4. Gang’s All Here
4
Gang’s All Here
It wasn’t like Nash to decorate. He outfitted his bar with a steampunk mad scientist aesthetic that didn’t mesh well with balloons. But they were everywhere tonight. Streamers wound around and through the nest of copper piping in the ceiling, and a hand-painted sign the size of a bedsheet hung on one wall, proclaiming HAPPY BIRTHDAY DONOVAN in slanted script.
Nash waved from behind the bar as I meandered in. A polka dot bowtie made a comical addition to his flannel button-down and leather apron.
Despite his toothy grin, I approached with caution and groaned when I saw the stack of party hats on the counter beside him.
Sliding between stools, I leaned over the bar.
“Jesus, Nash. He’s turning twenty, not ten. Isn’t this a bit much?”
Nash’s sister, Pippa, emerged from the back room. She held a large, round tray brimming with shot glasses ready for tasting. Setting the tray on the counter, she clambered up to sit beside it.
A martini glass heaped with olives nestled amidst the jewel-toned shots. Pippa plucked one out and cheeked it before asking, “Weren’t you just here last night?”
“He was,” Nash replied. “Drinking his feelings about Donnie growing up.”
I wasted a scowl on the bartender’s back as he turned toward the bottles lining the wall shelves. With no labels or discernible method of organization, it was a miracle he hadn’t poisoned us all over the years.
“Pregaming twenty-four hours in advance?” Pippa mused. “Very on-brand, Fitch. Very you.”
She’d been in attendance most of the previous evening, bearing witness while casting judgment—the trait that made her most unlike her brother. While Nash often dabbled in muddy waters, Pippa kept her hands clean of we criminals and our dealings. She and I were friends, but friends in the sense that I’d known her since I was fourteen but didn’t know her at all. She had a hell of a bead on me, though.
“That reminds me.” Nash turned, tapping a finger to his temple. “The girl from last night left her number.” He dipped into his jeans pocket.
“Who?” I frowned.
Pippa leaned in and propped her chin on her hands, visibly amused.
“The woman you insisted on taking to bed,” Nash continued, still searching his pocket. “Leggy brunette? Drank mimosas after dark like some kind of animal?”
The recollection was vague, but there. “Ah. Yeah.”
“She left her number,” Nash repeated. “Wants you to call her.” He pulled out a folded scrap of notebook paper and slid it across the bar.
I eyed it, unmoving. “Why me?”
“Something about oral Olympics,” he replied. “You made an impression.”
That was enough to put a smile on my face. “Don’t I always?”
The paper remained while Nash looked from me to it and back again. Finally, I picked it up and wadded it, then flicked it into the nest of shot glasses on Pippa’s countertop tray.
“Thanks, jackass,” she muttered.
Nash rolled his eyes. “Such a gentleman.”
I sighed and straddled the barstool, changing the subject with my drink order. “I’ll take a Boulevardier. Neat.”
Pippa snorted, having already turned and started looking through the drinks for the one with the paper floating in it. “Pretentious,” she muttered.
“I’m expanding my horizons. Branching out.” I extended one hand in a mockingly grand gesture.
She found the contaminated glass and plucked it from amidst the others, setting it off to the side. “Why, though, when you’re practically synonymous with well whiskey sours? They’re cheap, bitter, and effective for a man looking to bonfire his entire career over a bad hangover.”
I froze. Pippa’s comments were often scathing, but not always so specific.
“My career is safe and sound,” I replied. “I got the job done, and what do you know about it, anyway?”
Pippa gripped the edge of the counter, then leaned back on braced arms. “I watch the news.”
“I’m on the news?”
“You are the news.”
An old-fashioned glass hit the countertop with a thud, sloshing red liquid around an orange zest garnish.
I looked past it at Nash, whose knowing expression implied he, too, had tuned into the six o’clock nightly broadcast.
“How bad was it?” I asked him .
He raised one shoulder then the other in a crooked shrug. “I believe the word ‘brazen’ was thrown around. Cocky…”
“Careless.” Pippa grabbed my drink before I could and tipped it to her lips for a taste. “Hmm. You might like this too much.” She reached into her apron pocket, producing the straw her brother had failed to provide.
“No straw, no napkin?” she teased him. “I thought this was a classy establishment, Nick.”
Nash shrugged again and gestured to me, implying that such niceties were reserved for more discerning clientele.
