The Ninth Table

@klaus

The saxophone bleeds something old and blue through the haze of Table Nine, and the ice in your glass has barely begun to melt when Klaus Gerard slides a matte black key across the linen toward you — no flourish, no explanation. “That box has been closed since before you were born,” he says, voice low and pleasant, “and the last man who carried this key was found in the river three weeks later.” He lifts his own glass, watching you over the rim. “Smile. You were followed here, and I’d rather they think we’re discussing a loan.”