7. Tremaine “Trigger” Marks #5
I rolled into a dive I hated because I knew the owner hated me back.
The door groaned when I pushed it open, years of grime turning the hinge into a warning.
The smell hit first: old beer soaked into floorboards, fryer grease that clung to every breath, and the faint rot of citrus left too long in bar wells.
Neon lights buzzed overhead, their glow dim and dirty, making the bottles behind the counter look like trophies stolen, not earned.
The floor was sticky enough to slow my boots, gum and God-knows-what welded into tile.
Laughter in the back cracked like glass, sharp and thin, cutting through a haze of cigarette smoke and stale weed.
The bartender barely looked up. His eyes narrowed when he saw me, jaw tight. “Still pullin’ up in my spot like you own the lease, Trigger?” he muttered, voice dry as dust.
“I own silence,” I told him, dropping onto a barstool. “You like rentin’ it out, or should I remind this room what noise sounds like?”
He snorted and grabbed a bottle that pretended it was whiskey. “Ain’t nobody forgot.” The glass slid across the bar, amber liquid catching neon light like a dirty jewel. “This one’s on me, not ‘cause I like you. ‘Cause I like my floor not painted red.”
I drank. It burned like gas station fumes. Comfort wasn’t why I was here.
The TV above the bar played a Lakers game on low volume, screen cracked in one corner, static buzzing like a mosquito. A few men hunched over their drinks, talking too low for strangers to catch. Others barked over point spreads, slapping crumpled bills into a jar crusted with dried beer.
“Still the same,” I peeped, flicking ash into an empty shot glass. “Same men. Same stories. Same smell.”
“Some smells don’t wash out,” the bartender grumbled, polishing a glass that only got dirtier. “Like bad choices.”
I let a slow grin curl. “Lucky for you, I stopped makin’ those.”
He scoffed but didn’t answer. He knew better.
A man slid into the seat next to me like he owned it. Leather jacket with “City” stitched on the chest, creases sharp but soul tired. His eyes told me he used to be about something before a mortgage killed it. His fade was tight, but his hands shook like they missed the gun they used to hold.
“Friday,” he muttered into his glass.
“Monday,” I countered, sliding him a white envelope. Inside, the inspector’s donation receipt was folded crisp, like a letter from a woman you regret leaving. He didn’t look down, didn’t need to. His fingers twitched once, but he tucked it into his inner pocket like a guilty love note.
“You gonna keep this neighborhood from embarrassing me?” he asked. His tone meant his boss.
“I’m gonna keep your microphones from finding the wrong song,” I answered, voice low enough to cut through the static.
He nodded once, finished his drink in a single swallow that made his throat tighten like it remembered fear, and left cash on the bar—crisp bills that smelled like starch and secrets.
From the far side of the room, a man with a crooked Raiders cap grinned. “Yooo, Trig! That you? Still movin’ like the Crest don’t sleep, huh? You outside like a streetlight, homie!” His laugh rolled loud, testing me.
I turned my head slow, gave him a look colder than the busted ice in his glass. “Keep talkin’, see if sleep finds you first.”
The laughter died quick. Even the TV seemed to choke back the noise.
The bartender watched me drain my glass and didn’t ask for payment. He leaned in close, voice rough like gravel. “Next time, call first.”
“Wouldn’t be a next time if I called first,” I muttered, pushing the glass back. He nodded once, understanding exactly what I meant.
Smart man. In this city, some tabs stayed open forever.
The tension stayed thick after the stool creaked underneath me.
No one moved. Conversations had died the second I walked in, but now the silence was heavy enough to make the neon buzz sound like thunder.
I felt every pair of eyes on my back—curious, calculating, and quiet.
Some of these men had straps tucked under their hoodies, others had debts tucked in their pockets.
None of them had the nerve to test me, but their stares weren’t out of fear.
They were out of memory. In Lyon Crest, respect didn’t come from talk—it came from the last time you made an example out of someone who thought talk was enough.
I scanned the room, slow. Clocked every exit—front door with a busted hinge, side door near the pool table, and the fire exit by the bathrooms with the alarm ripped out years ago.
Three men near the bar wore oversized black hoodies heavy enough to hide hardware.
A fourth in the corner nursed a Modelo with his hand too close to his waistband.