Meanwhile, my thoughts teemed with worst-case scenarios. I’d been caught on camera before. My wanted ads were crowded with stills from real life. Most were tabloid cover shots, catching me with a gas station burrito stuffed in my mouth, or later puking up that same burrito after learning it didn’t mix well with the bottle of vodka I’d found in the backseat of my car.
“Do you think Grimm saw?” I wondered aloud. The thought sunk in my stomach like a fishing weight.
Rather than answer my question, Nash dipped a hand below the counter. “I made you something,” he said, pulling out what looked to be a corked marble and tossed it to me.
I caught it, spurred by the self-preservation instinct that informed me Nash made as many consumable liquids as he did combustible ones. It wasn’t unlikely he would throw a potion grenade my way, trusting I wouldn’t fumble it and blow this place sky-high.
With the tiny orb safely in hand, I lifted it for inspection. Blue-green liquid swirled, mercurial, inside the glass. It was prettier than many of the alchemist’s concoctions, which often came out looking like thin mud or swamp water .
“What is it?” I asked.
“Recall potion,” he replied. “Thought you could test it for me. Break or drink it, and it should bring you back here.”
“Should?” I echoed.
Pippa snickered, nibbling another olive.
Nash continued with a nod, “Might come in handy for someone needing to avoid negative attention. Or arrest.”
“Could’ve used this earlier.” I gave the potion a swish.
“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
He said it jokingly, but I was entirely serious as I replied, “I would never say that.”
“When you use it, would you make a note of any sensations or side effects?” Nash asked, unmoved by my effort at sincerity. I half-expected him to hand me a steno pad and pen. “Up to seventy-two hours after consumption.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll do my best.”
Tucking the potion into the jeans pocket opposite my car keys, I already worried about accidentally popping it at the worst possible moment. I’d find a safer way to store it when I got back to the motel later.
Awareness of the late hour reminded me I hadn’t expected to be drinking alone. I scanned the walls for a clock.
“What time is everybody supposed to get here?”
“Well, you’re never early and they’re always late, so you all usually arrive about the same time,” Nash said. “I’d guess they’re about to walk in right now.”
“Fitch!” My brother’s voice carried on a shout across the bar.
I grimaced. Not at Donovan’s audible enthusiasm at finding me here, but rather at his presence heralding the arrival of the rest of the party guests. I swiveled on the barstool and stood to greet him with a smile.
“Happy birthday, kid,” I said as he leaned in for a hug.
After a brief embrace, he pulled back, surveying the balloons and streamers populating every surface. He beamed, mocha brown eyes glittering with enthusiasm so genuine I regretted saying the décor was juvenile. Maybe I’d missed the mark all these years and he would have been happier with a cake and a clown.
“This is great, you guys.” Donovan shared thanks with each of us in turn and ended on me. “Fitch, is this where you’ve been all day?”
“Oh, yes.” Pippa pressed the half-drank Boulevardier into my hand then climbed off the counter. “It was Fitch’s idea to dress up the place. Blowing up balloons with his own breath and spit, running up and down a ladder…”
She laughed, amused by the joke, but Donovan’s expression sobered.
“So, you weren’t here,” he said flatly. “Why didn’t you come home?”
He didn’t know. Nice to see at least one person had better things to do than watch TV all day.
“We could’ve used your help, actually,” Pippa told me. “I bet you’re a whiz with crepe paper rolls. Like point and shoot.” She aimed both hands as finger guns into the air, firing a few pretend shots before turning to the tray she’d set on the bar. Hefting it onto one shoulder, she moved away, forging a path toward the entrance where customers were beginning to file in.
The bar filled with people and the general din. Whoops and shouts came in response to Nash’s party décor, delaying my reply to Donovan’s question. I had yet to fabricate a believable excuse when more of our group sauntered in.
Front and center, Avery Hale led the charge, tooting a party horn. He always dressed to the nines, and tonight was no exception. A tweed vest buttoned over his starched white shirt and ascot tie. His auburn hair was slicked back, shiny with grease.
To his left, the human boulder known as Vinton Everly lumbered past. The guy had ham hocks for arms and muscles that bulged even in his bald head—all brawn, no brains. He could palm a man’s skull like a basketball, then crush it with one squeeze of his sausage fingers. I’d seen it. I’d also seen him resurrect that same squish-headed man and repeat the process all over again. Necromancy was a hell of an art form.
Avery spotted us first.
“Look who turned up after all,” he called out, drawing the attention of the growing crowd. His party horn disappeared in a puff of smoke.
“Heads up, fucker,” he said, raising one hand. A flash of silver took shape in flight: a dagger spinning end over end toward my face.
