Friday afternoon, down at Harry's Hideaway

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Cain shrugged his coat off as he headed for his usual booth at Harry's. At four in the afternoon, the place was mostly empty except for the old-timers sitting around holding a mumbled conversation. Most likely the same one they'd had for the past six years, knowing them. Crazy old coots, Cain thought to himself, before doing a minor double take. Then again, they probably ain't that much older than me.

"You're in early," Harry remarked to Cain, peering over the top of his bifocals. Cain chuckled and lifted a manila folder full of official-looking documents.

"Had some business in Salem Center," he remarked. "Bit of a talk with my new accountant." Cain slid into the both and fanned a handful of the papers before him, pulling a pen from his shirt pocket. "Just whatever's on tap'll be fine, Harry."

"Ain't had nothing on tap but Coors since I opened the place, I told you," Harry's voice was full of barely-masked humor as he playfully scolded Cain. "Course, now that you got yourself an accountant, you'll prob'ly be drinking over at one of those fancy bars over by the new mall. All fruity umbrellas and whatnot."

Marko laughed loudly, then laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. "What, and miss this place? Hell, those places probably look poorly on throwing your peanut shells on the floor. And microbrews. What the hell's a microbrew anyway?" Cain nodded as Harry slid the mug of frothy beer to the end of the bar. Leaning over the bar, Cain downed a swallow, wiped his mouth, and continued. "Hell, this place's as good as any to unwind. You're sure you don't mind me using it Sunday, Harry?"

Harry shrugged, his amusement visible as he pretended to mull over the decision. "Don't no one but Clem and Otis over there ever come in on a Sunday. And no one's bothered to use that big TV you bought. Hell, I don't think I had a new face walk in here in ten years until you came back home. Well, 'cept for those folks up at your brother's school."

Cain snorted at the mention of the school. "Teachers. Heh. Fillin' these kids' heads with all sorts of notions. Ain't giving them a lick of what the real world's like out here. Chuck, he's got his big ideas, and his high-falutin' dream - just sayin' it ain't got a chance in hell." Downing his beer, he tilted the glass to Harry, who immediately began refilling it.

"I don't know," Harry replied, "y'all got some special kids up there. World ain't ready for stuff like that, ain't gonna be until someone makes it that way, you know? Maybe Charlie's that guy."

Cain smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Chuck couldn't lead his own ass out of a paper sack with both hands and a road map. All he's got is a dream, stupid little naive schoolboy dream, he's never changed and he ain't gonna." Cain began downing his second beer as he spoke. "Me, all I want to do is have a bit of peace and quiet in my own house, dammit. Charles, he's got his school and his dream. Whoop de da."

"And what do you got, Cain?" Harry demanded, smoothing down his salt-and-pepper hair. "Long as I remember, you and Charlie been working at, whatsit, cross purposes. You gonna just retire up there?"

Cain shook his head. "Look at me, Harry. You think anyone's gonna believe I'm two years from Social Security? Hell, you were what, eight years old when I left and look at you. And look at me." Cain glared down at Harry. "I thought I was going to pretend I could have a normal life, but seeing Chuck and those kids reminds me - pretending and dreaming's his deal. Not mine."

"So what, then?" Harry asked. "What do you got, Cain?"

Cain smiled, picking up his folder. "Money," he whispered. "This whiz kid from Manhattan they hooked me up with, Cameron Hodge, did a bit of checking. Turns out that before he kicked it, my old man set up a trust fund for me and for Chuck. Chuck invested his and used it to build that school. Mine, well - they thought I was dead. So Chuck let it sit there, planning to use it for some foundation that he said he was gonna name after me. Hah. So they get it all legal and signed back over to me, and voila."

"Big check, huh?" Harry tried to feign disinterest while sneaking a glance at the papers. "Lot of money Charlie's been throwing around over the years. Wonder what kind of interest forty years gets?"

Cain silently pulled a piece of paper out from the folder and slid it across the bar to Harry. The barkeep looked down, then coughed wildly, eyes bugging out of his head. "Tell me I'm reading this right, Cain. My eyes obviously ain't what they used to be."

Cain took the paper back, folding it back into the envelope it had come from. "So I figured it out," he began, "I could walk into a bank, smash a hole in any safe or vault ever made, walk out with a sack the size of a pickup truck - and it'd take me going up and down the Eastern Seaboard three times to make this."

"Clean living from here out, then?" Harry regained his composure, then looked at Cain's flannel shirt and faded jeans. "You ain't dressing like big money yet, anyway."

Cain drained the last of his beer, pushing the mug away gently. "And I ain't gonna. Far as I'm concerned, what's mine stays mine. And if push comes to shove with Chuck," Cain stood up, grabbing his coat from the table, "and I ain't sayin' it will - but if it does, what's rightfully mine's gonna STAY mine, know what I'm saying?"

Harry nodded, suddenly mindful of the seven-foot behemoth who could crush steel in his fingers, standing and talking to him like an old friend. "Ain't my squabble, Cain. I'll put the beer on your tab."

Cain rolled his shoulders under his coat, reaching for the door. "Much obliged, Harry. See you Sunday."

The bells on the door jingled and rang as Cain walked back out into the light January snow, leaving behind a barkeep wiping his counter, and two oblivious old coots, still mumbling to themselves.