Chapter 23
TALIN
Ilean against the sun-scraped pale stoop and squint down the block into the darkness. “This can’t be right,” I say. The sun set an hour ago and the streetlights are barely flickering.
“Trust me, it’s right.” Brenden’s trying hard not to smirk and doing a real bad job of it. “You’ve never been to Pigtown before?”
“No, I’ve never been—“ I punch him in the arm. He grunts and laughs. “Don’t make fun of me, dickhead.”
“It’s fun to be reminded how much of a rich, sheltered girl you are.”
“And it’s great to be reminded of your general dickish demeanor.”
“Ouch.” He rubs his shoulder, his smile fading. “But seriously, look around. Pigtown’s not what it used to be.”
I see what he means. The houses aren’t in amazing shape, but they aren’t terrible either.
There’s an organic grocery on the corner next to a hipster-looking tattoo shop.
About a dozen BMWs are parked along the curb.
People loiter nearby, none looking worried or in much of a hurry, the total opposite of the worst sections of this city.
As if I know much about those places.
To be fair, Brenden’s right, I am rich and sheltered. It isn’t my fault, but it’s still true. I’ve barely wandered around my own city, which is why it’s so much worse, finding out that my little brother has.
“How long has he been doing this?” I ask as we start walking down the block.
“A couple years that we know of. I bet he started small though. Probably made connections in that fancy private school you all went to.”
“It’s hard to imagine Sam around here, you know?”
“I have a feeling there’s a lot about Sam you haven’t seen.” He takes my hand and holds it tightly. I don’t think he’s being protective, more trying to be comforting, and that makes the gesture land even harder.
“He was always so charming, you know?” I think back to the young Sam, the teenager who was constantly getting into minor trouble. “I swear Papa got a call from the principal at least once a week, but nothing ever came of it.”
“You want to be the administrator to toss a Sarkissian kid out?”
“No and Sam definitely used our name to his advantage in ways none of us did. He used to sell candy from his backpack in elementary school. One time he got caught stealing test keys from the teacher’s lounge. Can you imagine?”
“He’d probably been selling those too.”
“Absolutely. He loves having some scheme going on.” I smile to myself, but it’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing how that led him to this place. “Do you think he knows? How bad it’s gotten?”
“I’m sure he does. He was the one who put those documents in that safe. He knows it’s only a matter of time before they’re used against him.”
“So why not run? Why not do something?”
“What can he do?” Brenden wraps an arm across my shoulders. “I guarantee he has plans, but for now, he’s stuck waiting.”
“This conversation should be a relief then.”
“Doubt it. But we’ll see.”
We stop outside a door stuck in the corner of an old brick building.
There’s a faded red Coke sign hanging out front but no visible name anywhere.
I’d never know it was a bar if not for the advertisements for half price beer in the papered-over windows, though who knows what the actual full price is supposed to be.
Brenden goes in first. The room is dim and packed with stools, tables, and an old jukebox in the back corner.
TVs blare overhead playing Orioles games.
The clientele is older than the faded, ripped vinyl flooring and the bartender’s a woman who looks like she helped build the place, her white hair a tangle, her leathery skin tanned and deeply marked by wrinkles.
Nobody bothers glancing our way like they’re used to a couple young people strolling through. Like it’s not out of place.
“Can you imagine a couple dozen rich kids coming in here?” I whisper as we angle toward the back.
“They must be scared shitless. Worse than you are.”
“I’m not scared!”
“You’re trembling.”
“Stop it.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got you.” He takes the lead and I resist the urge to kick him in the back of the knee.
Ahead is a short hall leading to the bathrooms, and past those is another door, this one propped open with a brick, bright light and sound spilling out.
The loud baseball game commentary drowned it out, now the noise of dull conversation and the clacking of clay chips is hard to miss.
The back room is large, almost bigger than the front.
This one’s packed by poker tables with green felt and bored-looking dealers in black shirts.
The young men sitting around are all in some variation of rich kid chic: polo shirts, suit shirts and slacks without jackets, obscenely expensive ripped vintage tee shirts over designer jeans.
Nobody looks up as we stand in the entrance.
Sam did all this. I couldn’t believe it before, not really, but now looking at how well organized it is, this has my brother’s stamp all over it.
There’s even a tiny bar in the corner and a pretty young girl with a low-cut top is busy shaking a drink.
