Janie's Got a Gun by James D. Irwin

The Lounge was a haven for writers. The bar looked like a library. A fire crackled, even in summer. Books, leather bound, tiled the walls. The waitresses all dressed like the naughty librarians that only exist in filthy minds and sordid entertainments.

The chairs were cracked and tan and leather. They weren't chairs one sat in, but were consumed by. It was always lively, but never loud. Old jazz records played so low you didn't notice them until they stopped.

I didn't usually show up until after nine— nobody who was anybody did. I liked to think I was still somebody. I ordered a scotch and soda, then scratched the soda. It wasn't a social call.

I scanned the room. Jay was off in the corner, already sloppy with gin. His charm was failing him. The girl he was with threw remnants of a perfectly good martini in his face, then stormed off. Jay wiped his face, laughing to himself. They’d be other girls. There always were. He was still young, and more than a somebody.

I took my glass over and offered him a smoke. He accepted. We sat in smoked in the easy silence of old friendship. It was comfortable, but after a while I got bored of pretending to look bored.

‘Your wife knows’ I said, drawing on my cigarette.

‘And so what if she does?’

I didn't say anything for a moment. Jay kept fierce eyes on me whilst he took a violent swig from his gimlet.

‘You know Janie’s got a gun?’

Jay shifted uncomfortably, his bravado washing away. At his core he was a coward. He always had been. I finished my drink and left. We never spoke again.