McCool's Tavern - Freeport 1

[El Commandante]

Ezio grimaced with every step, the click-click-click of his cane on the deck keeping time with the throbbing pain in his leg.
The doctors on Mindelo were convinced he should still be taking bed rest, and Ezio was half-convinced they were right; but he had been laid in that thrice-damned hospital unit for three months, and he was not a man accustomed to being out of commission.
As he click-click-clicked his way into McCool's, a slight cry of remembrance went up from some of the locals, and shouts of recogition, for him to join in on a game of cards or dice as he was wont, to drink (He was always very generous with his tab, a fashion that endears one to the baser sort); but he waved them off with a few words, shifting his way through the tables and stools to a small booth, and imparting to a waitress a request for a drink, if such a pretty lass would be so obliged.
He was here on business, as it always is with intelligence agents; even when here on pleasure, it was always business.
He sat sipping his drink, not forgetting to toss a wink and a smile and, more importantly, a generous tip at the girl who brought him it, simply sitting and waiting as he listened to the chatter and hum of the place.
His leg still hurt rather badly.

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