Page 4 of Even Robots Die
The inside of the bar is darker than what I expected, darker than the bars I’m used to. Not that I spend a lot of time in bars as a hobby. I don’t have that kind of time. But I do have to find my dad often enough to know a few of them.
And I don’t know if my dad prefers fancy bars—and really, knowing him that could be the case—but the ones he used to frequent were all much nicer than this one.
This one is gloomy, and all the seats and tables look crammed together.
The light casts a shade of orange inside, but it doesn’t look very warm and inviting.
Surprisingly, it’s packed, and it’s not that easy to reach the bar to order. I have to elbow people just to get some room and then I have to speak over the noise and music. I’m not sure I’ll get anything here, but I still drop my elbows to the countertop and try to make eye contact with the barmaid.
I immediately regret touching the counter though, because it’s sticky as fuck and I wonder if that thing has ever been washed.
But now that I am in position, I might as well stay stuck on it.
I finally catch the attention of the barmaid. She is lovely. Long blond hair, with a smile to die for and a lovely tan that I think is the natural color of her skin because I’m pretty sure with the kind of job she has, she sleeps most of the day. Her eyes are the palest blue and I feel ensnared when she finally looks in my direction.
She’s beautiful, and if I wasn't on a mission, I might have indulged—well, if she was interested, too—but as it is, I’ve already been in Blois too long.
“Just a beer,” I tell her over the noise.
“What kind?” she answers with a question.
Oh, well, I didn’t even think about it. I don't really like beer, but it’s cheap and I can’t start drinking what I want or it’s going to dull my reflexes and I can’t have that. I can see a few pairs of wings or tails here and there, and that reminds me that I really can’t let my guard down.
“What do you have?” I ask.
She looks me up and down and then looks at the wall behind me and, sure enough, a whole menu is written on the wall.
By the look of annoyance she just cast me, I’m pretty sure even if I had time for a fun night she wouldn’t want it.
Well, I’m not here for that.
I pick a blond beer that doesn’t look too strong—and too expensive—and I order.
In the meantime, she served two of the men right next to me and they’ve been replaced by two others.
I wait for my beer and wonder why I actually ordered it.
There are too many people, too much noise.
I don’t see how I'm going to get any intel here. And it’s only five in the afternoon. The bar looks like it’s peak hour and I have trouble understanding what would bring so many people to squeeze together in so little space, especially since everything smells like beer and armpits.
“Is it always like this?” I ask the barmaid when she comes back with my bottle of beer.
That same look of annoyance crosses her features before she answers me.
So not getting laid tonight.
“It’sFériatime. Everyone is basically drunk twenty-four seven for a week.”
I know whatfériasare, but I have never heard any happening this close to Paris. Usually they’re more something that you can find in the south west of France.
She waits with the payment control next to me until I pay with my holo.
“Carlos, there,” she tells me as she shows a man at the back of the room sporting huge horns and a nose ring, “played the bull all day long. A lot of people got hurt, but they’re shifters so you know how they heal fast.”
She shrugs after those last words and then leaves me to take others’ orders.
It doesn’t get lost on me that she said ‘them’, and she seemed to know that I wasn’t a shifter either.
