He turns to the crowd and boasts. “Problem is, he’s not drunk enough. Let’s all have a drink.”
Raucous laughter fills the room and I laugh right along through drying tears.
Justice pulls me tight, in more of a headlock than a hug. “You’re shit. Together, now bro. Lock it up.”
“I’m fine,” I say and there goes another wreath.
Justice nods toward the people in the back for black coffee.
“It’s an Irish funeral after all,” I say sheepishly.
But it’s too late, Uncle Tommy’s had it. “Everybody out!” He yells, and the room clears like a car bomb went off.
Batting wreaths out of the way as he comes, he strides right up to me and swats my cheek like I’m five. Just enough to get my attention, never hard enough to leave a mark.
We’re nose to nose when he asks. “You done? Or you want to embarrass your poor father some more. Jesus, Shamus. Where’s the good sense God gave ya? Up your asshole?”
“I just wanted it to be clear,” I say.
“Oh, it’s crystal. No more taking it on the arm, like we’re freeloaders or something. No “mobsters” allowed, like we’re monsters or something. That’s fine but ask yourself this question. What about family? What’s your view on that kid? Because like it or not, we’re your blood.” His breath smells like Jameson and tears. I’m sure mine does too.
The chain-link fence that has encased my heart since this motley crew of gangsters showed up demanding VIP treatment corrodes. All the love that I’ve been holding hostage seeps out.
I don’t want to fight. No matter what he does, I’d forgive him anything. It’s an Irish thing, and I am my father’s son.
Before he fled Boston-in the middle of the night-summers with my uncle meant Fenway Franks, behind home plate under the humid sun. More times than I can count, he took the hat right off his own head to put it on mine.
Late afternoon stickball game with all the neighbor kids. Right in the middle of the street. The dads, just off the clock, lean on parked cars in unbuttoned dress shirts, watching the game. Beers on ice, that was our cheering section.
And always, there was Uncle Tommy. Talking a mile a minute, holding back traffic with a lit cigar, and always, one eye on my stance.
“Choke up that bat, Shamey!”
Wearing long shorts and dark socks, he’d mime the stance. “That’s it, kid. You got this. Knock the plastic off that mother.”
Which was funny, cause it was a Whiffle Ball.
But no one laughed. Back then, on the streets of Boston, my uncle was no joke. Or at least he wasn’t til the Feds got a hold of him with all of their legal bullshit. He’s already got enough on his plate without my bullshit.
I wish I could say I hit a homerun and everyone cheered. But honestly, I don’t remember. The only thing I remember is Uncle Tommy showing me the way.
That’s why I took the smack upside my head with good grace.
“Besides, what are you trying to do? Make your mother look like some kind of a floozy?” He asks.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.
Chapter 8
Shamus
Two weeks later, my phone rings at an ungodly hour. Before it wakes the whole bed, I reach over the sleeping showgirl and grab it.
“Yeah.”
“Happy Birthday kid. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, why you still in bed?” A booming voice asks.
If he’s not going to bring it up, then neither will I.
“Cause it’s my birthday. Hey Uncle Tommy. Thought I would have heard from you sooner,” I say.
“That’s why I was calling. Wanted to see your face. Need a break from Justice’s ugly mug. Your cousin’s been keeping me busy. Had me host a Grammy party at the restaurant.”
“I didn’t know you were into music?” I say.
“I’m not. Just doing my part to open a few doors for my boy to smoosh and pass out a few cards. Have you seen them? The Handlers. That kids a genius. Anyway, prep and such has kept me busy. And there’s always the mob, as you like to call it, which doesn’t run itself.”
“Neither does the casino. I can’t just drop everything.”
“You still got that management company handling things, dontcha?” He asks.
He must really want to see me if he’s bringing up that sore subject again. As the new patriarch of this family and the one with tommy guns, to say he’d been hurt when I wouldn’t let him handle my books is something of an understatement. Between that and the way I acted at my pop’s funeral, I am racking up quite the tab with my uncle.
