Eric. “Screw this,” Taylor snapped, shoving the gun away. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
  The next events snapped like a mechanical lock and then froze in a tableau that numbed the mind. Taylor started to shove his way past, and then the gun was pushed into his cheek. He reached to push it away again, and the hammer clicked back, and then suddenly a wicked black knife was behind the gunman’s ear, tilting his head over slightly.
  The scene was held for about two seconds, two seconds that seemed infinitely longer. Then Renfeild softly intoned, “Will you please put down the gun, Stanley? This is Eric, he’s with me. And you do know me, right? I don’t advise nodding.”
  Stanley grinned briefly, then slowly lowered the gun and deliberately slid it beneath his jacket. Only then did Renfeild remove the knife and cause it to disappear into the abysmal reaches of the leather coat. He motioned Taylor to advance, and patted Stanley’s shoulder as he moved past.