Ben, by the window
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 it to take literal days before Ben made his. It's a wonder he ever finished a game, but he did. The itinerant patrons could tolerate it for a little while but eventually they'd get fed up or have other things to do. And Ben would never concede to any pleas to hurry, to just make a damn move already. If nothing else, he was a master of attrition. Maybe it was all part of his strategy, to wait em out rather than out-maneuver. Maybe, but probably not.
He used to have a steady partner. A guy always in the other chair, playing the other side, matching him in daily stratagems and glacial patience. His name was James or something similar according to Edwin, the barman. He had long hair and sharp, rodent-like goatee. Dark pair of bifocals he always wore. Another decrepit bastard with nothing better to do. Evidently they knew each other, or had known each other for a time. But there were hardly any words spoken between them. Not any that Ed saw anyway. He thought they might've known each other in the war. Like most men of his generation, Ben was a veteran. Probably not by choice. He had the demeanor of a draftee, the kind of imbued bitterness that had taken root deep down. Decades deep. His puckered face and leathery arms telling of a life rubbed into gravel and prematurely contracted. That acrid temper would foam up every so often when a tourist got a bit too friendly or drunk and wouldn't leave him be. You could see it then; the tumult of a man with betrayal in his bones and the anger and sorrow that roil along with it. But James never brought that out. They were of the same worn and perforated cloth. But one day James wasn't there anymore. Soon after, the dog showed up. No one asked any questions.
He liked to wear a cap with a logo emblazoned on it. Setzer's. Italicized lettering with an exaggerated S. It was a local mechanic shop. They had been there before to get car parts or this or that. Most likely it was the place he used to work at before he came to the bar. He had a shirt that was short-sleeved and had his name embroidered on the breast and he always wore it unbuttoned, his paunch and wiry chest hairs out in the open. His face beneath the rim of the cap was speckled with barely cut whiskers. Gray cactus prickles on an ebony desert valley. Arid, craggy. The hat hid a prominent hairless circlet on the crown of his head and the remaining visible patches laid like steel wool on his temples, his neck. He didn't care. Too old for such foolishness. But he never went without that hat.
He called them blood hounds in that part-endearing, part-insulting way old guys do. They took it well. It was demonstrably true. That was another thing; he was honest to the point of it nearly being considered a character flaw. With an almost gleeful relish in having impunity to say what he thought when he wanted. Which was, as it usually went, almost never. They weren't sure if they'd even exchanged names with him. He operated entirely on a wavelength of his own. Of stoic discipline and calcified soul broken by the rare flutter of levity in his tempered words.
They came in for business. Ben knew it. Blood hounds. Hunters. They surmised he'd a begrudging respect for them, though it could never explicitly show. They hoped he could sense their code, that though they made their living chasing trouble they steeled themselves not to create it. Perhaps a line he himself crossed in his youth, forcibly or otherwise. Twisting and curdling in his insides even now. But conjecture was all they had. And hope. Hope unacknowledged between them that old Ben had somewhere a family or remnants thereof that knew him and shared with him. Maybe one of the youngsters working at Setzer's or at the diner across the street. Maybe. But the truth that they knew and didn't want to name aloud was that there was no one else for Ben apart from the dog and the beer and the board. The board, the pieces. He spun it around delicately on the table. Black to white. He stroked his chin with his head craned and, pensive, made his move. Rook to bishop four. Check.
He used to have a steady partner. A guy always in the other chair, playing the other side, matching him in daily stratagems and glacial patience. His name was James or something similar according to Edwin, the barman. He had long hair and sharp, rodent-like goatee. Dark pair of bifocals he always wore. Another decrepit bastard with nothing better to do. Evidently they knew each other, or had known each other for a time. But there were hardly any words spoken between them. Not any that Ed saw anyway. He thought they might've known each other in the war. Like most men of his generation, Ben was a veteran. Probably not by choice. He had the demeanor of a draftee, the kind of imbued bitterness that had taken root deep down. Decades deep. His puckered face and leathery arms telling of a life rubbed into gravel and prematurely contracted. That acrid temper would foam up every so often when a tourist got a bit too friendly or drunk and wouldn't leave him be. You could see it then; the tumult of a man with betrayal in his bones and the anger and sorrow that roil along with it. But James never brought that out. They were of the same worn and perforated cloth. But one day James wasn't there anymore. Soon after, the dog showed up. No one asked any questions.
He liked to wear a cap with a logo emblazoned on it. Setzer's. Italicized lettering with an exaggerated S. It was a local mechanic shop. They had been there before to get car parts or this or that. Most likely it was the place he used to work at before he came to the bar. He had a shirt that was short-sleeved and had his name embroidered on the breast and he always wore it unbuttoned, his paunch and wiry chest hairs out in the open. His face beneath the rim of the cap was speckled with barely cut whiskers. Gray cactus prickles on an ebony desert valley. Arid, craggy. The hat hid a prominent hairless circlet on the crown of his head and the remaining visible patches laid like steel wool on his temples, his neck. He didn't care. Too old for such foolishness. But he never went without that hat.
He called them blood hounds in that part-endearing, part-insulting way old guys do. They took it well. It was demonstrably true. That was another thing; he was honest to the point of it nearly being considered a character flaw. With an almost gleeful relish in having impunity to say what he thought when he wanted. Which was, as it usually went, almost never. They weren't sure if they'd even exchanged names with him. He operated entirely on a wavelength of his own. Of stoic discipline and calcified soul broken by the rare flutter of levity in his tempered words.
They came in for business. Ben knew it. Blood hounds. Hunters. They surmised he'd a begrudging respect for them, though it could never explicitly show. They hoped he could sense their code, that though they made their living chasing trouble they steeled themselves not to create it. Perhaps a line he himself crossed in his youth, forcibly or otherwise. Twisting and curdling in his insides even now. But conjecture was all they had. And hope. Hope unacknowledged between them that old Ben had somewhere a family or remnants thereof that knew him and shared with him. Maybe one of the youngsters working at Setzer's or at the diner across the street. Maybe. But the truth that they knew and didn't want to name aloud was that there was no one else for Ben apart from the dog and the beer and the board. The board, the pieces. He spun it around delicately on the table. Black to white. He stroked his chin with his head craned and, pensive, made his move. Rook to bishop four. Check.
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