Bartender (5 page)

13.

Kieron says to Sarah, “I need a favor.”

Aaron’s asleep in his room. Finally. The kid nodded off after the sun came up. But he got a good chunk of work on the spaceship done overnight. So there’s that.

Sarah says, “With what?”

Kieron motions her toward the bedroom. “C’mere.”

She follows at his heels. “What’re you up to?”

He lifts up the corner of his mattress. Pulls out a small black satchel. Something
jingles
inside. He drops the corner of the bed. Tosses the bag down.

Sarah gets a look on her face. Like something smells funny. “What’s that?”

“Open it.”

Sarah’s voice is a whisper. “Kieron,
what did you do
?”

He doesn’t like that at all. Those words. The accusation.

She’s right, of course. But he still doesn’t like it.

“I didn’t
do
anything.” His brain searches for fresh bullshit. Shovels it out. “My grandma died. She didn’t have a lot. But she did have this for me. Go on. Open it.”

Fresh, Grade-A bullshit.

Sarah sits on the edge of the bed. Reaches for the satchel. Shakes it.

Jingle jingle.

She unzips the bag. Looks in. She sucks a breath of air through her teeth and pulls out a sparkling bracelet of white gold. “Holy shit.” Another bracelet. Two necklaces. Two rings. “
Holy shit
, Kieron. This stuff is beautiful.”

Kieron shrugs. “Old bird had good taste.”

“How much is this stuff worth, you think?”

“A few thousand.”

“Are these diamonds? These are diamonds. This stuff is worth a lot more than a few thousand.”

Kieron feels a tickle in his stomach. Excitement.

All that money...

Sarah furrows her brow. “What
is
this favor, anyway?”

Kieron crosses his arms. Acts like it’s no big deal. “I was gonna ask you to pawn this stuff. I really need some goddamn sleep. Been up for... I don’t even know. Too long. Hell, I’ll even give you a cut of the cash.”

She looks at the rings. Tries one on. “You wanna
sell
this stuff? It was your grandmother’s.” The ring fits.

“Yeah, it was my grandma’s. But—” Kieron walks into the kitchen. Grabs the stack of letters off the table. Returns and plops them down on the bed. “You see those? All bills. All motherfuckers saying I owe em money. Past due. The electric company. Cable company. That rotten bitch shrink who’d like nothing more than to have Aaron taken away from me.” Pissed now. Thinking about how bad he fucked up his own life.

“Hey,” Sarah says. Her tone soft. She glides her hands along Kieron’s arms. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.” She hugs him.

He lets her. Kisses her cheek and rubs the small of her back.

Now he feels like a shit.

Reason he doesn’t want to pawn it himself is cuz those stores all got security cameras. Good ones. Cops or someone else could have fun tying him to the stolen shit. He doesn’t want that. Sarah, she’s not tied to anything. A whole step removed from the crime.

And she’ll look for the best price, since she knows it’s important to him.

He’s using her, is the point.

A little rat of guilt scratches at his brain.

He says, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s all right.” She smiles. Caresses his cheek.

They stand like that for a minute.

She says, “The tragedy is that this stuff looks pretty good on me.” She fakes posing for him. Holds her hand out. Thrusts her chest out.

He grins. Scratches his chin. “Yeah.” Closes the bedroom door so that they’re alone. “It looks
really
good on you.”

14.

Sarah rolls over. She lays her hand across Kieron’s chest.

The bartender doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t stir.

It’s the guy’s day off.

He’s allowed to sleep till he wakes up.

She plants her nose in his neck. Kisses him there.

For all the dumb bullshit the Kieron’s been through, he’s nice to her. Doesn’t take advantage. And she knows he’s smart, even when he plays dumb. Maybe as smart as she is. But maybe not
book smart
.

She thinks she could stay here for a while. Live here.

Be happy with Kieron and Aaron...

Aaron...

She waits. Listens. Hears the sound of a movie in the living room. Low. Quiet enough so Kieron can sleep. Young kids talking on the television. The
click
and
clack
and
snap
of LEGOs being maneuvered into place.

