Page 31

DIESEL

I t’s been five days since Symphony warned me that Bailey was going to out the location of the Leaky Skull to the Pickles, but no one has shown up yet. We got through an entire weekend.

Maybe we’re in the clear.

Merrick and I lean on the bar, watching the smattering of patrons drinking on a Monday afternoon. It’s early yet.

A new band, Carnal Depravity, is setting up on the stage. They’re not great, so we said we’d test them on a Monday. Can’t scare too many people off on a day this quiet.

We watch the sluggish trio drag a drum set through the side door. They look haggard and a bit green.

Merrick shakes his head. “When does hiring a band become an actual legal liability?”

“I dunno. We’ve picked some winners lately.”

“I should use a booking agent. Get rid of the riffraff.”

I lug the bag of peanuts from under the bar to fill the random bowls sitting around to keep people thirsty. “Don’t kid yourself. We are the riffraff.”

Merrick grunts in agreement.

The front door opens, and I tense like I’ve been doing since Symphony texted me Bailey’s plan.

But it’s Jake coming on shift.

“Hey, boss,” he says, then takes the bag from me to finish the task.

I check the bar fridges to make sure they’re well stocked, bending down to push the bottles around.

That’s why I miss the door opening again.

But Merrick mutters, “Shit,” and kicks my leg.

“What?”

“Get up here.”

I know from his tone exactly what’s happened.

I stand up.

Our very own Uncle Sherman hurries toward the bar, arms outstretched. “You’re both here! This is perfect. Look, Martin. Your two boys. What a great day!”

Dad looks ill at ease, rubbing the back of his neck.

The bikers are watching. Both Dad and Uncle Sherman are wearing full-on suits, like this is some high-end whiskey lounge where they’re about to strike a business deal.

Merrick and I brace our hands on the bar like we’re preparing for an attack.

Because we are.

Neither of us greets the two men as they settle on stools at the bar.

“Seems safer over here,” Dad says, working hard not to make eye contact with any of the regulars.

“Nonsense,” Sherman says, turning to wave at the occupied tables. “Just hard-working folks.” He ensures his booming voice carries wall to wall.

This gets a ripple of laughter from the room.

“Watcha got on tap?” Sherman asks, nonplussed by the reaction to his comment. Dad glances around nervously.

I ignore his question. “Why are you here?”

“To see your establishment, of course!” Sherman says. “There’s a lot of room here. High occupancy. Good for growth. Did you know our first pickle deli only sat twenty?”

“We’ve been there,” Merrick says. “Grammy still runs it.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Sherman taps the counter. “I can see you have a pilsner. Can I get one of those?”

I don’t move. Neither does Merrick.

“I’ll get it,” Jake says.

But I hold up a hand. “I don’t think these gentlemen will be staying long enough for a drink.”

“Nonsense,” Sherman says. “There’s no need to be uncivilized. Bring two. Have a drink with your father.”

But Jake knows who signs his checks. He holds still.

Two-Shit sidles up to the bar, unable to resist seeing what’s up. “This your pop?” He tilts his skull cap toward Sherman.

I don’t answer him either. “They were just leaving.”

“Hell yeah,” Two-Shit says. “I love it when we’ve got ourselves a problem.” He lets out a sharp whistle and motions Low Joe and Chain over.

Dad’s eyes about pop out of his head when the three men in jeans, boots, and leather come up behind him and Sherman.

“These your bouncers?” Sherman says, turning to look. “They look like they get the job done. And loyal. That doesn’t come easy. You boys are doing good work.”

Two-Shit knows bullshit when he hears it. “Diesel says you were leaving.”

Dad stands up. “It was good seeing you boys. We’ll call ahead next time.”

But Sherman holds up a hand. “Martin, sit the hell down. I didn’t get to where I am by being intimidated by a couple of heavies.” He feels around in his pocket and drops a pile of cash on the counter. “Let’s buy a round for the entire bar.”

Nobody misses that. The tables clear, everyone heading to the counter for a free pint.

“The good stuff,” Sherman says. “What’s everyone’s poison? Whiskey? Scotch? Bourbon?”

I nod toward Jake, who starts pulling bottles and pouring. He slides glasses down the bar with ease.

“Good crew,” Sherman says. “Good crew.”

But Two-Shit, Low Joe, and Chain haven’t budged. They like a conflict more than a shot of anything else.

