by Marcus Sakey
“Then you’re not invited. Alex, Mitch, you guys want to come to the islands with me?”
“And leave all this?” Alex laughed and picked up a cloth, started buffing the bar. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and the muscles of his forearms were knotted ropes. “At this rate, in just twenty short years, I’ll be full manager. At which point if one of you wanted to shoot me, I’d thank you for the favor.”
“Why don’t you quit?” Mitch said.
“Why don’t you?”
“I—well, I mean, it’s a job, right?”
Alex nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s a job, all right.” He glanced down the line, where a plump, tanned guy stood with finger crooked, a gaudy ring flashing on one finger. “Speaking of.” He dropped the cloth and started away.
For a moment, silence fell. Then Ian raised his glass said, “Fuck work.”
Laughing, they clinked glasses. Jenn leaned into the bar, feeling good, a little bit of that old energy swirling around, the kind she missed, the sense that the evening could go anywhere, that there were adventures yet to be had. Ian asked the next Ready-Go question: What was something they would never, ever, do? Ready, go—and she settled in, let the night flow.
MITCH WASN’T DRUNK. Tipsy, OK, but not drunk. He’d had a couple of shots with Alex before the others arrived, and three or four beers since, a fair bit for two hours, but it had been a long day.
No, he wasn’t drunk, so that wasn’t why he was pissed off. Or it was only part of it. The real reason was that he’d finally caught his moment, and then the asshole had come over.
It was the guy Alex had gone to see. Mitch didn’t recognize him but guessed he was some sort of a bigwig, because Alex had nodded a lot and then disappeared into the back room and hadn’t returned. Which was perfect, because a few minutes later, Ian excused himself. The guy was famous for long bathroom breaks—they had a running joke that he must be restocking the toilet rolls—and so it had been just him and Jenn.
They had made small talk for a couple of minutes, Mitch still polishing lines in his head. When the conversation dropped off, he’d finished his beer and leaned forward. Now or never.
“So, I was thinking.” He wanted to meet her eyes but couldn’t, stared at his empty beer glass instead. Spun it on the edge. “You know, it might be fun sometime—”
“Hello, beautiful.” The voice that smooth tone of someone used to getting what he wanted. “How come I’ve never seen you in here before?”
Mitch had looked up to find the guy standing between him and Jenn, right between them, giving Mitch his back like he wasn’t even there. A shiny silk shirt and sharp cologne.
Jenn said, “Maybe because you haven’t been here before?” She turned slightly on her chair, legs crossed at the knee and then recrossed at the ankle, a tangle of dark jeans and soft leather boots.
“No, couldn’t be that. Must be I’ve been in the office most of the time,” the guy said. “I own the joint.”
“Yeah?” She said it with a slight challenge, but Mitch couldn’t help but notice that her arms weren’t folded.
“That’s right. This one, a couple others. Keeps me busy. But if I’d known you were out here, I wouldn’t have worked so hard.” The guy held out a hand. “John Loverin. People call me Johnny Love.”
She laughed. “You kidding me?”
“I know,” he said and laughed too, the smug bastard. “What do they call you?”
Don’t say Tasty. Please don’t say Tasty.
“Jenn,” she said. “And this is my friend Mitch.”
“Oh, yeah?” The guy turned at the waist, gave a quick nod, then turned his back again. “Nice to meet you, Jenn.”
Mitch cleared his throat, said, “Listen—”
“Let me get you a drink. On the house.”
“Well—”
“Hey.” The guy nodded to the bartender who was covering Alex. “Get the lady a—what is that, a martini? Get her a Grey Goose martini, would you? And a Glenlivet for me. Double.”
Unbelievable. Mitch leaned back on his stool, tried to catch Jenn’s eye. Ian would be back before long, and then Alex, and then it would be too late. He’d have to wait for next week. But damned if Jenn wasn’t smiling. He thought it was her amused smile, like she was enjoying the show, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Hope I’m not being too forward. I’m a little jet-lagged still.”
“Yeah?”