She’s glad to hear the noise. Glad Aaron’s distracting himself.

She wants Kieron to get some rest. At the same time, she doesn’t want Aaron bolting in while she’s naked. It’s entirely possible that the boy wouldn’t care about her tits. Wouldn’t react to them at all. Given his problems.

But it would freak
her
out.

She slides out from under the covers. A cool autumn breeze blows through the open window. It tickles her skin. Goosebumps rise across her flesh.

She picks her panties and bra up from the floor. Puts em on. Then jeans. Hoodie.

Kieron stirs in bed. Tosses himself from one side to the other and stops moving.

She kneels on the bed. Kisses his shoulder. “Sleep, cowboy. You deserve it.”

He mumbles something.

She thinks about saying it.

Doesn’t.

***

Sarah looks up local pawnbrokers on her laptop before she goes out.

Wants to know what’s around.

There’s a bunch.

The whole business aspect of it seems shady as hell to her, though. Here are guys who set up shop with the express purpose of buying parts of people’s
lives.
And not paying suckers very well, at that.
Then
reselling the parts of those people’s lives at twice the cost.

But, hey, that’s capitalism.

***

Sarah sits next to Aaron in the living room. “What’re you watching?”

Aaron stares at the diagram he’s drawn on paper. Says, “Explorers.”

“What’s it about?”

“Three boys build a spaceship. They get help from
out there
.” He points to the sky. “Then they go up into space and meet the aliens. Cuz their lives aren’t very good on Earth. Then it turns out the aliens are kids, same as them.”

“So they’re the same. Even though they’re different.”

“They’re all kids.” Aaron tips his head and falls into Sarah’s lap. He does this sometimes. Like a puppy. “They’re the same cuz they’re scary till you know them. Kids are scary. Aliens are scary. So maybe aliens are all kids.”

“But your dad told me the other day that you didn’t like Han Solo cuz you said he was a bad guy before he was a good guy. Even though he turned into a good guy. Isn’t a good guy a good guy if that’s what he is in the end?”

Aaron shifts. “I was talking about kids meeting other kids.”

“You’re saying Han Solo should’ve known better cuz he was an adult.”

“I guess.”

Sarah kisses him on the cheek.

“Aaron, you are a very complicated little man.”

***

She walks outside, the satchel fulla jewels in her overnight bag.

There’s a pawnshop between Avenue B and Attorney. Called
Jewels and Coins
. A short walk from the bar. Green sign. Set up the same way a bodega is—a space to walk and look at shit while a guy behind the counter looks at you—but with metal fencing and bulletproof glass.

She looks at the jewels before stepping inside. Mindful of the security camera staring at her face.

There’s a ring in the bag she wants to save.

Not for herself.

She wants to save it cuz Kieron should hold onto
something
from his grandma. A little token. And maybe Aaron can use it when he gets bigger and finds the woman he wants to be with. Or the man.

She digs through all the stuff.

There it is.

Thin, white gold outside with a line of platinum in between. A perfectly circular diamond on top.

She slips it onto her left ring finger.

Goes in.

***

The pawnbroker watches her ass in her jeans.

She wonders why he’s staring then wonders why she’s wearing them.

Cuz I like looking good and he’s an asshole.

So fuck him
.

She puts the jewels on the counter. Slides em under the guy’s bulletproof window.

The slimy guy looks at her.

Sarah says, “The jewels are on sale. Not me, fucker.”

He nods. “Apologies.” He pulls out an eyepiece and looks everything over. The pawnbroker says, “I can give you eight thousand for everything.”

Sarah cocks an eyebrow at him. “Eight? I know what these are worth.”

“Nine.”

“What’ll the guys on Rivington say?” She taps the counter.

“Okay. Ten. But those guys... They’re gonna lowball you. They’ll tell you it’s eight even with the diamonds. I’ll give you ten.”

“But will they gawk at my ass the same way you did?”

“They’ll be worse.”

“Maybe, but you talked yourself out of this deal when you went up two grand after I doubted you. What happen? You get too excited?”

