Meeting

I step out of the Queens County Police Station and into the light.

Only it isn’t sunlight.

It’s one of those harsh security lamps mounted above the entrance—bright enough to make you think it’s day if you don’t look too hard. Beyond it, the sky is dark and empty.

I’ve been inside too long.

Eight hours, give or take.

Long enough to forget what time it is. Long enough to start thinking maybe I’m not getting out at all.

And now I have.

That’s the problem.

I stand there for a second, letting the cool air hit my face, trying to decide how I feel about being free.

Relieved doesn’t make the list.

Ted does.

Ted Polmey has reach. I know that. Everyone who works for him knows that. But this? Pulling strings inside Queens County? Overriding a captain like Henderson?

That isn’t reach.

That’s something else.

Either he wants me out…

Or he needs me out.

Neither option sits well.

An engine roars somewhere in the lot, pulling me out of my head.

I turn just in time to see my bike wobbling toward me under the control of a man who looks like he lost a fight with gravity years ago and decided not to get back up.

He wears a Queens County uniform stretched to its absolute limit. The bike dips slightly as he brakes, like it’s grateful the ride is over.

He kills the engine and climbs off.

“Sweet ride,” he says, patting the seat like it hasn’t just suffered.

I look at him.

Look at my bike.

Back to him.

“Appreciate you bringing it back,” I say.

He nods, satisfied.

Then he leans a little closer, his expression tightening.

“That Jeep you took belonged to a friend of mine.”

There it is.

“Didn’t realize I was borrowing from family,” I say.

His jaw flexes.

“You stole a Queens County officer’s vehicle.”

I shrug as much as the soreness in my shoulders allows.

“Guess I’ll send him a thank-you card.”

That doesn’t land.

His finger comes up and presses into my chest.

“You think this is funny?”

I glance down at his hand, then back at him.

“No, sir.”

Beat.

“I think it’s unfortunate.”

For a second, I think he might swing.

Instead, he huffs, brushes past me, and heads for the entrance.

“You’ll be back,” he calls over his shoulder. “No lawyer in the world can keep you out of a cell forever.”

I watch him squeeze through the door like it owes him money.

Through the glass, I catch a glimpse of Henderson.

Arms crossed.

Watching.

Even from here, he looks like he hasn’t cooled off.

I think about what he said.

You’re not the guy I want.

Doesn’t make me feel better.

If anything, it makes me feel like I’ve just been measured for something I don’t understand.

I swing a leg over my bike and start it. The engine sounds fine.

Better than fine.

At least something in my life is still working.

I pull out of the lot before anyone can change their mind.

I should go home.

That would be the smart move.

Shower.

Sleep.

Pretend the last day never happened.

Instead, I find myself heading toward the Backside Lounge.

Old habits.

Bad instincts.

Call it whatever you want.

Truth is, I don’t like not knowing where I stand. And right now, everything feels shifted. Like I stepped half an inch to the left and the whole world adjusted around me.

The Lounge sits where it always does—neon glowing, music leaking into the predawn darkness, promising things it can’t deliver.

Same as always.

I kill the engine and take a second before going in.

The place looks the same.

Doesn’t feel the same.

Like the music’s half a beat behind and I’m the only one noticing.

I push through the door.

The lighting hits me first.

It always does.

Too much of it, and none of it useful. Reds and blues wash over the stage, turning people into shapes and movement instead of faces. You can pretend anything looks good under lights like that.

Reality doesn’t get a say.

Tavarius and Tequan are at the door.

“Tay. Te,” I say, offering a quick nod.

I get nothing back but a look and the door opening.

Progress.

Inside, the place is alive in the way it always is—music pulsing, bodies moving, money changing hands in quiet little exchanges that mean more than anyone wants to admit.

I don’t linger.

Don’t scan the room like I usually do.

I go straight to the bar.

Sit down.

Back to the bar.

Eyes on the stage.

Someone dances under the red lights, turning slow and controlled. Could be anyone.

Doesn’t matter.

I’m not here for that.

A glass hits the bar behind me.

I turn.

The bartender stands there—clean-cut, calm, like he took a wrong turn on his way to somewhere better.

“What can I get for you?” he asks.