“Just got back from Cancun,” Johnny said. “Why I’m so tan. I like to go down there every couple of months, relax. You ever been?”
She shook her head, took an olive off the toothpick, a move Mitch always found hypnotic, the way she slid the toothpick into her mouth, lips tightening as she gripped the olive and drew it off. The way her cheekbones flared as she chewed, carefully, like she wanted to squeeze out every drop of flavor.
“I gotta tell you, it’s beautiful. Paradise.”
“Isn’t Cancun pretty much due south of here?”
“About.”
“So how are you jet-lagged?”
He laughed at that. “You got me.” Took a sip of his drink. “Flying can wear you out, though. And the airports, shoes off, belt off, arms out, stand, spin, hula dance. But I got this place down there, right on the beach, private, makes it worth the trouble.”
“You own a house there?”
“Sure do. You should come down sometime. Check it out.”
“Right. How about tomorrow? We could get married in the surf.”
“Hey,” he said, “no need to bust my balls. I’ve got two bedrooms. You could just relax, see if you like it.”
All right. Enough. Mitch leaned forward and put his hand on the guy’s shoulder. He didn’t push, not exactly, but the booze made it maybe harder than he’d meant.
Johnny Love turned, set his drink down. He stared at Mitch. “Something you want?”
“Yeah.” He felt the blood in his forehead, anger plus a little liquid courage, and decided to go with it. “I’d like you to leave us alone.”
“Hey—,” Jenn started.
“It’s OK,” Johnny said over his shoulder, like he was protecting her. He straightened, ran his tongue against the inside of his lip. “You got a problem?”
“I just told you.”
Johnny stared, his eyes flicking up and down. Very slowly, he smiled, then gestured to Mitch’s blazer, the pocket emblazoned with the hotel logo. “Nice outfit.”
“You too.” Asshole.
The man’s eyes narrowed. He stared for a moment, then held up his left hand, flicked his thumb against his pinkie ring. Dice, a five and a two. “You see this? Platinum, ninety-five percent pure. Two and a half in flawless stones.”
“So?”
“These shoes are handmade in London. This shirt cost four hundred dollars.”
“So?”
“So fuck you.” Johnny laughed. “Tell you what. I own a Laundromat over on Halsted. Why don’t you come work for me? Least you wouldn’t have to dress like a monkey.”
“Listen—”
“No, you listen. The lady and I are having a conversation. Why don’t you mind your own business?”
Mitch glared. His hands were shaking with adrenaline, and he could hear his pulse. He slid off the stool, stood as tall as he could.
“What?” The guy smiled, showing bright white teeth. “You going to do something, busboy?”
“Johnny.” Jenn stood, put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is my friend. Come on.”
“Jesus, I don’t need—,” Mitch started.
“Don’t take that tone with her.” The man leaned forward, eyes menacing.
“Everything OK?” Alex had reappeared behind the bar, his eyes panning back and forth, concerned. “This guy is a friend of mine, boss.”
“Mitch didn’t mean anything,” Jenn said, from behind. “You just got off on the wrong foot.”
The wrong foot? What the hell? Why was she talking that way, coming on like he’d been an asshole? Trying to
save him? He didn’t need that. He’d been trying to save her from this sleaze.
“Really, Johnny, he’s a good guy,” Alex said. “Good customer, too. Here every Thursday night. We all are.”
The man stood straight, his eyes locked on Mitch’s. The moment held for a long time. Then the guy nodded, said, “All right. You both vouch for him, I’ll let him be.” He turned to Alex. “But it’s Mr. Loverin.”
“Sure. Sorry, Mr. Loverin.” Alex spread his hands.
Loverin turned to Jenn. “I apologize about this. You deserve better. Tell you what, why don’t you come back sometime, I’ll treat you to dinner, just you and me. Chef’ll make up something special. What do you say?”
She hesitated, then put on a smile. “That sounds nice.” Mitch knew her well enough to know the smile was fake, but still.
The man nodded, then said to Alex, “Her tab’s on me.” He snorted, then, jerking a thumb contemptuously over his shoulder, said, “His too.” Mitch started to argue, but Alex caught his eye, gave him a warning look, then said, “That’s nice of you, Mr. Loverin. Thanks.”
