[1/16/98]

Charlie's Tavern(#683RJ)
The environment of this questionable establishment seems close and hot around 
  you despite its fair size. The walls are done up in unremarkable fake-wood 
  paneling, an ugly dark-brown that chips in many places to show the lighter 
  plywood underneath. The floor is the sort of uneven, grey concrete that 
  suggests this building's earlier life as a garage of some sort; it dips and 
  rises, gathering small pools of beer and other spirits in various locations. 
  Wooden tables are scattered about, some in better repair than others but 
  most featuring elaborate networks of dents and scratches; a bar runs the 
  full west side of the room, its uniform brown length accented by a single 
  greasy metal footrest. Dark posters, long since faded into 
  incomprehensibility, hang off the walls at odd angles. What light there is 
  here reaches through in dusty beams from the two windows facing the street, 
  and from the flickering fluorescent rig swinging gently over the single 
  mottled pool table at the back. Perched up over one end of the bar is a 
  battered, black-and-white television.
A single battered black door leads back south to the street.

Salem sits at a table in the far corner with a beer and a cigarette, brooding 
  by himself. The tables near his are noticeably empty.

Gwyneth's Desc:
Six feet, if she's an inch, on your average female frame, with curves and 
  straight lines, all conspiring to work together. Hair of varying shades of 
  blonde and light brown sports a natural wave that slips right out of the 
  faded green ribbon that binds the majority into a shoulder-length ponytail, 
  and might once have matched her eyes.
A man's button-down shirt, boring brown, and unbuttoned, slips off one 
  shoulder, revealing the ivory tank-top beneath. Blue jeans that have faded 
  almost to white, with holes at the knees, and plain white sneakers, with 
  grease and other spots to mar them complete the look. Add a beaten brown 
  leather backpack to the picture, and she's off.

Gwyneth slips through the door of the tavern, letting the door close behind 
  her, and bump her the rest of the way into the room, though not truly off 
  balance. Despite the cold, she steps jauntily to one of those deliberately 
  abandoned tables, and sheds first backpack, then coat, into a spare chair. 
  "Better, much better," she remarks, aloud.

Salem glances up as the door opens, his eyes narrowing in deep-seated, 
  habitual suspicion, a suspicion that deepens as the woman chooses one of the 
  tables adjacent to his. Cigarette smoldering between two fingers, he regards 
  her with a frank, cold stare.

Gwyneth is unable to miss a look of that nature, and so she returns one of her 
  own, curious, if polite. Her eyebrows lift a little, and she dares a smile. 
  "It's a little cold, wouldn't you say?" She doesn't linger, but moves toward 
  the bar, and leans against it, familiarly, while a glass mug of coffee and 
  some liquer is prepared.

Salem's reply is a curt, noncommittal grunt. He watches her move toward the 
  bar for her drink and then turns away, bringing the cigarette to his lips 
  and inhaling deeply, his face tight and unsmiling.

Gwyneth returns, in time, and pulls out a chair opposite her backpack, to 
  settle into it, with a drawn-out sigh. She leans over to inhale the steam 
  from the coffee mug, and smiles once more. "That'll do." Without much of a 
  pause, she turns to ask, "Rough day?"

Salem's eyes, bloodshot and shadowed underneath, shift back toward Gwyneth as 
  the woman once more addresses him. He answers only after a short, tense 
  pause, and then curtly. "Yes."

Gwyneth props her hand on her fist, and the elbow of the same arm on the 
  tabletop, studying him. "Why?"

Salem frowns at her. "None of your fucking business."

Gwyneth's eyebrows lift once more, further this time. "No, I suppose it isn't. 
  Still, I -did- ask. Small talk, you know?"

"God _dammit_." Salem punctuates the oath with a slam of hand on table-top, 
  the noise drawing not a few nervous looks. "Why the hell does every woman in 
  the city want to engage me in small talk?" he demands.

Gwyneth straightens up, letting her arm drop to rest across the other, 
  propping her on the table's surface. Her coffee goes untouched. "Probably 
  because you cut such an intriguing portrait, tucked into the corner there, 
  wreathed in your cloud of smoke, and anger. It's like a shield you could ... 
  almost ... reach out and touch. If," she adds, "you weren't afraid of having 
  your fingers snapped off." She pauses for breath, and asks, "What would you 
  rather the women in the city did?"

A flicker of unease passes across Salem's features, to be replaced by blantant 
  suspicion. "They could grow some goddamned sense and leave me the hell 
  alone," he answers sharply. "Before they _do_ get their fingers snapped 
  off." And he glares at her, right into her eyes, not bothering to mute the 
  seething, feral rage boiling under his flesh.

Gwyneth mmms. Now, she picks up the coffee, and sips, replacing it after a 
  moment's thought. "Are the men any safer?"

Salem's reply is a curt, "No." He inhales a lungful of cigarette smoke and 
  blows it out in a thick cloud.

Gwyneth straightens up again. "What is it about you, then, that makes you lurk 
  in corners, waiting to be poked at?"

Salem's scowl deepens, full of defensive hostility. "I hate amateur 
  psychologists. Piss off."

Gwyneth holds up a hand, palm toward him, a symbol of her own defense. "I'm no 
  psychologist. I wouldn't presume. It was a ... simple question. My sincerest 
  apologies."

Salem sits back in his chair, relenting. Slightly. His expression remains 
  narrow and tight. "So. You're just... curious."

Gwyneth smiles, admitting, "I am. How could I help but -be- curious?" She 
  turns her attention to the other bar patrons, and gestures to them with her 
  chin, uncaring of the looks she's given in response. "They're all afraid of 
  you, though they wouldn't admit it. And you wear danger like a second skin. 
  How could I -not- be curious. You will, I hope, forgive me a human failing."

Salem's lips twitch, a subtle change of his expression indicating that the man 
  is flattered, despite himself. He grunts, passing his gaze across the bar 
  and inhaling upon the cigarette again. "Forgiven."

Gwyneth inhales, and offers, on the exhalation. "Gwyneth. That's my name. If 
  that's not too much information, from a pushy city woman." Her smile remains.

Salem finishes off the cigarette and stubs it dead in the bottlecap before 
  taking a long draught of beer. "Salem," he responds, in clipped tones. "Jack 
  Salem."

Gwyneth nods. "It's a pleasure -- an -honest- pleasure -- to meet you, Mr. 
  Salem. It's not every day that one meets someone unafraid to tell another to 
  piss off." Her smile widens into a grin. "Welcome to St. Claire."

Salem's lips twitch into a brief, tight, fleeting return smile. "And, oh, what 
  a joy it is," he replies, with cynical humor.

Gwyneth sips more of her coffee. "Mmm. Isn't it just? A cluttered city, 
  half-full of paranoic people who expect that their dearest treasures will be 
  stripped away from them at the smallest hint of interest from anyone outside 
  their nasty little clique, and the other half brimming with ignorant and 
  blinded creatures."

"Haves and Have-Nots," says Salem, after another swallow of cheap beer.

Gwyneth nods agreeably. "On more than one level."

Salem grunts agreement and finishes off his beer with a final swallow.

Gwyneth finishes her coffee, likewise, and rises, to return the glass. She 
  returns to the table, and gathers up her coat and backpack, slinging both on 
  in turn. "I'll see you again, Mr. Salem, I'm certain. I shall try not to 
  irritate you," she adds, with a very intentional wink. "Good luck."

Salem doesn't smile, but he does lift his empty beer bottle to the woman, his 
  dark, bloodshot eyes fixed upon her face.

Gwyneth pulls open the door and heads outside.
Gwyneth has left.