***

The pawnbroker on Rivington says, “Twelve.”

And then Sarah’s very curious. Initial offers going from eight to ten to twelve.

What’s a lowball offer now?

She wishes she knew more about jewelry. She was just bullshitting before.

Sarah says, “You’re sure. Twelve.”

“Twelve.”

“These were my boyfr —” She stops. Is Kieron her boyfriend? Yeah. He’s gotta be. “My boyfriend’s grandmother just died. These were hers.”

The guy, who hasn’t stared at her ass at all, says, “She had good taste. But I’m telling you again: Twelve.”

***

She goes back to the first slimy guy. “Folks on Rivington offered me twelve.”

The pawnbroker with eyes for her ass says, “That right?” He bites his lip. Mutters. “Listen sweetheart, I don’t know how much more I can help you out here.”

Sarah smiles. “Try.”

***

She asks the Rivington guy, “Can you beat thirteen five?”

He squints at her. “You really like this boyfriend of yours.”

She nods.

The broker says, “I hope he appreciates it. All the legwork.”

“He works overnights. He’d be here if he didn’t need to sleep.”

“So you do him a favor, pawning all his grandmother’s jewels.”

“Not all of em.” She doesn’t know why she says it. Maybe cuz she doesn’t enjoy the idea of some goddamn pawnbroker judging Kieron. She shows him the ring she snatched from the satchel. Not real sure why she does
that
either.

He nods. Approves. “Looks like the best of the bunch. He give that to you?”

“Of course.” She smiles. Lies. “So, like I asked: Can you beat thirteen five?”

“You know you need to sign for all this in case it’s stolen? ID, all that?”

“Not a problem.”

***

Sarah sits at the bar.

Lizzy saunters over to her. “You’re lookin pretty happy, cowgirl. What can I getcha?”

“Your finest Guinness, Madame.”

Lizzy snorts. “Comin right up.”

Sarah checks her watch. It’s early evening. She and Kieron fell asleep around seven thirty in the morning. She set out around four in the afternoon. Figures she can have a drink or two before going upstairs.

Lizzy puts the Guinness down in front of her. “On the house.”

“Thank you.”

The bartender eyes Sarah’s ring. The one she stole outta the satchel. Lizzy nods to it. “That what you smiling about?”

Sarah forgot about the gem, but she grins.

“Oooh.” Lizzy does a little dance behind the bar. To the unspoken delight of the male customers. “That’s from Kieron ain’t it.”

She lies. Sorta. “Sure is.”

“Goddamn it, girl. We’re doin a shot together.” Lizzy lays out two for them. Jameson. “I always knew he was a good man. Way he kills himself trying to take care of Aaron.”

“He is a good man.”

Lizzy raises her shot glass. “Well then. To a good man.”

They down their drinks.

Sarah feels the liquor burn its way to her stomach. She sniffles. Throws some Guinness behind it. Says to Lizzy, “You can’t say anything to Kieron. You can’t.”

“Woman, you’re wearing his ring. Why can’t I? Hell, I’m tempted to call upstairs and bug the shit outta him till he comes down for a drink.”

“I just don’t know how many people he wants knowing, is all.”

The whole time, Sarah thinks:
I don’t even know how much bullshit I’ve conjured today. Lies upon lies. Just hope Kieron won’t be angry.

She tells herself:
Girl, he won’t be angry when he sees the fifteen grand you got.

15.

It’s Kieron’s nightmare.

His son tied with barbed wire. On a table. In the dark. But there’s a spotlight. It shines down from an unknown perch in an unknown room. Aaron’s eyes are empty, bloody sockets. He turns a rusted metal wheel with his free hand that goes nowhere and serves no purpose. It just makes the same screeching, squealing, rusted noise.

The kid says, “Where’s Mommy?”

Over and over and over and over and over.

Tick tick tick tick.

Tock.

A razor-blade pendulum swings back and forth.

Tick tick tick.

Tock.

It drops a little bit.

The noise is a timer counting down.

Tick tick.

Tock.

The sharp edge drops a little bit more.

Kieron runs toward Aaron.