Uncertainly, I say. “Well, yes. But it’s only been two weeks, not much of a trial period.”
“Say no more. I just hope you know I’m here if you need me. But that’s not why I’m calling, Shamey. I want to hear more about those plans you were working on. Specifically, the upgrades. I’m ready to listen.”
Excited, I ask. “What’s a good time?”
He laughs. “Nothing like steak and eggs for brunch, how about now? The plane’s gassed and waiting for you. All you need to do is shove that dick in a suit and get your ass down here.”
“I’ll be there.”
The only thing visible of my late-night visitor is a mass of red curls on the pillow.
“It’s Saturday. Time to go Friday,” I say and slide the sheet down her tempting body.
Which is like waving the starter flag. Last night she shoved her way into my bed and today, she’s running from it. She jumps up.
“Hey, no rush. Want to get breakfast?” I ask.
“Oh my God, Shamus what time is it?”
“Just a little after 8:00. Still early.” I say.
She stops rummaging through her overnight bag and stares at me. “Did you say 8:00? Crap. Jake’s soccer game. I’ve got to pick him up from his dad’s and get him to the field by 9:00.”
“Then you better get moving. Was…everything else okay? Not fishing for compliments, just wanted to make sure we both had a good time.”
“More like fabulous. I lost track of my orgasms.” With a grin, she bends down to give me a kiss. My hand finds its way up the back of her thigh. Muscular and smooth, she’s a dancer. My fingers stroke her bottom and she backs out of reach. “Don’t start something I’ve got no time to finish, Shamus. Same time next Friday?”
Looking down at what she does to my body, I say, “Absolutely.”
Then she commits the cardinal sin of hiding that glorious body under cotton panties and mom jeans.
Playtime’s over.
On the way to the shower, I say. “Take some coffee to go. There’s disposable travel cups next to the Keurig. Oh, and I picked up some of those nasty protein bars you like. Right next to my Lucky Charms. I know how you showgirls like to eat.”
Strip tease artist, Shamus,” she admonishes.
With a chuckle, I say, “I stand corrected.”
“You should. Oh, and thanks so much for Jake’s bike. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“I didn’t? He emailed his Amazon wish list to me, kids ballsy, I’ll give him that. When he’s old enough, he’s coming to work for me.”
Dressed in her regulation soccer mom uniform, the hug she gives me is friendly.
“How you gonna find a nice girl if you keep hanging out with us divorcees?” She says, with a kiss on the tip of my nose.
“What can I say? I like complications.”
“Well, go get into trouble. Find some complication free pussy in Los Angeles.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask.
She blows me a kiss which I catch. “Happy Birthday Shamus.”
“Thank you for the birthday blowjob,” I say.
Showered and suited, plans in hand, I’m in the air by 10:00. Taking LA traffic into account, I should be there by lunch. I wonder if it’ll just be us. Perhaps he met an investor at one of those parties and wants me to meet him?
My knee shakes the whole way as I rehearse. My uncle�
��s a hard nut to crack. Over sorry shots in the Dean Martini Bar, I’d talked about the renovations. He just never indicated any interest.
Until now. I can’t wait to see what he thinks.
“Coffee?” The stew asks. Warmth fills my heart.
Before Micah pours, I pick up the china mug and turn it to read. The ink’s barely dry on the sale and the china is already minted with the family crest, M. With a look around the cabin I don’t see any remnants of The Four Leaf. Well, except for the crew.
Along with the sale of the jet, I’d negotiated their contracts with my uncle. Just because I’d hit a rough patch didn’t mean everyone had to suffer.
“They treating you okay, Micah?”
With a pout he nods. “Yes, but I wish the new uniforms weren’t purple. So not my color.” He grins and I do too.
“Still got your manny pack, I see. Always prepared, Micah. Good work,” I say, and he beams.
That manny pack around his slim waist should be called a life pack. Ready for every mid-air emergency, it contains everything from band-aids to Narcan. He’s saved my father more times than I even know about, I’m sure.
