by W Winters
The “private parties” are what got me through so much shit.
During the day, it’s just a slow old Irish bar. Lunchtime always picks up though, right about now.
“Thanks, Mick,” I call out to my regular before he can make it through the exit. The front door is old wood, dark brown except for a little black on the outside of it. Where the fire from next door caught it a few years back. The bar is in need of updating, but Seth and the guys say they like to see the memories. I get that. I like to see the memories too.
“Good luck on the test,” Mick calls back to me and I flash him a smile. His bill was only twelve bucks, so I scoop eight bucks from the register and slip the cash in the back of my anatomy book that’s open next to the register. I keep my finger wedged in the pages I’m reading though. I can’t lose my place.
With the pen in my hand, tapping it against the notebook, I take tabs on the three remaining guests. Two are women, whispering over large pours of red wine in the back corner at a high top table. The picture frames above their heads are of the old times. Black-and-white prints from when Connor’s family first came here from Ireland. Those are my favorite pictures in the bar.
The women’s glasses are still relatively full, although twenty minutes ago, they were sucking the wine down like I’d given them water. The look on the brunette’s face combined with a few whispers I heard tells me she most likely dumped someone, or got dumped.
Either way, they’re good for another chapter of notes.
The other patron is another regular, staring up at the TV above the leather bench I sat on practically all last night. An old soccer game is on. Or a new one. I don’t know and I don’t care; sports aren’t my thing. I assume it’s an old one though, judging by how Cormac doesn’t yell, “Oh, come on!” every five to ten minutes.
So, back to studying I go.
I only get two lines written in my notebook when I hear the front door open. “Welcome to the Club,” I say and greet the new guest with a smile. It’s automatic but it drops nearly instantly. Just like the lump that sinks down my throat before it gets stuck.
“Officer Jackson, what can I do for you?” I keep my voice upbeat and barely catch sight of Cormac taking another swig of his beer while looking over his shoulder at the cop in full uniform who just walked in. The old man eyes him, but then turns back to the television.
The officer’s slick boots don’t seem right in here. They look brand new with the way they’re shining. Putting down the pen, I watch as he walks to the bar.
I like Jackson just fine. I always have. But I don’t like him coming around because he’s not one of us, and that badge on his chest could lead to problems I can’t have.
I instantly wish I hadn’t told Roman it was fine to take off for lunch. He hangs out here, just in case. That’s what the guys tell me when I say I can manage being on shift alone when it’s so slow. Just in case.
I’m pretty sure this is a just in case moment.
With both forearms on the bar, holding his sunglasses in one hand and releasing a deep exhale, Officer Jackson hesitates. He still hasn’t said a word. I wait on pins and needles while he drags the barstool closer to him and takes a seat. He’s got to be close to thirty now. He’s nice enough looking, average height although he does have a good build on him. Young for a cop, but damn did this job age him.
He’s come in here before, usually to escort the drunken barflies out. A few of the older women in town don’t know their limits. A couple of those few have tempers. Jackson is always the one who comes. Seth said he likes Jackson well enough. I doubt he’d like him if he knew he was here right now though.
“Everything all right?” I ask him. “Looks like you’ve been working out.”
He huffs a quick laugh and then thanks me.
“You want a beer?” I ask him. The corners of my mouth even lift a little, thinking he’s just on his lunch break. But again, the smile drops when he shakes his head. Any hope I had of this drop-in being about grabbing a bite to eat or a drink vanishes.
“You have any idea where Seth King is? I believe he’s your boyfriend?”
“He is my boyfriend, you’ve got that right,” I say and nod then take a step back to put down the pen in my hand. He knows damn well Seth’s my boyfriend, but he asks me every time like maybe that status has changed. My back is to him as I bend down, open the small fridge and grab a cold bottle of IPA. “I think Seth said he had some errands to run today.” I talk loud enough so Jackson can hear me, pop the top of the beer and turn back around to face him. “He should be here tonight, though. You need him for something?”
Taking my eyes off Jackson, I slide the beer down to Cormac who thanks me, pushing his mostly empty bottle forward.
“You’re on top of it here, aren’t you?” Jackson asks me.
“I can keep count of four, five… Hell, on a good day, six,” I joke with him.
He laughs and leans back although his hands stay on the bar top. “You don’t have any idea where he is?” he asks again, and I feel a vise grip my heart. This vise is special though; it’s made of cast iron and feels like it’s been sitting in the freezer the way it gives me chills and makes everything inside of me sink.
“Sorry, I don’t,” I answer Jackson. I’m saved by another customer walking in. I recognize her as someone who’s been coming around more often lately. What the hell is her name… Cindy, maybe? She usually comes in later in the day and eyes up the guys when they first get here. She always leaves before it gets dark. Part of me thinks she wants to play with fire and she just doesn’t have the balls to stay and do exactly that.
“We only have a few things available on the lunch menu,” I tell her as she sidles up to a spot right between Cormac and the officer. There are two seats between her and either of the guys. “Short-staffed at the moment,” I explain and pass her the paper lunch menu for the day. “We’ve basically got anything that can be deep-fried, but not the usual burgers.”
