Slick meandered slowly down the street, not really minding the raindrops bouncing off the brim of his dashing fedora. His hands in his pockets, he passed from shadow into the halo of a street lamp and back into the shadows again, sloshing through the puddles with his spit-shined shoes. The street, which was really more of an alley, was mostly dark, except for the neon light of the sign of The Lounge at the corner. He had never seen anyone go in or come out of The Lounge, though, so that didn't really count. It was probably owned by the Greek mafia or something.
Suddenly there was a terrific cracking sound, and Slick jumped. "What in the hell was that?" he muttered under his breath, looking around for the source. He glanced behind him. "A gunshot?" But all that followed was silence, and the steady sound of the raindrops on the pavement. After a tense minute, he kept walking toward the end of the alley.
There were brisk footsteps and then someone appeared in the streetlit space between the dark looming walls on either side. The figure hurtled down the street toward him. Slick panicked, thinking that maybe this was the person with the gun, and turned to run back the way he had come. He hadn't gone three steps before the person slammed into his back and knocked him to the ground.
"Oh bloody fuck," the figure, who was a man of middling height, swore. He attempted to stand and only managed to trip over a leg and falling over sideways. He tried again and this time succeeded. He put out a hand to help Slick up. "Sorry about that, old chap, wasn't looking where I was going, terribly sorry. Oh dear, I've gone and ruined your trousers!"
Slick looked down to see a rip across the middle of his left calf. He glanced back up at the man only to find he was bent over to look at Slick's pants leg as well.
"Well, terribly sorry about that. Here's a fiver," he said, straightening and reaching into his pocket. Slick was suddenly struck by a thunderbolt of recognition.
"You!" he said, because he was momentarily dumbfounded by the nerve of the man to give him a "fiver" for the repair or replacement of such expensive trousers, but knowing he should say something. "I know you. I know I do. From where, though?"
The man looked at him. "Ah! You're Slick! I remember you from that ridiculous gathering in Toronto last year. At least, I think I do. I don't remember much else about it."
Slick's memory suddenly clicked. "You're Tommy-duh-skee, right? Yeah, I remember you!" He stopped and looked down the street past the softly glowing sign for The Lounge. "What on earth are you doing here? And who were you running from?"
Tommydski looked sheepish. "I had a run-in with the father of an old friend, you might say. He had a few words with me I wasn't too keen to hear." Slick nodded knowingly.
Tommydski glanced around rather nervously. "I might ask what you're doing in Guelph, too."
Slick coughed discreetly into his hand. "Business stuff," he said vaguely. "Look, I've got a hotel about a block away if you need a place."
Tommydski's countenance relaxed a bit. "That would be smashing. If you don't mind, of course."
Slick shook his head. "It's this way. I hope we can avoid your 'friend'." He held up his hand. "But at least it's stopped raining."
He was tense as they set off down the sodden street, straining his ears for any little sound. Tommydski kept glancing behind him and jumping at every scuff of their footsteps on the concrete. But there was nothing but the dripping of rain from the rooftops and drainpipes as it rain down into the sewers. The street lamps were eerie and very orange in the damp dark air.
The hotel room was cold, and the heavy air had crept inside. "Brrrrr! This is ludicrous weather for August!" Tommydski said. "Can I borrow your shower to warm up a bit?"
Slick nodded. "Feel free." As Tommydski disappeared into the bathroom, Slick stripped his coat off and tried to drape it over a chair so that it might air out a little. Then he sat heavily on the bed and attacked his shoes and his soppy wet socks, hurling them into a corner. With a silly grin he stood and took his hat off his head and tossed it across the room like a discus, where it landed and swung a bit on the hook by the door. His shirt was damp too, as well as the undershirt beneath, so he sat down again to take them both off and wrap up in one of the blankets from the bed. After a few minutes he began to warm up and he relaxed a bit.
The bathroom door opened and he sat up, startled; he must have been dozing. Tommydski emerged clad only in a towel. "I had to borrow your shampoo," he said with an apologetic grin. "Theirs smelled rather too fancy and flowery for me."
Slick just stared at him, mesmerised. He had never seen anyone quite this way before. Sure, he'd seen gents clad in towels lots of times, but for some reason this was different. He couldn't really put his finger on it, and his mind was having trouble holding onto his train of thought anyway.
"Slick?" Tommydski said, looking concerned.
"Tommy-da-ski, I... You..."
"Oh dear," Tommydski said with a little half grin.
"What?"
"Well, I have a confession or two that I think you should hear." He moved a bit closer. Slick merely stared. "See, when I realised who you were, I was overjoyed it was you. I knew you'd be able to help me out, but mostly I was just terribly glad it was you."
"Oh?" was all Slick managed.
"Yes, because you see, the real reason I remember you from Toronto and not much else is not because of alcohol or illicit substances but because when you first walked into the room that first day everyone else seemed to disappear. There was no one else but you, you see." He sat down on the edge of the bed.