Toward the end, my dad used the jet as his personal taxi. Sometimes flying twice a week to see my uncle in Los Angeles, I should’ve seen it. Should’ve known something was wrong.
No matter how many times I complained about cutting down, not only for the environment, but also for our bottom line, he wouldn’t let me get rid of it when he was alive.
It hurt like hell to have to sell it to pay estate taxes once he was gone. At least it’s still in the family.
Every time the engine fires up, I imagine another layer added to the globe. I never liked it anyway. Yet, my uncle snaps his fingers and here I am sucking up resources.
It’s not my uncle’s permission I need, it’s capital. The management company only confirmed what I already know. What the casino is bringing in barely covers salaries and overhead. The hotel is in the red due to repairs.
And that’s with the extra my uncle was kicking in at the end. A trickle of cash that has since dried up since my fuck off speech at the funeral.
Without that, there’s barely enough in the till to keep us afloat, and absolutely nothing for new construction. What the place sorely needs is the walls torn down.
Dated décor is not bringing in the crowds like the old days. Especially when our only claim to fame is Home to the Rat pack Bar.
But the old man wouldn’t hear of it.
“Over my dead body.” My dad said.
Unfortunately, looks like it’s happening.
His whole argument against forward progress had been simply to say. “They don’t like change.”
True. My Uncle Tommy’s been wearing the same velour jogging suit since I was a kid.
“Uncle,” I say, forgoing the handshake to take him in a big man-sized hug.
“Speaking of funerals…” He starts.
Which nobody was. But I’m sure him and my mother have been. Rehashing the whole event with me, playing the bad son role.
“That wasn’t nice what you did to your mother. She kept me up with nightmares about buses and old blue eyes for a whole week,” he frowns.
“Really? Didn’t think she cared,” I say.
“You know she does. But she feels like you took sides. Believe me, your dad and I weren’t the first brothers in history to love the same woman, and we won’t be the last.”
“Last in this family.” Justice mutters as he walks into the restaurant.
“Hey guys. Why we bringing up old shit? Thought we were here for the birthday boy,” he says and orders a round.
Ignoring him, I make my point. “I get that Uncle Tommy. The only thing was, my dad didn’t know you two were sharing.”
My uncle looks at me like I’ve got rocks in my head. “The hell he didn’t. It was his idea.”
He gets up to see what’s taking so long with the drinks, and I turn to my brother. “You think that’s true?”
He wipes his face. “Maybe, your dad’s always been pretty sick. With all the medication he was on, maybe he couldn’t get it up? Are those your plans?”
“Yeah, let me find a good spot to spread them out.”
The whole place is dark, even the sunlight that filters through the window has a rose tinge to it. The best lighting is the table by the window. I spread the plans on it and motion for my brother to come over while my uncle pours shots behind the bar.
I turn to Justice. With a nudge, I ask. “What’s this new business I’m hearing about?”
“Same thing I’ve been doing my whole life. Handling other people’s shit. Only now, I’ve got business cards.”
He hands me one. “The Handlers. I like it. What’s this?”
I read the two lines below.
Handling things, until you’re able too.
Not Saviors, More like Maintainers.
And look up at him.
“Still not sure about the tagline,” he says.
“I like them both but go with the first,” I say.
“You think?”
“Definitely more professional,” I say.
“Let’s see what you got.” My uncle says.
“What are these?” He asks pointing to multiple volt icons on the plans.
“Charging stations with a twist. You plug in your device, phone tablet, whatever and while it charges your phone screen appears on the game screen. We’ll be using the existing computers in the bar.” I explain proudly.
“Aren’t they all? Charging, I mean? Unless they’re just giving it all away out there in those watered down free drinks,” Uncle Tommy says and the crew behind him laughs.
