PEREGRINE - Chapter 1: Rome

I am Rome.  It's not my first name.  It's not my last name.  It's not short for anything.  It's not a nickname.  It's just, "Rome."  If I had a nickel for every smartmouth who said, "So, you're telling me it says 'Rome' on your driver's license and your birth certificate?  What about your passport?" I'd have a fifty-pound bag of nickels to smash into the next smartmouth's face who asks.  Fact is, I've never had a driver's license.  I'm sure there is a birth certificate out there, somewhere.  But I've never seen it.  And as far as passports go, I have six of them and none of them say, "Rome" on them.

That's what I like about Ian.  He never asked.

Ian was behind the bar when I first walked into Saints and Sinners on a Tuesday, four years earlier.  I hadn't had a drink in nearly twenty years, but I'd been thinking of one for a bit.  Driving by, I'd seen the Saints and Sinners logo - an angel and a devil; I had their twins as my companions, one on each shoulder.  I went in and ordered an Absinthe and never looked back.  Insofar as the  Angel and Devil are concerned, the jury is still out as to who won the day, but I drink without guilt and always walk out on my own two feet (or so I'm told).

Saints & Sinners feels like home.  That is of course if in your home your dad breathes fire, your mom drinks copious amounts of Jameson and your sister flashes her tits occasionally - all to a soundtrack of metal, hip-hop, classic rock and karaoke.  It's a place where everybody knows your name, but they call you lots of other things, instead.  Not exactly like Cheers, more like Cheers' younger, edgier brother who told his parents to fuck off, sold his father's Lexus and used the money to buy an electric guitar and a year's worth of drugs before moving to Norway to join a death-metal band he met on Craigslist.  I try very hard not to drink anywhere else.

It was a Tuesday again.  One of the other bartenders, Cooper I think,  had started a promotion in my honor, "Absinthe-Minded Tuesdays."  They didn't used to sell much of the Wormwoody stuff before I showed up.  Now, they kept a case of Mata Hari with my name on it in the basement.  I was sipping my second when Fate bellied up to the bar right next to me.   I knew right away it was Fate.  For me, Fate always comes in the same package - petite, blonde and way smarter than me.  And although I don't always learn from my mistakes, I'm pretty smart.

"Something to drink?"  Ian offerred.

"I'm looking for Rome."

She does get right to the point, I'll give her that.

Ian cupped a hand next to his ear, "How's that?"

Annoyed, Fate raised her voice, "Rome! I'm looking for Rome."

Ian pointed East.

"It's a little more than six thousand miles that way!  You want me to call you a cab? They can take you to LAX!"

Fate gave me a quick, is-this-guy-for-real look, then turned her attention back to Ian.

"That's clever.  I see what you did there."

Ian shrugged like a Parisian. I'm about to spit absinthe through my nose at this point.

"I'm looking for a man.  A man who finds lost things.  His name is Rome.  I was told I could find him here.  I wouldn't have come all this way if it wasn't important."

Ian leans in.  "Never heard of him, but leave a card.  If anyone comes in by that name-"

Fate puts a card in Ian's hand and makes her way to the door.  Ian watches her go out.  I follow her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.  She weaves between patrons and liquor bottles, never glancing back as she exits.

Ian looks at the card and hands it to me and we are both at a loss for words.

It's pretty hard to catch either me or Ian off guard,  but between the two of us, three eyebrows were raised.  Fate has a name.  Kelli Karson.  Detective Kelli Karson.  NYPD Detective Kelli Karson.  I turn the card over and on the back  is written the name of a hotel in West Hollywood and a room number.  I know the hotel.  And I know the fuck that gave her my name and the location of my office.  I'll deal with that shit in the morning.  For now, I finish my drink and Ian instantly replaces it with one he was already preparing for me.

Ian's eyes ask, what are you gonna do?

I draw a deep breath and catalogue the scents....anise, stale craft beer, kush and cigarettes, fresh-cut lime.  Cutting through it all like a floating scalpel is the scent that Fate always leaves behind - hope and sex and fear and the barest hint of Opium applied long ago, perhaps the previous evening.  I let out a long breath and take a thoughtful sip from the cloudy drink.  My head swims and I follow it down into the depths.  I know the bait hides the barb.  I know the pain of that steel piercing my flesh and I know the futile struggle for freedom only brings more pain, and yet...I am a fish, thrice caught.

Ian sees which way I'm gonna go on this one and shakes his head.  I know he is right.  Bartenders are rarely wrong when it comes to shit like this.  Fuck.  Detective Kelli Karson.  Why the fuck is an NYPD Detective on my tip?  I can think of a couple of reasons - none good.  I generally try to avoid the police.  I'm drinking buddies with one or two which is unavoidable if you drink in any great bar.  But professionally... I try to keep to myself for obvious reasons.

I'm on my third Mata Hari and I smoked a little Sour Diesel before I came in, so I'm not sure if I told you the part where I'm a heroin dealer or not.