Despite the grimy front portion, this area’s scrubbed clean, well lit, orderly, and reeking of high-end perfection.
A large man comes walking over, moving fast despite his size, weaving through the narrow lanes left by chairs.
Half-lidded eyes follow him, the players mostly curious.
He’s in all black with a scraggly chin-strap and pinched eyes.
“Excuse me, you two, but I think you’re lost.” His voice is higher than I expected, and I realize he’s young, around Sam’s age. “I don’t think you—“
“Jason Bellingham? Is that you?” I clasp my hands over my chest and make an exaggerated gasp of recognition. “Jason! It’s definitely you!”
The big man stops in his tracks. He frowns, scratches his neck, and his face lights up. “Holy crap, Tallie! I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Jason Bellingham is one of Sam’s many lost children.
They met in kindergarten and had a few play dates, but Sam quickly moved on to bigger and better things, while Jason’s family was never rich enough to keep him in the fancy private schools without financial assistance, which Jason was far from smart enough to earn.
But Sam’s always been the type to keep a contact, and so here is Jason Bellingham, burly and grinning like a child, the same boy I knew a decade ago, but now about five times larger.
“Where’s my brother?” I ask, not bothering to introduce Brenden. I’m sure Jason’s heard enough rumors to figure out who he is anyway.
“Sam’s in the back. Wow, it’s been forever. I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“I try to keep my distance, you know, in case I run into someone I don’t want to see.” I laugh and Jason grins along as if that makes any sense. “Mind if we go talk to him?”
“I don’t know. I’m not supposed to let any non-players through here.” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder. There’s one final door in the far wall. “Maybe if you wait here—“
“Don’t worry about it, honestly, he knows we’re coming.” I walk past Jason like this is normal. Brenden stays on my hip as we move into the forest of players.
“Hold on. Why don’t I talk to him first? Tallie, just a second—“
I don’t slow down. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t want to interrupt. Oh, hey, that guy should definitely raise.” I beam at Jason and tug on Brenden’s arm. “My husband was thinking about playing next week. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?”
“Tallie, I’m not supposed to let you through here.” Jason’s friendly tone is fading fast. Now there are more than a few people staring. I wonder how many know me? Probably most of them, but I’m trying my best not to look too closely. “You have to wait. Tallie, hold on. Tallie, stop!”
Jason lunges for my arm. He’s fast for a big guy. I don’t have time to react, and I think he’s going to get me, right until Brenden’s elbow smashes into Jason’s teeth.
The big man’s face jerks back with a shocked grunt.
Blood bubbles from his mouth and Brenden doesn’t stop there.
He kicks Jason hard in the knee, knocking him down to the floor, and draws a gun from a hidden holster at his belt.
There’s a surprised shout nearby and the tension in the room goes ballistic, but nobody moves as Brenden covers the space, the barrel of the gun sweeping over ducking heads.
“Stay where you are, everyone.” His voice is eerily calm. “This doesn’t have to escalate.”
The back door slams open. “What the fuck is going—“ Sam appears in his usual white shirt and dark jeans, looking more annoyed than anything else, but the second he spots me and Brenden his face brightens. “Oh! Hey guys!”
Nobody moves. Brenden’s pointing a gun in the general direction of the room. Sam’s acting like this is a normal social visit. And poor Jason’s bleeding on the ground.
“Hey, Sam,” I say cautiously. “We came to talk.”
“Great timing!” He gestures for us to follow.
“Right through here. Jason, did you try to stop them, you stupid fuck? Jesus Christ, someone pick him up and make sure he’s still got his teeth.
Britney, one free drink per player, no fucking more you leeches, and for fuck’s sake Brenden, put that gun away. ”
Sam waves us on and storms back into his office. For a beat, nobody stirs, until the bartender Britney starts shaking a drink again. “You heard him,” she calls out. “I’m keeping track.”
Brenden lowers his weapon and follows me as a flood of young men head toward the bar. A few stop to check on him.
“He’s good,” Brenden says, quietly putting the gun back into its holster.
“Did you have to give poor Jason a root canal?”
“He was going to touch my wife.”
“I didn’t realize you were an overprotective idiot.”
“Now you know.”
We head into the office. Sam immediately slams the door behind us. The space is relatively cramped and I’m guessing it used to be a somewhat large janitor’s closet. Now there’s a filing cabinet, a few chairs, a desk, and lots of papers and ledgers thrown around.