I wasn’t nervous. I was mapping. That’s what men like me do—we draw blueprints in our heads so no one else writes the ending for us.
“You good, Trig?” the bartender asked without looking at me, voice low.
“I’m always good,” I said, scanning him too. “You just keep pourin’ that unleaded you call whiskey.”
A chuckle rippled somewhere in the back, short and nervous. The air had shifted now—thick with recognition, not tension. These weren’t enemies; they were reminders. Reminders that Lyon Crest wasn’t safe, wasn’t soft, and wasn’t supposed to be. That’s why I was here.
I lit a cigarette and let the smoke curl around me, slow and deliberate.
Nobody in this bar was a friend, but nobody wanted to be an enemy either.
That was the sweet spot. That’s why I came here.
I wasn’t here to drink or talk. I was here to remind the room I was still breathing—and that I’d stop theirs if they forgot.
The bartender went back to polishing glasses that would never be clean, but his shoulders stayed tense like a man who knew he was in the presence of gravity.
Even the man in the Raiders cap kept his head down now, whispering to his drink.
The door behind me creaked open, letting in a cold draft and the smell of wet pavement. Nobody looked. Not at the door. Not at me. In Lyon Crest, that was the highest sign of respect—pretending you didn’t notice the storm until it was over.
A man slid onto the stool beside me without asking, like permission was something he outgrew.
His jacket said “City” in stitched white letters, but his shoulders told a different story—used to be broad, now slouched with mortgage weight and old regrets.
His fade was fresh, but his hands jittered like they missed the cold grip of a pistol.
His cologne smelled like a courtroom, and his breath carried last night’s whiskey and a divorce he didn’t sign for.
He stared at his drink, voice low and flat. “Friday.”
I flicked ash into an empty shot glass and leaned just close enough for him to feel the weight of me.
“Monday,” I murmured, the word sharp as glass.
I slid a crisp envelope toward him, inspector’s donation receipt folded neat inside.
He didn’t need to open it—men like him didn’t need proof; they just needed a reason to look the other way.
He palmed it like a dirty secret and tucked it into his inner pocket slow, like it burned.
“On hood, this the one that’s gon’ keep y’all out the paper,” I added, low.
“You gonna keep this block from embarrassing me?” His voice cracked like it belonged to someone braver, but we both knew he was talking about his boss. “You feel me?”
“I’m gonna keep your microphones from finding the wrong song,” I told him, each word heavy, deliberate. The kind of sentence that settles in a man’s bones. “Don’t get it twisted.”
He exhaled through his nose, downed the rest of his drink in one pull, throat bobbing like he swallowed something sharper than alcohol. He left bills on the bar—crisp, starched, like he ironed them this morning to remind himself he had control somewhere.
“Careful, Trigger,” he muttered, sliding off the stool. “The wrong people are watchin’.”
“They always watch,” I said, not looking at him. “They just don’t always see. Dead homies can tell you that.”
The bartender’s eyes followed him out the door before landing on me, unreadable but sharp.
I tapped my empty glass once against the bar.
No request. Just a reminder. He poured another round, hand steady but jaw tight.
In Lyon Crest, respect didn’t come with smiles.
It came with silence. “On hood,” he muttered under his breath, like a prayer.
I didn’t pay. I never do here. Not because I’m owed—it’s because I’m the reason the lights stay on. We weren’t friends. We weren’t customers. We were the solution. And in the Crest, being the solution meant every man stayed in my pocket, yadadamean?
The door groaned like it wanted to snitch when I pushed it open, the stale heat of the bar giving way to Lyon Crest night air—wet, thick, alive.
Rain had slowed to a mist, but the asphalt still glistened like oil, catching every flicker of neon and busted streetlamp glow.
Cigarette butts floated in the gutter, and a bus sighed at the corner, headlights cutting through fog like interrogation lamps.
My Hayabusa sat under the hum of a crooked streetlight, white paint shining ghostlike, gold trim flashing every time a drop slid off it. It didn’t need a name. Men like me didn’t christen tools we’d eventually bury.
I walked slow, letting the night scan me the way the Crest always did. Every shadow was a lookout. Every flick of a lighter was a message. The bar’s buzzing neon reflected in puddles, red and green bleeding together like the set of a crime scene that never got cleaned up.