THE SALOON WAS DIMLY LIT, with few patrons this early in the afternoon.  A man had just started warming up at the old out-of-tune upright piano in an attempt to draw in customers, and the low cloud of smoke that would soon hang over the room was just barely noticeable.  A tug on the Lu’s sleeve turned his attention away from the glass he was polishing with his apron.

"Sarsaparilla."

Lu reached for a bottle from behind the counter and turned to see the man who had spoken.  At first glance, he judged him to be in his early forties, clean shaven with salt-and-pepper hair.  His steel grey eyes told a different story, however, one that spoke of much more experience.  This man was not to be trifled with.  Lu filled a glass and set the bottle down next to it.

"And a saucer of milk for my friend, if you don’t mind." 

Lu raised an eyebrow as he noticed the cat sitting in the stool next to the man, but the gold coin resting on the counter told him to keep his comments to himself. He placed a small saucer next to the bottle of sarsaparilla, and topped it off with fresh milk.

Grayson had given up alcohol years before, but coming to the saloon had been a habit he’d never been able to break.  Every town was different—each had its own personality—but in the saloon no one cared that he was a newcomer.  He could quickly get the lay of the land, pick up on the local gossip, and hopefully leave with a few leads.  Information was his drink, and there was never a shortage at the town saloon.

"You got a license to carry that here?" asked the bartender, glancing nervously at the revolver hanging on Grayson’s hip. The man was heavyset, with short dark hair and dark eyes.  Like most workers in those parts, Grayson figured he descended from the original group of Chinese immigrants that came over decades before. Not wanting to cause trouble on his first day in town, Grayson reached into his vest, produced a crumpled letter, and handed it to the bartender. Although the gun wasn’t loaded the weight of it at his side was reassuring.  He also found it usually helped a difficult conversation turn in his favor.

"Signed by the Minister of Antiquities hisself," mused the bartender.  "Interesting.  I suppose it covers the cat, too?"

"It does," replied Grayson, grateful he hadn’t bothered to read the fine print.  After all, he was here to ask questions, not answer them. 

The bartender seemed satisfied, and turned his attention to the new customers who were beginning to trickle in.  Grayson surveyed the crowd, looking for an easy mark. By the look of it, this place was a gold mine for a man in his line of work.  Information at every table.  Maybe he’d buy a round for the house to loosen lips.

As he considered making his first contact, he noticed the atmosphere in the place had chilled significantly.  The piano player, after hitting an awkward chord, had gone silent as two rough-looking men pushed through the swinging doors.  They stood at either side of the saloon entrance, their dark suits quite out of place.  One by one, the patrons all turned their attention to Grayson, for his response. Clearly they knew something he didn’t.

"Looks like your time is up, stranger," drawled the bartender, clearly hoping to get rid of him.  And the Shade, based on his sideways glance.

"I paid for an hour," said Grayson, "and I always get what I pay for."

The bartender looked uncomfortably at the men standing guard by the door, and then back at Grayson.  He could see a bead of sweat beginning to form on the man’s brow, as though he wasn’t sure who he would rather offend. "Look, you got fifty-eight minutes already. The Mayor is on his way—
those are his men!  He likes things a certain way.  A different way…" he trailed off.  His pleading glance was met by a steel gray stare.  "I’ll throw in your drink for free."  The bartender felt another icy stare, one that made the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention. He glanced down to see a single yellow eye focused intently on him.  "And the milk."

"Fine.  But next time I come back, I expect the extra time credited to my tab."

"You got it!" exclaimed the bartender with a quick nod, as he fiddled with something under the counter.  Slowly, the nineteenth-century saloon dissolved like a vapor and was replaced by an upscale modern restaurant and bar.  The patrons noticed, some more quickly than others, and adjusted their attire to the new scene.  With a tap on the wrist, leather vests and chaps were replaced by elegant evening wear, and the pianist now sat behind a glossy black baby grand piano.

The bartender eyed the stranger, who still looked like he belonged in the old west, and cleared his throat with a nervous glance toward the door.  Grayson sighed, and reached under his sleeve to activate the device on his wrist.  When the bartender turned back, he was now wearing a black tuxedo, and Shade had a diamond collar around his neck.

"Nice touch," said the bartender, noticing the cat’s collar.  "My name is Lu-ch’an, but many call me Lu."

"Grayson," he replied, noticing Lu had lost his western accent along with the change in scenery. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," he answered with a slight nod. "Welcome to Lagrange Station Two."

He knew he’d walked a fine line by pressing the bartender, but thought he landed on the right side of it.  Experience taught him that a good first impression was critical to gathering information, and having the right people on your side could make all the difference.  Cross the wrong people, though, and you might as well leave town.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4