“Not charging money. Their phones. It’s the wave of the future. Phones are here to stay. I’ve already hired the programmer to write the code and install it into the existing games. Just sit and drink in comfortable chairs with pillows and blankets. Snacks will be served, free. Bags of the best popcorn you’ve ever tasted, we’ll even serve from the menu. But healthy, not heavy. Drinks will be light, nothing blended. Everything with a mint leaf to…
Uncle Tommy swipes a hand across the sky. “Recharge.”
And I see what he sees. Recharge in neon, maybe something teal? To match the green décor? Uncle Tommy’s enthusiasm is contagious. A real showman, he sucks us all in with descriptive until I’m begging to be a part of my own idea. “I see it as a real tech bar. Latest of gadgets. Virtual casino games.” He says.
“I’m not sure about that,” I mutter. “I was thinking more along the lines of being able to post your wins to Facebook. Maybe I’m not explaining it right. Think of it this way, Unc. You know how you can check in, on your phone and all your friends know where you’re at?”
He looks confused, so I add, slowly. “There’s a little yellow button that pinpoints your exact location and lets everyone know exactly where you are on your home screen.”
The lightbulb goes on. “Oh, is that what that’s for? Silly me, I thought it was a tracker for the FBI…idiot. I know exactly what it is, I just don’t use it. No one ever needs to know the exact location of Thomas Shamus Malone, if you get my drift.” He looks at his guys, shooting pool at the bar and shakes his head like I’ve got a screw loose.
Justice comes to my defense. “Okay, everyone but you dad. Just listen, Shamus is onto something.”
When Justice intercedes on my behalf, I can’t help but smile. Sometimes my brother’s enthusiasm bypasses my own.
My uncle smiles. “Alright, I’m listening. Where were we, Shamey? Oh yes, we were, “Turning ourselves in via phone. Ain’t that right boys?” He hollers loud enough for the guys in the back to hear.
This is what conversations with my uncle are like. Always be prepared for canned comments from the peanut gallery and everyone’s got a say. Only when the calls of, ‘with a bow’, and ‘thought you were one of us’ die down in the back does my uncle continue.
“Checking in with your phone. Isn’t that already
a thing though? Kid tell me that isn’t all you got. Thought you were smarter than that,” he says. And I see the end of our meeting drawing near.
“It is but wait. You haven’t heard all of it. I hired the guy who made the actual program. Got fired over his political beliefs, I hired him. Had him sign a no politics at work clause, we’re good. Anyway, he tweaked the program, so you can “check-in” on the machine you’re on. Synchronizes your phone to the machine and if you win, your friends can win vicariously through you. Big losses? Let your Facebook friends commiserate with you. We even have an icon of the monopoly guy holding his pockets out.
Wanna play Mr. Bigshot? Post real time bet amounts. Done, for max credit, 1.25, it’s done. Posted right to your Facebook wall. Let your poker buddies back home know you’re betting the house. This is the me generation. I’m just here to provide what they need. A comfortable spot to be themselves,” I say smugly.
My uncle smacks the back of my head. “Are you even listening to yourself right now? Posted right to your Facebook wall. Maybe that asshole betting ‘the house’ or more likely, the kid’s college fund doesn’t want the neighbors back home to know about it.
But it’s not even the neighbors he should be worried about.
What about the careless banker out on the town for a night away from the wife and kiddies. The one with the hot blonde oozing all over him caught in the background. Maybe he doesn’t want any photo evidence that could be tried in the court of Facebook Marital Law?”
He shakes his head as he relights his cigar. “Not every idea that pops into that thick head of yours has to come to life. I’ve gotta hand it to you kid. You’ve got your dad’s smarts, up here.” He taps the side of my head. “He always did pay meticulous attention to detail. With those kind of genes, you’re either in the hotel business, or Forensics. With this selfie idea, I’m starting to wonder if you’re not better suited to police work. Besides, did you ever think of how much evidence can be collected in a “selfie? Maybe you better stick with your ‘eco-friendly’ apartments. How’s that coming along?” He asks.
And he’s actually interested. Puffing his cigar, he leans back in the seat and listens to every word.
Rock Bottom (The Handler Series Book 1) Page 6