"-- this here's the bar," he explains, glancing over his shoulder at the new boy for about the tenth time since he first greeted him outside the Cabaret's doors roughly five minutes ago, "all drinks are virgin, of course."
Of course meaning not at all (people’ll only cough up money for freaks and floozies when they’re happy and they’re only happy when they’re half-under, son, Daddy always says) -- but one can never know who is or isn't a fed nowadays. With the Barrens undergoing police raids monthly ever since Mike can remember himself -- suffice it to say he hates coppers. But he will never admit to this aloud, of course -- especially not to a stranger who might just prove to be one yet. No, that will get him nothing but a good beating and a night in the slammer. Anyway, suppose everyone makes him nervous. It isn't the kid's fault (and he is, indeed, a kid -- possibly Mike's age); when one grows up in the company of criminals a gypsies, one learns not to trust. Mike Zinnar is no exception to this rule.
"Over there's where we perform." He jots his chin towards the little half-circle stage at the other end of the room, a pair of red velvet curtains hanging heavy over it. "There's a little area backstage if you require the use of props in your act --” he pauses, considers something for a brief moment, then carries on, “-- you know what, here." Glancing back once more -- Mike, in all his skinny five foot three inches, hops atop the stage and pulls one of the curtains aside for the newcomer to step under, soon to follow suit.
There's a chair in the little space behind the curtains -- a simple wooden one identical to the ones scattered among the club's small round tables; a toolbox overflowing with nails and a large hammer; three swords carefully propped up against the wall, blade-up; and a wooden chest out of which hangs a pair of handcuffs.
"This here's mine." He waves his hand at the latter, the gestures revealing galaxies of brilliant violet and aquamarine and vermilion bruises circling his wrist -- left there, no doubt, by the cuffs and possibly whatever else resides within the wooden chest. The faded red piece of cloth tied around his neck barely succeeds in concealing similar bruises. "I would be much obliged if you did not touch it. We're all quite keen on personal property here."