Voice smooth.

Easy.

Doesn’t match the room.

“Where’s Otto?”

“Had to step out,” the man replies. “Family matter.”

I study him for a second.

“You new?”

He smiles. Not big. Just enough.

“Just helping out tonight.”

Something about him doesn’t sit right.

Can’t place it.

Not a cop.

Not a regular.

Just… off.

“You got a name?” I ask.

“John.”

“John,” I repeat. “You from around here?”

“Around enough.”

That doesn’t help.

I lean back slightly, still watching him.

“You always answer questions like that?”

“Only the ones I’m asked.”

Yeah.

Definitely off.

I’m about to push a little harder—see what he does when the questions get uncomfortable—

And that’s when I see her.

Kristy Lee.

She sits farther down the bar. Alone. Fully clothed. Which in this place makes her stand out more than anything else.

She hasn’t noticed me yet.

Or she has, and she’s pretending she hasn’t.

Either way, she’s been waiting.

I look back at John.

He’s already watching me.

“She’s been here a while,” he says.

I don’t ask how he knows that.

“Whiskey sour.”

He nods once and goes to work.

Quick.

Efficient.

No wasted motion.

The drink hits the bar in front of me.

I take a sip.

Good.

Too good for this place.

I set it down.

“Enjoy it,” John says. “Things might get a little hairy.”

I look up at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But he’s already turned away, helping someone else.

Conversation over.

I stare at his back for a second.

Then I slide off the stool and head toward Kristy.

I take the seat beside her without asking.

Don’t look at her directly.

We meet in the mirror behind the bar.

She has a beer in front of her. Guinness. Barely touched. She turns it slowly between her hands like she’s been sitting there a while.

“You waiting on someone?” I ask.

She doesn’t look at me.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Guy who might owe you money.”

That gets her attention.

She turns just enough to get a look at me.

Not impressed.

“You’re Gene?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

She studies me for another second, like she’s deciding whether to be annoyed or relieved.

“Thought you’d be taller.”

“I get that a lot.”

“You’re late.”

“Yeah.”

“That it?” she asks. “Just ‘yeah’?”

I reach into my pocket, pull out my wallet, and set five hundreds on the bar between us.

“That’s it.”

She looks down at the money.

Doesn’t touch it right away.

Then she picks up her beer, takes a slow sip, and sets it back down.

“You always this hard to track down?”

“Only when it matters.”

She lets out a quiet breath through her nose.

Not quite a laugh.

“Figures. You gonna tell me what happened?”

I take a sip of my drink.

“Got arrested.”

That gets her attention.

She turns fully now, studying me.

“For what?”

“Bad timing.”

She snorts.

“That’s not a charge.”

“Should be.”

A beat passes between us.

“You always this vague?”

“Only when it matters.”

She leans back slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You got a family?”

Before I can answer, a hand lands on my shoulder.

“Everything good over here?”

I don’t have to turn to know who it is.

“Always.”

Patricia—Patty Kakes to everyone with cash in their hands—leans in just enough to look between us. She has that smile she uses when she’s working, but her eyes are doing something else entirely.

Reading the room.

Reading Kristy.

Reading me.

“This guy bothering you?” she asks Kristy.

Kristy shakes her head.

“No. Just figuring out if he’s worth the trouble.”

Patricia laughs.

“Let me save you some time.”

She squeezes my shoulder.

Not gentle.

“He’s not.”

I smile into my glass.

“Good to see you too.”

She ignores that, still looking at Kristy.

“You got your money?”

Kristy nods toward the bar.

“Then you’re ahead of most people,” Patricia says.

She straightens, finally looking down at me.

“Where were you?”

There it is.

No smile now.

I exhale.

“Took a detour.”

Her expression doesn’t change.

“Gene.”

I glance up at her. Hold it for a second.

“Got picked up.”

That lands.

Her jaw tightens just a fraction.

Most people wouldn’t notice.

I do.

“How many times we gotta have this conversation?” she asks quietly.

“Couple more, probably.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

She studies me, weighing something.

“You keep going like this, you’re not gonna be around to help anybody.”

There it is.

Kristy glances between us.

“Help who?”

I don’t answer.

Patricia does.

