Jovial & Old Hat

Don dondon don … don! The bellows of a visitor’s knock marched down the narrow stairwell and then dispersed inside the small cavern below. It might have been lost among the watery notes slinking and sighing from the phonograph’s horn if its cadence didn’t clash so horrifically with the bass line. But since it did, Jovial was robbed of the luxury of missing an off-hours guest. The bartender’s attention raised from the polished surface of a glass he was rubbing into even brighter of a shine and looked to the small clock he kept hidden away on the counter beneath the bartop. It was still an hour to open. Yet, whoever was at the door knew the correct cadence for this week, which called for a cursory investigation at the very least. 

Jovial set the glass down and shifted half a step to the side where there was a pipe running along the wall from the smooth stone ceiling to about his eye level. He flicked aside the thin bronze cover dangling over its opening and peered inside. Thanks to a few expertly placed mirrors within the pipe, he was able to see the topside entrance of his subterranean establishment -- and more importantly, he was able to see the person awaiting entry. “Ugh.” he groaned. Though the figure was nothing but a bulky shadow in the low light of a fresh evening, he would recognize that silhouette anywhere. Old Hat had business. 

His movements now weighed down with begrudging resignation, Jovial stepped away from his spyglass and deftly slapped a button on the underside of the bar. When he heard the heavy door open above, he slipped back into the storage room and re-emerged presently, pulling on the long-beaked Plague Doctor mask he was known for in these parts. To show a modicum of respect, he gently turned down the volume dial on the phonograph so that speaking -- or more likely listening on his part -- would be made easier. He could then hear the footsteps slowly, carefully picking their way down stone steps, and the creak of the railing as it bore a tight and dependent grip. 

The tender reclaimed his glass and plucked a fresh rag from the disinfecting box, but looked expectantly towards the archway framing the stairwell. Moments later, Old Hat oozed into view, draped in swaths of dusty black fabric so tattered, Jovial was hard-pressed to make out the style of the outfit. In the dim, golden light of the bar, they looked like a shabby black smudge from which a tiny, rosy-cheeked porcelain face peeked. Even this cherubic countenance was partially obscured by the wide brim of an oversized hat that drooped from its own weight, much like its wearer. Jovial had always Old Hat looked like an old, worn out crow, but despite appearances, this was The Smoke Ring’s most highly regarded dealer of information. Their presence here, before hours, was curious, indeed. 

“Hah! Qual’s Left Hand!” they cursed, “Do you dig yourself deeper into the ground every week in addition to changing to code?!” Jovial did not respond and resumed polishing. 

Undeterred by the bartender’s infamously poor manners, Old Hat tossed one end of their battered boa over their shoulder and unknowingly lost a few more sorely needed feathers. Then, with all the grandiose of an old duchess draped in pearls, they made their slow promenade across the bar to a pair of tired old easy chairs. The seats had been placed together and angled to look out across the room with the clear intent of enabling eager lean-overs and whispered gossip. Even without a partner with whom to exchange such delights, Old Hat claimed one of these as their throne when they dropped their sizable backside into one with a muffled ‘whumf!’ and stared at the bartender with a posture of aloof entitlement. The chair wheezed beneath the heft, but valiantly remained standing.

“A tumble of Djint, Jovial, if you will.” 

The responding tilt of the bartender’s head sent deep shadows across the bone white countenance of his mask. He kept his thoughts a guarded secret behind it as he wordlessly uncorked a bottle and poured a finger of its inky contents as requested. With gloved fingers crowning the rim of the bronze tumbler, he slid the drink across the bar, but made no effort to take it to his visitor seated at the far end of the little cavern. “Here you are, Old Hat.” 

A beat of silence followed. The tinny whine of a horn rose up into the air, wailing out a passionate solo to fill it. The chair creaked painfully as Old Hat leaned forward and regarded their host in emphasis of the fact that they were waiting. But Jovial had already selected a fresh glass to polish and seemed perfectly rooted to his position behind the bar. The old crow finally conceded the match of wills with a soft clearing of their throat and pushed themself back out of the seat with some difficulty. In a huff, they uselessly smoothed their hands down the front of their outfit, and spoke again as normal, “Why, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’ll join you here at the bar.”

“Go right ahead.” Jovial invited with a single nod of his head, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Fer?” 

Old Hat hopped up onto a bar stool and adjusted their hat to be able to see Jovial from beneath it, “Well, I won’t waste either of our time by dancing around it.” They prefaced as they pinched the chin of their mask and slid the bottom half of it away to reveal their true lips -- painted, Jovial observed, in what appeared to be black. They lifted the Djint to their mouth and paused to breathe in the syrupy scent of the spirit, and then sighed out in appreciation, “Such a treat these days. You are a saint, an absolute saint, for providing this service to the dregs of society, Jovial.” Another nod was given in response to the praise, and Old Hat indulged in a sip. “Mm.” Their lips grimaced and briefly peeled away to reveal grey teeth behind them. “Delicious.” 

“You were saying, Fer?” Jovial asked to steer them back to revealing their intent as time marched persistently onward towards open. He finished polishing the last glass and moved on to methodically disinfecting his bar tools next.

“Ah, yes, yes.” Old Hat raised up a little from the vague puddle they seemed to be slowly melting into as they relaxed under the effects of the liquor. “Well, there really is no delicate way to put it, Jovial,” they said and splayed their hand towards him in gesture. “It has come to my awareness -- and, of course, I cannot reveal my source --...that you are up to some rather interesting things in your free time.” 

Jovial stilled, holding a pestle in one hand and a disinfecting wand in the other, and tilted his head by a shallow degree to indicate curiosity. His visitor now clearly had his full attention, to which Old Hat smiled, pleased. “That is to say, Jovial, that I know who you are and what you’ve been up to…and I want in.”