She nods and gives a polite smile. The kind that doesn’t show any teeth. She glances at the officer too. Even with her menu lifted as if she’s reading it.
“Sorry about that,” I tell Officer Jackson and wait for anyone other than me to do any sort of talking.
“You’re a good girl, Laura.” Jackson catches me off guard with the way he says it.
Swallowing thickly, I nervously peek at Cormac, who’s staring at us just like the nosy woman at the bar.
“Thank you?” I try to keep my voice even, but it shows my anxiousness.
Officer Jackson gets off his stool and talks while rapping his sunglasses on the bar. “The guys they’re dealing with aren’t going to let them get away with it. Get out while you can.”
“I don’t know—”
“I’m sure you don’t,” he says, cutting me off and then he tells me to have a good day before walking out.
Cormac sucking his teeth is the only thing that rips my eyes away from the closed front door.
I don’t know how long I stand there staring. Hearing his last words on repeat in my head.
“He’s got one thing right,” Cormac tells me as I focus on stopping my hands from shaking. My back’s to everyone as I pretend to be writing something down in my little notebook.
“What’s that?” I manage to ask Cormac, turning to face him and leaning the small of my back against the counter.
“You are a good girl,” he tells me even though he’s already watching the television again.
I don’t know what to say to him, so I don’t respond.
“You know what you want?” I ask the woman who’s still holding a menu with only five things listed on it. Cindy, or whatever the hell her name is, is frowning for the first time since she walked in.
“Not yet,” she answers, and I have to try hard not to roll my eyes.
I know why Cormac thinks I’m a “good girl.” It’s the same reason the crew trusts me. That night is just as vivid right now as it was back then. I imagine it is for eve
ryone who was there. That night changed everything.
I remember every detail of it as I stand with my arms across my chest, looking back at the door, and replaying that night three years ago, over in my head.
Good girl.
* * *
Cormac was there, plus everyone in Seth’s crew now was there and then some. It wasn’t his crew then though. And the event didn’t take place here; it was a different bar. This place was empty. Connor’s father had died a few weeks before. A lot of people I knew died back then. Men my father used to hang around.
It all happened at a place called Hammers. Stupid name for a bar, but it’d been around for as long as the town’s existed. A little more than three years ago I was sitting at a table at that bar. I had just turned sixteen. I knew I shouldn’t have been there, but when my father had to run an errand for the boss, I was supposed to wait for him at that table. My grandma rented out the spare bedroom in the house and with the new tenants upstairs, Dad didn’t like me to be alone there. He was reckless with himself but a protective father. In many ways he was a shit dad, but I always knew he loved me and this was a way to show me that. Even if it was fucked up and I didn’t want to be there.
I’d have a car soon. It’s all I kept thinking. I hated Hammers. I hated it because if I was there, it meant my dad was out doing something he shouldn’t be. For men who scared me.
The guys in the bar always told me what a good girl I was, and some of them, like Cormac, I even liked.
It didn’t mean I wanted to be there though. Just the thought of that place makes my skin crawl.
Hammers was owned by the boss, Michael Vito. I knew all about him and his family. He took over when his dad died and he stirred things up. At least that’s what my dad told me when I asked why so many people were getting killed. The first memories I have are of my family and friends, who used to be fine with the Vitos, acting like they were scared. Michael wanted to be feared, whereas his father was respected.
They all worked for him. I didn’t want to be anywhere near that table or in that bar. But my dad told me to stay seated while he was gone, just like he had so many times before.
Vito walked in while I was sitting at my spot. It got quiet; it always did when he walked in. Another thing I hated. I had my seat and I was to keep my butt planted right where it was and do my schoolwork. My father told me that every time he left. For years, that’s what I was supposed to do. I knew Grandma would be done at the diner soon, so if he didn’t get back soon, she’d find out he dropped me off at the bar again. She’d come and get me. She didn’t like this place at all. She never did though.
Thinking about Dad and Grandma makes my throat tighten.
My father didn’t make the best choices in life, but he left me there because it was supposed to be safe. Everyone knew me, and everyone knew I was the daughter of a man who worked for the Vitos.
Even Michael Vito knew who I was. When he spotted me sitting there, he knew. My textbooks were open as I read Lord knows what and pretended I didn’t feel his eyes on me. I pretended the bar didn’t get quiet again.
I remember the sound of his heavy boots. Unlike his father, Michael carried a lot of weight to him. I remember his voice. How it was harsh when he gripped my shoulder too hard to not mean for it to hurt.
He told me to go to the back room.
The back room is where I was never supposed to go. I knew very well what happened to women who went to the back room. I could hear it. Everyone could.
* * *
Seth was there along with all of his friends. He scared the hell out of me at school. They all did. I wasn’t a dork, I wasn’t a cool kid, and I wasn’t an athlete. I wasn’t a kid who sold or did drugs either, like they were. I was just a girl who was stuck there. I knew who Seth was though, and when I looked at him, I wanted to see that it was okay and that I should listen.
Because I wanted to be a good girl. I didn’t want to cause problems. Especially not for my dad who excelled at making plenty of problems for himself all on his own.