Tick.

Tock.

The pendulum hits Aaron’s side. Cuts through him like a deli slicer. His skin pops open. It’s all red inside. A little splash of blood. But the blade comes back. Hits him on the other side. More red. More gore.

Kieron runs toward his son but he doesn’t get anywhere.

His mind is making him watch.

Aaron doesn’t make a peep. Doesn’t flinch. He keeps spinning his screeching, squealing, rusted wheel. It screams for him. The blade cuts him. More and more. Till his chest ain’t affixed to his legs. There’s just a spindly bit of spine between the two.

Aaron asks, “Where’s Mommy?”

Another spotlight comes on.

Sarah’s off to Kieron’s left. Darkness surrounds her. Thin wisps of smoky fog. She stares at him. Smiles.

But she’s on her back.

There’s a man between her spread legs. Thrusting and thrusting. Goddamn Russian thug. Fearless Leader.

She keeps smiling.

Another man appears. Boris. Near her head. He strokes himself.

She pulls him into her mouth. Keeps smiling.

Kieron runs at them all.

He wants to kill the Russians. Wants to strangle Sarah. But he still can’t get anywhere. His legs pump. His feet hit nothing but air.

He groans. Grunts. His exertion matching the Russian bastards while they fuck his precious Sarah.

He looks at the two thugs and their faces change.

Borovinsky. They’re both Borovinsky.

Sarah keeps smiling.

Then she transforms into that psycho blonde bitch ex of his, Rebecca.

***

Kieron’s eyes snap open.

He hates everyone. Everything.

Hard to shake the emotional burden of a bad dream. The weight of shit that didn’t happen, but goddamn if it doesn’t
feel
like it happened.

He hears Aaron and the boy’s LEGOs
click-clack
ing in the next room.

He grips the empty sheets next to him. Wonders where Sarah is.

He wants her and needs her, and he’s angry at her cuz in the dream...

It was a dream. It wasn’t her. And what faces did you see last? The drug dealer dickbag you sent up instead of riding the rap yourself: Borovinsky. Then your piece of shit ex: Rebecca.

It wasn’t Sarah.

It wasn’t Aaron.

Get some orange juice and...

Have a smoke.

Shoot up
.

Relax.

***

Aaron likes his eggs over-easy. But lightly so. Cook it mostly on the bottom. Then flip. Cook it a little on top. Cuz he also likes dipping his toast in the fluid orange yolk. The boy calls it super goo. Filling and rich.

Long as there’s toast.

Kieron watches the egg whites bubble on the frying pan. Mutters to himself, “This is your brain on drugs.” Any questions? “Bud, how many slices of toast you want?”

“Four,” Aaron says. His eyes never leave the engine assembly for his spaceship.

Kieron slides the eggs around on the pan. Says, “What percentage of the ship is done?” Mostly cuz the kid will give him a very precise number.

“Thirty-seven.”

It’s a modular system. Aaron wants to build all of the pieces to perfection before he fits it into one supreme craft. Engines. Wings. Cargo.

Today he’s working on something else. Not part of the original plan.

An escape shuttle.

***

Kieron walks into the bar. Sees Lizzy and Sarah. The only two in there. They laugh. Toast each other and do a shot of whiskey. Then Lizzy sees
him
and they both hush up. Still chuckling a bit.

He says, “I must’ve missed a real good joke.” He ain’t in the mood. Today just feels wrong. That dream. Whole thing set him in a bad way.

Sarah smiles. Pats the stool next to her.

Kieron doesn’t sit, but he leans over and kisses her on the forehead.

Lizzy points at Sarah. “She’s a good one. You make sure you hold onto her.”

Sarah says, “Listen to the bar wench.”

Kieron holds Sarah’s cheek in his palm. Kisses her again. “I plan to hold onto her as long as she holds onto me.” He smirks. Now not sure what they’re getting at. Yeah, everyone knows they’re screwing but...

Sarah says, “Gotta play your cards right, cowboy.” She cups his hand.

