Chapter 76: Some Phone

The man scratched at his coarse beard, then at his scalp.

"Again, what’ya sellin’?"

"You’re going to like this, drunk man—"

"—DRUNK MAN?!" Milo tossed the remaining half of his kebab on the counter and dragged both palms down his face. "You do not even know his name, and you give up your own. What kind of businesswoman are you?"

"I know his name, okay? You’re the one who needed me in here to introduce you."

"So what is his name?"

"Bar."

"...Bar?" He spun around to check the sign above the door. "How naive are you? Do you really believe a drunk man running a bar happens to be named Bar?"

"Everyone calls him that."

"It’s nothing more than a facade!"

"Kid number one with blond hair, calm down." A thick, dirty finger stopped short of his nose. "Kid number two with pink hair, also calm down. You’re here to sell me a thing, so get on with it."

Perhaps they were saved after all, and the man retained no names whatsoever. Perhaps he had even lost his own, which was why everyone, himself included, called him Bar.

Spend your whole life in one establishment, with its function written above the door, and Bar would be the only thing that couldn’t slip your memory.

The wrapper peeled off the sticky wood as Milo retrieved his kebab.

Ew...

Milo folded the contaminated side inward and transferred it to his left hand before drawing the knife from his right pocket.

The man’s palm opened, waiting.

With Layla’s stare growing only more frustrated at his side, Milo dropped the knife into it.

A white, clean page opened in front of Bar.

Evidently, appraisals did not discriminate against drunk men either. Just how bad did one have to be to get a yellowed, crumpled one?

"Ight. I can give you maybe thirty coins for it."

"Thirty?" He faced Layla. "How much is that in phones?"

"Uh, like two?"

"But two good phones, or two bad phones? Okay, wait, no. Let me not overcomplicate it. How much did your phone cost?"

"It was a long time ago... The price’s gone down by now. Maybe fifty?"

"And yours is good... so I’m getting zero point six of Layla’s phone..."

Milo began scratching at his imaginary beard, and Bar raised an eyebrow.

While he bought things every now and then, a journal here and a notebook there, he had never been much of a spender.

All he knew was that Layla’s phone worked and could run RPGs, which ought to make it good. Thirty coins wouldn’t buy one of its caliber, never mind leave anything for the road.

Since he could not keep on living off others forever, he needed more resources.

Owning only one blade rendered him both desperate to sell it but also a reason to be stubborn enough to squeeze it for all it would give.

"Do you know what I sense, drunk man? Bar?"

"What?"

"Scam." Milo jabbed a finger at the carving below the four pale grooves. "This is a work of art you can fight with, and all you’re offering is thirty coins?"

"Yeah, except that work of art ain’t even finished."

"The unfinished part doesn’t make the rest of it disappear. I demand a minimum of forty coins."

"Now who’s scammin’ who!" Bar slammed his hands on the counter, the knife tight in his fist. "That’s a fortune you’re scrubbin’ off of a single blade."

"That’s not even one whole phone of Layla’s."

"I don’t give a shit what crazy currency you’re pricin’ it in, but you can dream about forty."

As the thick fingers loosened on the handle, tilting the knife back toward his side of the counter, Milo spread his palms.

If his only customer lost interest—game over!

"Thirty-five. Okay, no. Thirty-three. That surely isn’t scrubbin’ a fortune off of a single blade by your standards. Finishing the band can’t take that long, so you could turn a profit."

"Hmm..."

At last, the man kept the knife and stooped behind the counter before returning with a leather bag of clicking coins.

The money clattered onto the wood.

Bar counted the coins out in a row, and Milo swept them toward himself one at a time, counting again.

The last one made thirty.

"Wait. I’m three short? That was the old price?"

"Ha. Good catch. As diligent as the knife."

With a snort, Bar slid over the rest.

After thanking him for the transaction, Milo headed for the door alongside Layla. Because the right pocket had a hole in it, the coins went into the left, on top of the petals.

In his head, the phone models were brightening again, when...

A stool scraped.

"Get your asses over here, boys! Look at what I just got for a measly thirty-three!"

"You bastard!" somebody called.

"Ha, fuckin’ financial genius!"

"Hahahaha!"

Milo turned with his hand on the door.

His knife gleamed in the man’s fist. The hoarse laughter drowned out the jazz.

Steering him out into the alley, Layla seized his shoulders.

As diligent as the knife?

The door shut.

...

Thud!

"Shit!" Milo kicked the wall, flakes of mortar pattering down. "He scammed me. He totally scammed me, and I knew it! I knew it!"

"You came here for a phone," Layla said, reaching for his back. "You’ve got enough for one."

He lurched out from under her hand to deliver another kick.

"Milo, you’ll kick a hole through it!"

"He could see the desperation in my eyes." Milo rounded on her. "Why didn’t you tell me how desperate I looked? If I’d stood firm on forty, he’d have paid it. He would’ve paid the forty!"

"You offered him thirty-three. Why are you shouting at me?"

"...Man, I get you."

The rasp rose from the corner of the alley. Stench drifted over shortly after.

"Alco in there’s way too expensive," the drunk went on, slumped against the brick. "No one listens."

With one last wince, Milo turned from the wall and made for the lip.

"Whatever. You’re right, I can buy some phone now. Let’s go."

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⋆˚࿔ Coming right up: "Hi, Milo" ... ⤵︎ [!]