I should be a good girl and do what I was told. That’s what my father said all the time. And I may have had a mouth on me, but I really did try to be good.
When I looked at Seth though, after being told to go to the back room, his expression was anything other than one of a boy who thought it would be okay if I listened. Instead his face was darkened with fear and then anger, so much anger.
“No,” I blurted out without thinking. I wasn’t thinking of anything other than the sounds of the girls who went into that back room. They liked it. At least I think they liked it.
But other people went into that back room too one night and they screamed. Their faces were in the paper the next morning, printed in stark black and white. Just like the pictures of the crime scene where their bodies were found.
I didn’t know which option Michael meant for me, but I didn’t want either of them.
“Are you telling me no?” His breath reeked of cigarettes. I’ll never forget it.
“My dad told me to stay—” Before I could finish, the back of his hand whipped across my face. My neck snapped to one side and I barely stayed standing upright. I was only able to keep my footing because of the table behind me and the fact that my palms landed hard on it.
Vito yelled something in Italian, but I have no idea what it was; no one from around here is Italian. I never did understand how and why the Vitos used to run this town.
When I straightened myself to look up at him, he sneered in my face for me to get in the back room and get undressed. I don’t think the others heard him, but looking at their faces, they had an idea.
“No.”
He didn’t slap me; he closed his fist and punched me. The burn in my nose comes back as if he’s just done it, but he’s gone. Long gone.
“If someone’s going to show everyone else their true colors to hurt you – let them.” My grandma said that once. She said sometimes people need to see. They have to look at it and swallow that harsh pill. That’s all I was thinking as I lay there on the dirty floor with the taste of blood in my mouth and what I thought was a broken nose and jaw. Sometimes you have to take a hit from your enemy for them to be seen as what they are.
I did. I took the hit. And when I landed facedown and dizzy with Vito’s boot pressed against my back, I didn’t think the hit would do what it did.
I lay there with the coppery taste of blood in my mouth, all the while zoning in and out of semi-consciousness. My vision hazy, I thought it was the beginning of the end. I couldn’t fight back; I knew I couldn’t. The best chance I had at surviving was simply being unconscious. Still, I tried to get back up, with the fear and the desperation clinging to me. Simply because I would’ve rather been dead or unconscious than willingly go into whatever that bitch fate had planned for me.
The one thing I’ll never know is why I didn’t cry. Inside, it’s all I was doing. Outside, I was willing my muscles to push me up. I wanted him to hit me again. However many times it took.
What happened next didn’t last long; it felt like hours, but it was twenty minutes of brawn and bullets. I lay there crying, knowing I was going to die. I got sick once when I heard the gunshots and the yells.
I watched with horror when he was dragged to the back room. He was barely conscious, but they waited until he was with it enough in order to tell him his reign had ended. It wasn’t just a brawl. It was a massacre that ended with Vito being shot in the back of the head, execution style.
The men in the bar weren’t going to stand by and watch while Vito took advantage of the daughter of someone who worked for him. They weren’t going to let him stomp his boot into my back while I helplessly lay on the dirty ground, flat on my stomach, which is what he was going to do after the first punch was thrown.
Even through the haze of my injuries, I saw everything from the worn wooden floors that held a stale stench of beer. I watched while a man punched Cormac in the face for shoving another man in a suit. I watched
him nearly be beaten to death. It was the suits mostly, them against everyone else.
Same with Seth; he was almost strangled to death. The only reason he lived is because Derrick shot the man choking him in the back of the head. They were so close to me, the blood sprayed onto my face and neck.
Everyone lost someone that night, but it felt like we won something else.
I have to close my eyes so I don’t cry at the memory.
* * *
I was still shaking, tasting vomit and blood when Seth picked me up. Half his face wasn’t even recognizable; he’d been bludgeoned so badly. He walked me home and the other guys came by in twos and threes. They stayed with me until my dad got there, crying and apologizing like it was all his fault.
I begged them not to tell my grandma, but she found out. Everyone in Tremont knew what happened. They knew why things had to change.
And I was the good girl, the one who stood up against Michael Vito. Even if I didn’t fight back. Even if I didn’t want to be there.
Seth’s father is the one who took the lead after everything went down, and he was killed along with the men who followed him within two weeks. Sometimes I wonder if his dad was still here and the crew I know today didn’t make it their mission to ensure revenge, if we’d still be here. He promised me once, when he first kissed me, that he’d take me far away from this place. That was two years ago, and here I stand, in a different bar in Tremont. Different bar, different fears.
* * *
My phone pings at the same time the woman at the bar tells me she’s ready. It takes a few minutes to do the rounds and I call back an order of fries to the cook, an old lady named Holly who only agreed to work here if she could stay in the back. She’s a recovering alcoholic, but jobs in Tremont aren’t growing on trees, as she explained.
I don’t think anyone can tell I’m emotional. Not Holly and not Cormac. I just look pissed, maybe? Grandma used to joke that I inherited her resting bitch face. I don’t know. I don’t ask and I don’t wait for anyone in here to say a word to me.