The man turned and walked away. Mitch watched him go, the guy actually strutting. There was silence for a moment, then Alex said, “What the hell?”
“What?” Mitch shrugged. “He came over, started being an asshole.”
“You were kind of rude,” Jenn said. “He was cheesy, but you started it.”
“I started it?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “What are you talking about?” Mitch shook his head. “I’d like to go get him, tell him to meet me outside.”
“No, man. You don’t do that.” Alex took Mitch’s glass, held it under the tap. “I know he looks silly, but he’s serious.”
“What do you mean, ‘serious’?”
“I mean serious. Like, made-his-money-selling-drugs serious. He used to run crack back in the eighties. In a big way.”
“Really?” Jenn said, a lilt in her voice.
“Really. He doesn’t do it anymore, but he’s still got connections. I been working here a long time, I’ve seen some shit.”
“What kind of shit?”
“Italian guys coming in carrying briefcases, walking out empty-handed. That kind of shit. He’s not somebody to mess with.”
“How come you never told us about him?”
“I don’t see him much. He owns a couple of places, leaves running them to the managers. He still comes in, but sits in his office, people coming to talk to him. Shady people.”
“Whatever,” Mitch said. “I’m not scared. He’s a punk.” He drained half his fresh beer in one go, the remnants of adrenaline and shame making his hands shake. “I’d still like to take him outside.”
Alex chuckled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No. What does that mean?”
“Just that”—Alex shrugged—“I mean, come on, man. You’re not exactly a street fighter.”
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?”
“I don’t mean anything.” Alex exchanged a look with Jenn. “Just relax, OK? Let it go.”
Mitch stared at him, then at Jenn, her eyes locked on her glass. Was this what they thought of him? He wanted to yell, to throw his beer and storm off to find that scumbag ex-drug dealer. Bad enough to have a scene like that in front of Jenn. But then for Alex to basically call him a wimp? His forehead was hot, and he had a sick feeling in his gut, one he hated, the same one that he got every time he held the door for some rich asshole who didn’t even bother to acknowledge he existed.
“Hey,” Ian said, pulling out his seat, eyes bright and smile toothy. “What’d I miss?”
THE NIGHT ENDED much earlier than Ian had in mind. The combination of a handful of drinks and the maintenance trip to the bathroom had him wide-awake, ready to roll. The place was more restaurant than bar, and it shut down at eleven; they’d hung out while Alex finished his closing duties, but the scene with the owner had apparently soured everybody’s mood. Instead of their usual retreat to a back table to bullshit until one or two, Jenn had looked at her watch and suggested they wrap early. Mitch, even quieter than usual as he sat drinking with grim determination, had nodded, and then suddenly they were outside. Alex and Jenn lived in the same direction and split a cab north.
“You’ll make sure he gets home?” Alex said, one hand against the roof of the car.
“I don’t need a babysitter.” Mitch ran the words together. Ian ignored him, said, “Sure,” to Alex, then kissed Jenn on the cheek, closed the door, and thumped the trunk. He felt good, lucky. Maybe after he dropped Mitch off, he’d hop in his car, spin down to the game.
“Greasy little cheeseball.” Mitch wobbled across the street.
“Sounds like a character. Sorry I missed him.” He held up an arm for a cab that blew right past. “He really own the place?”
“Whatever.” Mitch rubbed at his forehead. “So he has a lot of money. So what? That mean he gets to treat people that way?”
“I wonder how much he has.” Ian waved again, and this time a cab glided to a stop beside them. They climbed in, and he gave the driver Mitch’s address. “He was a drug dealer, huh?”
“I don’t get it. How does money give you a-a-a permission slip to be a douche bag?”
“Makes sense that he would have restaurants.” Ian ran his tongue over his gums, enjoying the faint numbness. “Cash businesses. The Laundromat, too. He probably bought into them quietly, has people run them, just watches his money grow. You almost have to admire him.”
“Or hate him.”
