Yes, this is a blog

They walked in and greeted him as they usually did. A nod, a subtle hand gesture. They took their table in the corner and waited for the informant to come in to discuss business. Sometimes it could take up to an hour. So they ordered drinks, maybe a little something to eat, and perused the surroundings. That's how they first learned his name. Ben. Sometimes referred to Old Ben, though never to his face. Benjamin, Benny. A mainstay of this port town for years, they said. Long since retired, he would spend most of his days in that cantina by the front window at a table for two, alone save for a german shepherd who always slept at his feet. It was the only dog they ever allowed in. He would sit there and slowly sip on a tall mug of beer and play chess. But to say he played would be generous. It was more like the silent, still meditation of a monk in some monastery high on a mountaintop. Unmoving, unchanging concentration. After an opponent made his move, it wasn't uncommon for...

I always made sure to open it up the same way, in the same order. The two zippers always meeting at the middle, pulled away from each other simultaneously with both hands. Left and right. A dark green case lined in black, its end broken to where the fabric flapped upward and showed the cheap wood underneath. It opened in two pieces. The top half had strapped on its interior the bow, which was removed by turning a little plastic nob that held it there. Unsheathed, it was placed on the stand until a hunk of calcified tree sap was taken out and rubbed on it. Rosin. Sometimes it was an amber color or a deep sort of violet. It had to be marred with a key or a scissor blade before it could be used. The white powder it left like a lubricant on the length of horse hair. When you played it emitted almost imperceptible clouds of the residue and after a while the strings would get caked up with the substance and need to be cleaned. The black finger board dusted with chalk. The cloth used was a sp...