It wasn’t a loud sort of noise that woke me that morning, not really. It was loud, of course, but it didn’t feel loud. it never did with Gary Dirin. Gary always made exactly as much noise as was needed, and it always felt right. He had that way with a lot of things, or so the ladies told us in the days after, when he was lost to us, if not the world.
The noise woke me, but it didn’t scare me, it wasn’t that kind of noise. It wrested me from a particularly nice dream, and if anything, I was more irritated than anything else. Who would be bothering me from a nice sleep on this couch at our favorite tavern?
Why, Gary Dirin of course. And he had a mischevious twinkle in his eye. That was about all I could discern, my head swimming as it was with refuse from the previous night’s debauchery.
Gary beamed down at me, and offered me a glass of something. I could tell by the smell it was his foul wake-up juice: damnably effective, but I swear it would’ve killed a sober man with a single drop.
Knowing the alternative, I took his glass and downed it all in one go. A short bit of gasping and spitting later, and I was more or less sober.
Gary still had that twinkle in his eye, and his grin had stretched to unusual lengths. He took me by the arm and sat me down in the corner booth and rummaged in his great-coat and this is what he pulled out and put down between us on the table: his bible, which was well worn, but we’d never seen him reading; an old six-gun; a flask of whiskey, his favorite; and something that to this day I swear was a pair of glass eyes, but I could never get a good look before Gary took them in his hand and started to spin them around and over each other. He told me later it was to keep them calm, but we’ll get to that.
Gary took these things and put them in front of me and then he looked me in the eye, that twinkle brighter than ever, and only then did he speak. “My friend,” Gary said, “I would request your accompaniment on an adventure, of sorts. Open the bible, you will find all you need in there. Follow the map and meet me at the appointed location in three days time, bring everything listed. Keep the gun, but don’t use it if you can avoid it. If you have the spirit and perhaps a thirst for life like you’ve shown in here on occasion, you may make it out of this alive and a fair amount richer than your wildest dreams. If the stories are true, of course.”
I reached out to open the book, but Gary clamped his hand on top of mine and grinned again. “My friend…” he said. “I must have your word. Once you begin this you cannot turn back for any reason. If you doubt for any reason, say so now and perhaps we may meet again someday. If you say yes, I will take my leave, for I have certain matters to attend to.”
He released my hand and stood up, buttoning down his coat. Still twirling those eyes in his hand, he turned to me once more. “Your answer, then, my friend.”
Now, I admit, for a moment I was scared and thought I might pass and perhaps try to find that dream again. But there was something about Gary that day… perhaps the twinkle in his eyes or the way he grinned when he spoke. I was never entirely sure, but it doesn’t matter I suppose. I looked up at him, grinned right back, and told him I’d be there. Three days.
He smiled, a big broad smile, and he laughed, and then he took the glass eyes, if that is what they were, and he dashed them on the floor. From the shards he picked up two black bullets, black as night, which he carefully, almost delicately placed point up on the table next to the bible and the pistol and the flask. He grinned, reminded me to be cautious with the weapon, and left.
I took the book and the gun and the bullets and the flask and put them in my pockets, carefully as Gary had, and retired to my room upstairs, for you never know who was watching and it’s awfully easy not to care when Gary Dirin is around, but not quite so easy when he is not. I took them then and placed them on my little table and sat for a moment, and then I opened the book.
(end part one - more coming)
I'm a 30-year-old 
