Boston Bar Crawl
The plan had been simple. One night in Boston. A few bars. No drama.
By the time the group spilled out of the first place and into the cold Atlantic air, the plan was already in pieces.
Nathan Trentham led the way, coat collar up, still arguing with Josef Gunther about whose turn it was to buy the next round. Jacques Guillaume walked with his hands in his pockets, the quiet Ottawa investigator looking faintly amused by the chaos. Bat Gan Temujin kept pace beside him, solid and unreadable, while Mikael Eino and James Brogan brought up the rear with the Major. On Brogan’s shoulder rode Hamster Dave, a small golden blur of whiskers and judgement. And weaving between their legs like he owned the sidewalk was Marmalade, the big orange alley cat with one torn ear, tail high, already scouting the next doorway.
They hit Cheaters first because Pat still owed Brogan a favour from years back and because Marmalade had history there.
The moment the big cat stepped inside, a cheer went up from the dressing-room end of the bar. Velvet spotted him, shrieked, and came out in nothing but a robe and heels. “There’s my cute little baby!” she cried, scooping Marmalade up before he could pretend he didn’t love it. He endured the hugs, the kisses on his scarred head, and the chorus of dancers calling him every soft name in the book. For a cat who usually answered only to violence and spicy chicken, he looked suspiciously content.
Bat Gan Temujin found himself near the stage when one of the table dancers—tall, smiling, and very aware of her effect—caught his eye. She danced closer, gave him the full treatment, and leaned down just enough to make his ears go pink. The others howled. Bat muttered something in Mongolian that made Guillaume laugh into his beer.
They stayed long enough for Marmalade to hop from table to table, accepting scratches and the occasional piece of chicken that Pat sent out. At one point the cat leapt onto the stage during a slow number and sat under the lights like he was waiting for his cue. The crowd lost it. Dave the hamster, still perched on Brogan’s shoulder, watched the whole thing with profound disapproval.
Next stop was the Rusty Nail, a darker, quieter place with sticky floors and a jukebox that still took quarters. The group claimed a long table in the back. Beers arrived. Stories started.
Nathan went first—something about the great prank war of ’08 when he and Josef had spent three weeks escalating practical jokes until Josef filled Nathan’s car with packing peanuts and Nathan responded by replacing every photo on Josef’s desk with pictures of the same confused-looking goat. Josef countered with the time he had convinced an entire office that Nathan had been promoted to a fictional department in Winnipeg. The Major shook his head and admitted he had once spent a month answering only to the name “Captain Overtime” after a particularly vicious memo war.
Jacques Guillaume, usually the quietest, told a dry, precise story about finding a trail of questionable invoices in Ottawa during the referendum years and how the whole thing had felt like watching men try to paper over a crack in a dam. He kept the names out of it. The table still went quiet for a moment.
Bat spoke next, voice low. He told them about the three children in Ulaanbaatar, the long train south into China, and the rich family that had tried to erase an inconvenient past. He left out most of the hard parts. When he finished, Mikael Eino raised his glass and said something about fathers and the things they leave behind. Brogan just nodded. He had seen enough roads to recognise another man who had walked a hard one.
James Brogan went last. He kept it light—some story about a diner in the Midwest, a waitress, and a man who needed to be reminded that certain behaviour had consequences. The Major added a single dry comment that made everyone laugh harder than the story deserved.
By the time they reached the Dirty Spoon the group was properly tipsy. The Spoon was the kind of late-night place that served greasy food and stronger beer and asked no questions. They took over a corner booth. Marmalade immediately began a full inspection of the premises, hopping from table to table, charming the staff, and once attempting to climb onto the small stage where a local band was packing up. Someone put a saucer of water down for him. Dave the hamster had migrated to Nathan’s shoulder and was now asleep under his collar.
They ordered another round. The stories got looser. Old pranks were re-litigated. Someone claimed the goat photos had been Josef’s finest work. Someone else insisted the Winnipeg department still occasionally received mail. Guillaume admitted that even in the middle of serious investigations there had been moments of pure absurdity. Bat smiled for the first time that night when Velvet’s earlier voice floated back to him—“cute little baby”—and the table gave him hell for it.
Marmalade eventually settled in the middle of the table like a furry orange centrepiece, eyes half-closed, tolerating the occasional drunken scratch behind the ears. Dave snored softly. The Major raised his glass one last time.
“To the ones who fix things,” he said.
“And the ones who break them for fun,” Nathan added.
“And the cats,” Brogan said, glancing at Marmalade.
“And the hamsters,” Mikael finished.
They drank. Outside, Boston moved on without them. Inside the Dirty Spoon the good times kept rolling—stories and beer and the low, satisfied rumble of a big cat who, for one more night, was exactly where he wanted to be.