Kieron grins till he sees the ring on her finger. One of those shiny fuckin bits of jewelry he took from the old lady. It takes every goddamn bit of reserve he has not to snap. Not to slap her hand away. Not to shout in her face: What in fresh hell are you doing with that ring?

She doesn’t know. She thought it was your grandmother’s. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t...

He holds his grin. Kisses her one more time. His brain works like a hamster on cocaine, desperate to keep running on its wheel. He lets go of her. Walks around to the other side of the bar. He playfully hip-bumps Lizzy out of the way. Spins a bottle of whiskey in his palm before filling three shot glasses. One for each of them.

He raises his shot. Says, “To the two best women in my life.”

“Here here,” Lizzy says.

Sarah winks at him.

Kieron says, “Slainte.”

The hamster in his head spins and spins and spins.

All Kieron can think is:
Today’s gonna be bad.

***

Sarah heads upstairs to check on Aaron and take a nap.

Kieron still pretends like nothing’s fucked and kisses her on her way out.

Lizzy mocks them both with
Oohs
and
Aww
s.

Handfuls of idiots filter in and out of the bar.

Lizzy says to Kieron on her way out: “Don’t fuck it up with Sarah. The girl’s a good one.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Then it’s quiet. Not a lot of people. Regulars. No Russians.

Kieron uses the quiet time to sort out the fuckery with the ring. What’s he gonna tell Sarah? No, you can’t keep the ring. Why? Cuz it ain’t my grandma’s. Cuz I stole it from some old lady along with a bunch of other shit cuz I can’t pay the fuckin bills. And maybe if someone sees you wearing it, they’re gonna get curious and maybe you’re gonna get locked up or maybe something fuckin worse will happen cuz that’s how shit always seems to go.

Sure.

That’ll go over well.

He rubs his forehead.

The bar door swings open.

Kieron watches two guys walk in and curses under his breath. “Fuckin cops.” Plainclothes, both. Kieron can tell by the way they look. And walk. He’s crossed paths with enough pricks in law enforcement to know that strut. That air of bullshit authority. Like, yeah, we’re the bosses of wherever we are. Even if they ain’t showing the badge, they’re wearing it and thinking about it. Just like they’re wearing and thinking about their guns.

Assholes who peaked in high school.

Part of his brain reminds him: You
peaked in high school, dumbass.

He knew today was gonna be bad.

His mind goes to the pump shotgun they’ve got under the bar. It’s there in case some robber asshole comes in wanting to stick up the place. Thing about the shotgun is, it ain’t legal. Not even close. And it’s loaded with slugs—not birdshot. So now there’s already something right in front of him he doesn’t want the cops knowing about.

Christ, he’s told Sarah plenty of times how nervous the boomstick makes him anyway. Not cuz he’s afraid to use it. He afraid
someone else
might get behind the bar and use it on
him
.

The two cops belly up to the bar. One Arab. The other a white guy with a little bit of a Southern accent Kieron picks up on cuz he’s seen a lotta episodes of
Justified
. They’re bitching at each other like a married couple.

Kieron decides he’s gonna play it cool. They’re partners. Or at least folks who’ve spent a lotta time with one another. Easy enough to tell that. He puts his hands on the bar. Says, “Gentlemen. What can I get you?” He waits a beat. “And I guess I should go ahead and let you know: First drink for NYPD is free here.”

The two cops blink once. Then smirk and pat each other’s shoulders.

The Southern cop says, “I predict a good tip in your future. I think we’ll start off with two shots of Evan Williams.”

Kieron nods. “Good pick. You know it —”

“—Beats out Jack Daniel’s by about a hundred years,” the Southern guy says with a smile.

Kieron nods again. “Yep.” And suddenly he can’t tell if he wants to drink with the pigs or shove em out the door.

One question looms in his mind:
Are they here to fuck with me about the old lady’s place?

***

THE THING.

This bar. It’s a dump. And it’s too goddamn far from the apartment in Queens. Joe really wanted to come here so fuck it. At least it’s near-ish to the F line.