Sherman picks up a glass and holds it to them. “Can you imbibe, or is that no-go on the clock?”

“We don’t work here,” Two-Shit says. “But we do what Diesel says.”

“We like throwing people out,” Chain adds. “It makes our day.”

Sherman slaps another wad of cash on the bar. “Second round if we’re still here in half an hour,” he says.

A cheer goes up, and glasses clink. There’s only about twenty people in the bar, but it includes all the hardcore bruisers.

Sherman turns to Chain. “Your friends here won’t want to miss out on another free drink. If you’re planning on escorting us to the parking lot, you’re outnumbered.”

But Chain doesn’t budge. “There’s some shit money can’t buy. And overstaying your welcome in our bar is one of them.”

“Look at that loyalty!” Sherman booms. “We should have had Diesel in charge at Dougherty when things were down over there. No matter, Bailey got that settled.” He spins on his stool to face me again.

“So good of you to come to their wedding. What a surprise appearance.” He sips the glass he offered Chain and doesn’t quite suppress his grimace.

Yeah, it’s probably not his usual.

Merrick and I haven’t moved. This is getting old.

“Just say what you want to say and move on,” I tell them.

“He wants to hear from me!” Sherman says, turning to the bar. “I was beginning to wonder if I a ghost!”

“That can be arranged,” Chain says.

Dad goes pale.

But Sherman laughs. “I’m so impressed by all this.” He examines the glass. “Keep costs down with low-end spirits. Widely available beer. How often do you renegotiate your distribution contracts?”

He doesn’t seem to expect an answer and goes right on. “You could add merchandising. With this sort of setup and crowd, you could probably have a secondary pool of customers willing to people watch. Provide pricier cocktails to them. Voyeurs.”

The roadies test the drum set with a clash of cymbals and thump thump of the bass.

“Live music!” Sherman crows. “Even better. Although I hope they’re playing for tips since it’s a Monday.

” He downs the rest of his drink with another grimace.

“I’ll send some people over. We can have this place upgraded in no time.

Double your receipts, I’d bet, inside a month.

Those reviews you have add loads of authenticity.

What formerly rebellious office worker wouldn’t want to revisit his misspent youth by coming here?

Or new empty nesters wanting a taste of the wild side? ”

Two-Shit meets my gaze. “He goes on like a movie villain, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” Merrick says. “Now, show them out.”

“We’re off,” Sherman says, standing before any of the men put a hand on him. “Come along, Martin. Don’t look like you’re about to piss yourself. Diesel, Merrick, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

What the hell? “You won’t,” I say. “This is your first and last visit to our bar.”

“I wish it was,” he says, and his tone shifts. “You’ve got some real problems in this jurisdiction. Did you know your expansion permits have been held up indefinitely? And that your liquor license is coming up due, and they have no intention of renewing it?”

I glance at Merrick. “That’s bullshit.”

“Not a bit. Nobody wants this bar out here. You know that. You’ve traded your leather for a suit to attend their council meetings.”

Fuck. He’s done his homework. And more.

“Are you threatening us?” At my tone, Two-Shit and Chain move closer. Dad practically hugs the counter.

“No, no, quite the opposite. I have a way with people like that. I’ve given you the plan. Get some legitimate customers out here. Make a play on the theme, but clean things up. It’s doable. I’m here to help.”

The pressure in my chest is so intense, I feel like I’m going to explode into blood and bone. “Merrick and I have it handled.”

Sherman stands, turning to grasp Two-Shit’s hand for a hearty shake. “Great to me you. We’ll get it handled. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He waves to the room as if everyone here is a new friend. “Enjoy your drinks, everyone.”

As soon as Chain moves aside, Dad leaps from his stool.

The room watches as the two men head for the door. The white cone of light pierces the gloom as they walk out, then disappears again.

“Fuck,” Merrick says. “You think he’s for real?”

I gather empty glasses together for Jake to take to the back. “Don’t know. Sherman doesn’t generally make shit up.”

“Dad looked scared shitless.”

“He did.” I glance at the clock. Three-thirty. Still time to go to the permit office and see if anyone there will say what Sherman told us to my face. “I’m going to check on things.”

Merrick picks a bottle of Jameson to pour one for himself. It’s that kind of day. “All right. Keep me updated.”

But as I pass through the kitchen on my way to the back lot, a heavy feeling in my gut tells me that my bar troubles just got co-opted by my family.

And our independence from the Pickle clan is already completely fucked.