“Half of admiration is hatred, man.”
“And Alex! What was that? What’d he mean about me not being able to take care of myself?” Mitch straightened. “I can handle myself. Everybody thinks I can’t, but I can. Just like the people at the hotel. The guests. They give a tip, five measly bucks, treat you like they bought you. Like you’re a slave.” He hiccupped. “Yes, massa. I hold the door for you. Or worse, like you’re invisible. Not a doorman, a door mat.”
Ian turned to him. “You ever gamble?”
“What?”
“You know, blackjack, roulette.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“You ought to. There’s nothing like winning.” Ian smiled. “Or really, even before that. It’s the moment between when you set your chips on the table and the ball stops, the card drops. It’s a crazy rush. This one time,” he said, “I’m at the boats, playing blackjack, and I get two nines. So I split them. You know what that means? You put down more money and play them like separate hands. So I get the next card, and it’s a nine. So I split again. Next card? A nine. Can you believe it? Split again. It was incredible. I could have gone on all night, the dealer just putting down nines and me putting down chips.”
For a moment, Mitch was quiet. Then he said, “Even the game, the question game.”
“Huh?”
“Your question game. The one Jenn asked, what would you do with half a million dollars.”
“What about it?”
“Nobody asked me. Alex wants a house for his daughter, you want to quit your job, Jenn wants to travel. But nobody asked me.”
“So what would you do with it?”
Mitch opened his mouth, closed it. Held his hands out, then said, “That’s not the point. The point is that nobody asked me. Like I’m invisible.”
“Well, I’m asking now. What would you do?”
“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “I’m tired. And drunk.” He paused. “So what happened?”
“When?”
“With the nines.”
“Oh. Dealer had a three and an eight, drew a ten. Twenty-one.”
“So you lost all of them?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the important thing.” Ian wanted a bump or another drink, could feel the liquidity of his buzz fading—and the problems teeming behind it ready to jump him if he let them. “What’s important is that there was that moment, see, where I could have won
them all. And every time he put down a nine, that moment stretched, got bigger. And the payday with it.”
“But you lost.”
“Right, but—”
“So there wasn’t a payday. You just lost four times bigger.”
Ian laughed. “Yeah, well.” He looked out the window, watched the closed shops and open bars, the people on the sidewalks. No place like Chicago in the summer, every window open, laughter and music spilling onto the streets. He liked the feeling of riding past it, a pane of glass between him and the rest of the world, but all of it right there, close enough to touch if he wanted to reach out. He glanced at the cabbie. A lot of them were Middle Eastern, too strict, but this was a black dude, middle-aged, wearing a Kan gol. Hell, what was the worst that would happen? Ian reached into his pocket, took out the amber vial. Without letting himself think too much, he shook a little pile onto the back of his hand and snorted quick, like he had the sniffles. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, and Ian held his gaze until the guy looked away.
Mitch said, “Was that—”
“Yeah.” Ian turned to look at him, gave a shrug and a sideways smile.
“You do a lot of it?”
“Every now and then. You want some?”
Mitch shook his head.
“You sure? Cheer you up.”
“No,” he said, and leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes. “No, it won’t.”
“How about coming gambling with me?”
“Jesus, no. Indiana?”
“Not the riverboats. I know a private game. We can be there in twenty minutes.”
Mitch shook his head. “I’m going home.”
“Come on, man. Don’t be like that,” Ian said.
Silence.
“You know, you can’t win if you don’t bet.”
“Can’t lose, either.”
JENN TURNED ON THE FAUCET, let the water run. It took forever to warm up in Alex’s place. She straightened and looked at herself in the mirror, finger-combed her hair behind her ears. She’d always wanted a pixie cut, something short and sexy, but never quite had the guts.
When the water was hot, she cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed it on her face. Alex only had bar soap, not the facial scrub she liked, but one of the rules of their whatever-this-was was that they wouldn’t leave things at each other’s places. He said that it was because he didn’t want his daughter to notice it when she came over, start asking questions, but she suspected it was more that he wanted to be perfectly clear that they weren’t dating.