That’s what goes through Saim Dajani’s head when he eyeballs the bartender. The guy’s tall with a medium build. But dark circles under the eyes. Like the guy hasn’t slept well in a decade. Or more. And maybe the bartender hasn’t. Not like that’s Saim’s problem. Thing Saim doesn’t like is how the bartender sizes both him and Joe up. Reading em. A bit much.

Saim’s also thinking about how he got a week’s suspension for killing a couple bad guys who wanted to rob a bank and maybe kill some cops. How the
fuck
is that fair?

You killed two of the bastards but Joe cuffed the third one. Arrests are better than bodies. Plus Joe shot the way he was trained to—center mass.

Saim mumbles. “Shut up, brain.”

Then the bartender says NYPD get their first drink free and Joe’s just happy as a pig in dirty shit to hear that.

Saim thinks:
How’d this guy make us as cops so quick?

Saim and Joe are wearing jeans and shirt and jackets. No uniforms. No badges.

Maybe the bartender’s an ex-con. Got those hard lines on his brow. More hard lines that streak down his cheeks. Looks tired all the time. Maybe a junkie who kicked the habit and now he’s slinging booze in an effort to earn money some way that doesn’t involve fucking someone over or getting fucked in return.

Or maybe he didn’t kick it and is just good at hiding it.

This bartender. Why’s he
looking
so hard to make out cops?

Junkies aren’t exactly known for their calm disposition…

Saim goes over the sheets for the Lower East Side in his head. Tries to put the bartender’s face on any mug shots. Tries to attach his description to open crime files. And can’t.

So Saim prods a little. “You get a lotta cops in here?”

Joe drinks and watches the Knicks play the Pacers on TV. He’s not paying too much attention to the conversation, but he’s listening.

The bartender shrugs. “We don’t get a lotta
anybody
in here. Some regulars, cuz of where we are. Then stupid college kids thinkin we might not card. Why?”

“Eh. Nothing really. Just funny how you assumed we were cops.”

The bartender smiles. “But you
are
cops. I mean, hey, if you’re not, that’s fine. I can be wrong. I’ll just have to add twelve bucks to your tab, but that’s no big thing, is it?”

Saim and this bartender look at each other. Sorta smile like it’s a joke. Except it ain’t. They’re both giving off a certain vibe.

The bartender reaches his hand out. Says, “Name’s Kieron. You are?”

Saim says, “No offense, but I’m not planning on being a regular. I live in Queens. But the name’s Saim.”

“Sam.”

“No. S-A-I-M, with a little
oomph
toward the ‘I’ and the ‘M.’ Like
Say-im
. But subtle.”

“Say-
em
.”

“Y’know... Sam’s fine. That’s what Joe calls me anyway.”

“Your partner.”

For a second, Saim mistakes that to mean “life partner”—as in gay as gay can be—but he realizes that ain’t it. The bartender means beat partner. “Yeah.”

“Okay, so you’re cops. And that first drink’s free.”

Saim shrugs. “I’m all right with that. But I’m still curious about how you picked us out so fast. You got someone looking for you?”

“You sayin you’re looking for me?” That same smile from Kieron.

A smirk. Like he’s so clever and playing it off.

And
maybe
it is just that.
Maybe
Saim needs to calm the fuck down, considering he shot a coupla dirtbags a few hours ago. Takes the bloodlust a while to die down.

Or
maybe
this guy’s just guilty as hell of something.

That cop radar going off.

The Knicks make a ridiculous play on TV. Joe claps. Orders another beer.

Saim shakes his head. “Nah. We’re not looking for you.” Puts the breaks on. “Just, y’know, the cop shit sticks with you. I see a guy eyeing me, I wonder what he’s thinking. That’s all. Sorry.” Not really meaning the apology.

Kieron pours Saim a shot of Evan Williams. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Just tip.” Smirk.

Saim takes the shot. Smiles. “All right.” Not trusting a fuckin thing the bartender says.

***

Kieron’s glad when the cops start talking shop. Means he can keep his mouth shut. Avoid saying anything stupid. Just listen in case the two Blues give up any good info.

They don’t.

But he learns something when he turns on the local 11 o’clock news in the bar.