“People who need it.”

Kristy looks back at me.

“Are you two married?”

I shrug.

“Something like that.”

Patricia punches me in the arm.

“Honey, if I was ever to get married again, it wouldn’t be to someone in this place. Besides, Gene isn’t the marrying type.”

“What type is he?”

“He’s the type that needs to get his head out of his ass. Bills don’t pay themselves.”

I take another sip of my drink.

Patricia lets out a quiet breath through her nose. Not quite frustration.

Not quite acceptance.

“You’re right,” I say. “They don’t.”

The DJ’s voice cuts through the room, loud and obnoxious.

“Let’s hear it for Miss Patty Kakes—taking the main stage!”

Patricia rolls her eyes.

“That’s my cue.”

She leans down, close to my ear.

“Don’t disappear again.”

Not a request.

Then she taps the bar twice and moves toward the stage.

Kristy watches her go.

“She seems… intense.”

“She’s earned it.”

Kristy takes a sip of her beer, then nods toward the far corner of the room.

“For what it’s worth, I thought you were that guy over there.”

I follow her line of sight.

Salmon-colored jacket.

Table full of people pretending they matter more than they do.

I wince.

“That hurts.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s Yorkie.”

“Yorkie?”

“Owns the place,” I say. “And I’m definitely cooler than Yorkie.”

Kristy raises an eyebrow.

“Low bar?”

“Depends how you feel about show dogs.”

She looks back at him.

“What?”

“He breeds Yorkshire Terriers,” I say. “Show-quality. Whole thing.”

She blinks once.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

She shakes her head slightly, like she isn’t sure what kind of world she’s walked into.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m starting to think I made a mistake coming here.”

“Probably.”

The conversation stalls there.

Kristy picks up her beer, studying me over the rim.

“I’m still deciding if you’re worth the trouble.”

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s what worries me.”

A glass slides onto the bar between us.

Two straws.

Neither of us sees John approach.

“You two look like you could share a drink,” he says.

I glance up at him.

“You always this intrusive?”

He smiles faintly.

“Only when it matters.”

Kristy raises an eyebrow and looks at the drink.

“We’re not together.”

John doesn’t miss a beat.

“Not yet.”

That hangs there for a second.

Just long enough to feel like more than a joke.

Before I can respond—

“Yo, Gene.”

I turn.

Tavarius stands near the door, Tequan just behind him.

Neither looks amused.

“You’re wanted outside,” Tavarius says.

Not loud.

Doesn’t need to be.

I look back at Kristy.

“Rain check.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just watches me like she’s trying to decide if she’ll ever see me again.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “Maybe.”

I slide off the stool.

As I walk away, I glance back at the bar.

John is gone.

The predawn air hits different this time.

Colder.

Quieter.

I make it three steps from the entrance before something slams into my side.

Hard.

Air leaves my lungs in a rush.

My knee buckles.

I hit the ground before I can catch myself.

Pain follows.

Boots.

Ribs.

Back.

Someone grabs my arm, yanks me up just enough to hit me again.

I don’t fight back.

Not really.

You learn when not to.

I curl in, take it, and wait for it to stop.

It does.

Hands grab me under the arms and drag me forward.

My vision swims, but I catch enough.

Tavarius.

Tequan.

They haul me toward a black town car idling at the curb.

The window is already rolling down.

Driver inside.

Face I don’t recognize.

Doesn’t matter.

I know who he works for.

“Portia’s Steakhouse,” the driver says without looking at me. “Two o’clock.”

That’s it.

No threats.

No explanation.

Doesn’t need one.

The window rolls up.

The car pulls away.

Tavarius and Tequan let go.

I hit the pavement again, harder this time.

They don’t say anything.

Just walk back inside like they’ve taken out the trash.

I stay there for a minute.

Maybe two.

Long enough for the world to settle back into place.

Slowly, I push myself up.

Everything hurts.

Nothing’s broken. Yet.

I make my way to my bike, one step at a time.

Start it.

The engine turns over like nothing happened.

Lucky me.

I glance back at the door.

Tavarius and Tequan are watching.

I give them a small nod.

Then I flip them both off and pull into the fading night.

No hard feelings.

Just memory.