I opened my palm, ready to stop it, but the knife vanished inches before reaching me.
Peals of laughter echoed to the high ceiling. They’d already been drinking, and I hadn’t even begun. The Boulevardier waited in my grasp. I downed it in a quick gulp as Avery finished his approach.
“Great job today,” he said, his smile increasingly impish. “And damn, that news recap. We should have had a watch party. Big screen, popcorn, the whole bit.”
He ducked past me to grab a couple of party hats from the counter and toss them to Donovan and me. Rather than don one himself, he smoothed his hands along the sides of his head, conjuring a flat cap topped with a sign that flashed the words “Gettin’ Lit” in neon.
I stared at the party hat, speechless, and was further silenced when Donovan asked, “You had a job today?”
I chewed my lip, running out of options where to look with Avery grinning like an idiot, Donovan frowning, and Nash doing God knew what behind me. Minding his own business, hopefully, but not likely.
I’d been spared from answering earlier by the gang’s arrival, and it seemed I’d been granted another stay when a newcomer darkened the bar’s doorway.
Grimm entered the room. Not a stay at all, but rather the executioner himself. He walked toward me, unavoidable, and apparently sober. Dark, wavy hair framed his bearded face, and his blue eyes fixed on mine.
Avery sat to my left, spinning on his barstool. He caught Donovan with a barred arm and knocked him back onto the stool I’d vacated.
“Take a seat, Donnie-boy,” he chortled. “Show’s about to start.”
Donovan shot me a sideways look. “Fitch, what’s going on?”
Behind the bar, Nash polished a glass with a towel as if he didn’t have a dozen customers to tend to. Nosey fucker.
“I’m gonna need like five more of these.” I shoved the empty old-fashioned glass toward him. “Stat.”
The bartender reached into the shelves behind him and produced a square, clear bottle with a glass cork. It hit the copper counter with a thunk. “Save us both some time,” he advised, then wandered off down the bar, whistling.
“Definitely an enabler,” I muttered, uncapping the bottle and pouring its amber contents to the brim of my glass. When I lifted it for a sip—or guzzle—a hand clapping on my shoulder almost knocked it from my grasp.
“Fitch.” Grimm’s voice was soft and low. “Glad you could make it. I was concerned since you had such a… challenging day.”
I took a noisy slurp of the whiskey before replying, “Wasn’t so bad. I went for a drive, stopped by the tattoo parlor…” I raised my hand with its fresh line of ink. “Did you know Reeves was number thirty?”
Grimm pressed in behind me. “We should talk about that,” he said. “Debrief.”
“Later.” I swallowed another mouthful and considered emptying the glass. “I don’t want to miss the party.”
“Oh, the party hasn’t started yet,” Grimm said. “We have time.”
Pippa wandered by, ferrying the tray of shots. I gestured to her, then looked at my brother. “You want one of those?”
I didn’t wait for Donovan’s answer before stepping out to slide past Grimm. “I’m gonna get a few.”
Grimm shifted to block my path. He wasn’t much bigger than me, but still undeniably imposing. I shouldered by anyway, neither pausing nor slowing as he rumbled my name.
“Fitch!”
Pippa’s green eyes widened when she saw me coming, or maybe it was Grimm closing quickly behind me that prompted her to shake her head and try to walk away.
I mentally pinned her feet in place, and she pitched forward, off-balance. She had more than a few things to say about my overstep, obvious from the way her cheeks flushed and her lips puckered in protest.
“Just a moment, little lady.” I smiled, wolfish, and reached for the nearest glass on her tray—something green and fizzy. These drinks weren’t alcohol. They were alchemy, and their effects were anyone’s guess.
I’d almost grabbed it when Grimm latched onto my wrist, gripping it with white-knuckled rage.
“Outside,” Grimm said, his voice a dull roar. “Now.”
He shoved my arm away then turned toward the nearest exit, trusting I would follow.
I blew a breath through clenched teeth and released Pippa’s feet. She steadied herself and flipped me her middle finger before dipping back into the crowd.
Grimm moved swiftly out of the bar. I had half a mind to let him go outside alone and see how long he’d wait before blowing back in here like a tornado, ready to tear the place to the studs. But a glance back at Donovan, still sitting on the barstool, swayed me to obedience. It wasn’t worth making more of a scene and ruining his night. Better to get this over with.
As I followed Grimm’s path, Avery’s mocking tone chased me. “Yes, Daddy. Right behind you, Daddy!”