Rapture: The Big Daddy by Brubaker Dustin

Author:Brubaker, Dustin [Brubaker, Dustin]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2015-03-29T16:00:00+00:00

***

Fish for Fortune at Neptune’s Bounty read the plaque with a pelican and fish depicted on it in the terminal that led from the bathysphere station to what some called Port Neptune. Its official name was Neptune’s Bounty.

It was where the bar known as Fighting McDonagh’s was located, and hopefully, where I would get answers from this Peach Wilkins character.

Neptune’s Bounty’s docks and floor were busy with early-evening practices. Bringing in fishing subs and hauling out the day’s catch. I wove my way through the massive complex labeled the Lower Wharf, on the lookout for McDonagh’s sign.

Lionel had left without telling me what Peach looked like, so all I could do was go to the bar and ask around there. I wasn’t sure what kind of place it was, but judging by the gruff and worn look of the dockworkers, I might stick out a little.

My presence went unnoticed or ignored for the most part as I found my way to a large set of stairs with a sign that read “To Upper Wharf.” With no sign of the bar in sight, I took them. A red and white neon sign depicting a ship anchor told me I was in the right place. Below it was an open gate, beside which another bronze plaque hung, labeling the area as Pier 4. I stepped through the gate, past the stacks of cargo and length of thick rope that cluttered the floor.

Soon enough, the Fighting McDonagh’s Tavern easily made itself known. It was the tallest building in the whole of Neptune’s Bounty. A small staircase led up to its front door, which was dwarfed by the image of a large rooster-headed man with his hands raised, as if about to box. I could hear the shouts and cheers from inside before I even reached the door.

The tavern was packed, and as the door closed behind me, I found myself with little room to move. The interior was smaller than it looked, and much of that room was taken up by an actual boxing ring. Onlookers roared and whistled as two men went at it in the ring. Despite all the alcohol getting sloshed around with the ruckus, the place smelled like fish through and through.

Pushing through the crowd, passing by a set of shark jaws mounted on the wall, I made it to the surprisingly small bar, where several patrons -- including the bartender -- were also watching the fight. I took the lone empty stool and ordered a drink. This didn’t look the kind of place where you could just waltz in and ask for info.

A scotch and two rounds in the ring later, the atmosphere changed. The two haggard men in the ring stepped down and talk was buzzing about the participants in the next match. Bets were placed. The bartender addressed me for the first time.

“Ain’t never seen your face around here before. What brings ya?” he asked as he poured a beer for the gentleman sitting beside me.

I paused mid-sip.

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