Why am I doing this?
What if she kills me?
What if she's not there?
...This is a bad idea.
= = = = =
From New York Penn Station, the walk to Hell's Kitchen was...well, a walk, but not too long either. It was the middle of a summer day, swathes of tourists flooded the city streets, collectively raising their selfie sticks and pulling out their phones in a frantic search for directions. I observed and strode by them, knowing my way with a paper bag in hand. The corner bar came into view, and the paper bag went over my head, two holes cut out for my dark eyes to peer through. I still wanted some control over this situation, she should know I exist, not exactly who I am.
A jingle rang as the glass door of the bar opened, it wasn't too crowded. There didn't seem to be any tourists, they stuck out from the crowd like a sore thumb, bright clothing, a newfound wonder of the city, and sometimes loud as fuck. What mattered is that she was there, perched on a stool and reading a newspaper with a Bloody Mary beside her. She seemed preoccupied, but now was not the time for hesitation. Just calmly sit near the one person who was responsible for one of the biggest massacres in Manhattan, no big deal. With a deep breath shifting the paper bag slightly, I made my way to the bar and sat right next to her. Agnes didn't seem to mind, deep in thought at a crossword puzzle. I never documented what she did in her mornings, now I know. In my seat, I took the time to absorb what was around me. It was a moderately sized bar, enough elbow room for three small tables in the middle, able to seat two people each. The four booths against the wall, back to back, could seat four people each. The upholestery was light grey, contrasting from the dark red wall the booths were lined up against. On the wall itself were ornamental lighting, newspaper clippings of the bar, and black and white photographs of prime tourist locations in Manhatten. There was a noticeable gap, as if something was missing. The wall I faced shelved a variety of different alcohol. There was one stool missing, possibly from a fight awhile ago. The bar had a wooden, cozy aesthetic, the sun rays filtering through the glass door made the whole bar glow a warm orange.
I knew Agnes made note of my presence, as she has with anyone entering the bar. It was then I decided to shift to the empty stool beside me, knowing full well Agnes had trouble getting along with other women. I leaned my forearms against the bar top, looking at my hands.
"Agnes." I began. She didn't look up from her newspaper.
"Can I help you?" She replied, half-heartedly.
"My visit was long overdue, but I'm here now and there's something you need to know."
= = = = =
An explanation given, Agnes' attention no longer rested on the newspaper or her drink. Her brow was furrowed, none of this made sense to her.
"I understand your confusion, these things take time to settle.-"
"I don't believe you."
"You don't have to believe me, it's the truth." Spencer then appeared and placed a cold glass of water in front of me. Agnes stared at him for any sort of support, but his eyes were glazed over and he left into the kitchen.
"You didn't say anything...how did he-"
"I didn't need to say anything. It's not only you, but this whole bar is the product of my design....and Desmond as well."
Agnes nearly glared at me, the piercing blue of her eyes was both nerve-wracking and unavoidable to look away from.
"Where is he!? What is he scheming?" She demanded.
"It's not for me to say, you need to figure this out. If you do, you will reap more benefits, I assure you."
Agnes gave me a cold stare, I expected her to pull off the paper bag or do something rash. "...So why did you put me through hell?"
Beneath the paper bag, I frowned gently, a noticeable pause before I spoke up again. "That I will answer, but at a later date." I would say as I slid off my stool. "I'll be back soon." Agnes watched as I left to the glass door, and disappeared into the crowd of people on the street.