In the heart of  a quiet town, on an equally quiet Thursday, where on a quaint street , stood a tall building built from red bricks, that were turning to brown.

In this building, six stairs away to the top is a bar, a seedy one, with tall stools for chairs and cracking wood planks  set in the wall, for tables.

The bar was occupied by a wiry looking man in his mid forties, who was placing bottle after bottles of beers , for customers as well as plate after plates of pepper soup, made by his wife, who was at the back of the bar.

Nothing much happens in this bar, the Capons , politicians and cultists don’t patronise this place. The capons found it to be an easy place to be found, the politicians couldn’t afford to smear their reputations and cultists found it too confining, for reasons best known to them.

Only the road construction workers, the mechanics, plumbers and any other person that wasn’t mentioned above, so you see nothing could ever happen in this bar nor in the quiet street it dwelled in.                           Well most of the time.

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At 8:34 am, Lanre entered the bar, he hated the quiet street, the sleazy bar , and despised the moody effect the whole place had on him.

But it was for the last time, very soon it would be over, Simon would come and they would finalise this crappie deal.

He was dressed as casually as he could.          In plain black trousers, a blue polo shirt, a leather jacket, plain black pumps and a black and blue checkered baseball cap. He hoped to God, that he looked nothing like the lawyer that he was.

Walking towards the bar, he sat down on his favourite stool, the one at the edge of the bar, overlooking a curtainless windows , with most of the louvres missing.

‘As usual?’ The bar man asked.

Lanre just nodded stiffly,being nowhere near the mood for this man’s cheeriness.

Lanre downed a large portion of the Guinness in one swig , he was wiping froth away from his lips when Simon came in.

Simon was averagely built, with a straggle for strides and a plump body coupled with an always smiling face, he looked nothing like the police officer that he was.

‘I see you came early today’.Lanre sarcastically commented.

‘I saw you walk into the room.’ Simon retorted, taking the Guinness bottle and downing the rest of it’s content.

Lanre humphed at that, before ordering for two more beers.

‘So did the Governor call?’ He asked, turning to hand one to Simon.

‘Yes, he confirmed the payment and asked me to commend you for a job impeccably done’. Lanre smiled broadly at that.

‘And where is the money?’.

‘In my car’s boot, but I won’t be handing it over now, someone’s watching’

Lanre turned back, his eyes searching for any spy- like individual in the almost deserted room.

‘I don’t think so’ he said, after confirming that there was nobody like that.

‘I know so. I’ll drop it at your house later today’. Simon said indifferently.

‘No you won’t’. Lanre narrowed his eyes at the police officer, ‘You don’t know where I live’.

‘Oh but I do, look don’t worry’. Simon was standing up abruptly,  suddenly looking ill at ease,  Lanre saw this and pulled him down hard on the stool, and at the same time, jerking away the pistol, Simon had been surreptitiously slipping out of it’s band, Lanre flanged it to a far corner in the bar.

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Ten minutes later, Barrister Lanre was walking down the building steps, away from the bar, where Simon lay on the floor, with broken bottles on his foreforehead, The bar man looking sick and a customer hiding under the plank.

There was no money in the boot, but there were loud sirens chasing after him,  as he sped through the quiet street……………..