Page 46 of Tangling Hearts

Chapter Thirty-One

Tommy

Location Times Three: conference room. Coffee Cups: empty. Paper Take-Out Boxes: strewn haphazardly. Chopsticks: used as drumsticks. A dozen half-empty plastic ramekins of sauce.

Leaning back in the swivel chair, I watch Stephanie explain to us why our latest client is floundering and what we can do to help. It’s a dating app. They’ve just hired us, so we’re at square one. Steph’s got a chart of their sales and where they are in relation to the other more popular sites. “You can see there’s a huge dip where our guy is. We need to make their numbers rise to here.” She points to two above the middle guy on the chain of greatness to poor.

I’m irritated and spinning my ring on my finger. “Why not aim higher?” I glance to Brendan because he hasn’t said a word since we all sat down here an hour ago; he would have the exact same objection I just had, but he’s not listening. He’s not even looking at her. His jaw is pushed out, eyes distant. The box of fried rice is sitting in front of him, untouched.

Stephanie glances to me, her little mouth pursed up. The ego on this blonde would shame James Cameron. She’s wearing the entire, extremist feminist revolution on her shoulder and it’s a sight to see. If she’d stop being so fucking defensive, she’d know her idea is crap.

She sighs, long and exaggeratedly, saying to me as though I’m a child, “We’re telling them what’s feasible so when we beat their expectations, they’re impressed. They’re an underdog, and this account won’t be easy. We’ll be lucky if we get it to where I’m aiming for.”

Johnny, Laura, Mike and Gary all look from Steph to me with varying expressions, half of them indigestion, half curiosity about whether we’re going to start yelling soon, like last time. For some reason everyone’s wearing a shade of blue today except for Mike who’s got on a pink button-up. It looks good, but ribbing him was a must. He’s Mike, after all. He was born to be made fun of.

Flipping a chopstick lazily around in my fingers, I side-eyeball Steph. “Well, that’s the way you work, Steph. But I would have told them we’d aim past the highest guy and when we met that statement, they’d be even more impressed that we actually did what we said we would, and then some. You’re underestimating us. Again. If you’re going to aim low, I’ve got a target for you.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “What about you?” She waits with all of us. “Brendan?”

He glances to her and mutters, “Tommy’s right. You’re wrong. Excuse me.” He gets up and exits through the glass door.

Stephanie calls after him, surprised, “Where are you going?”

I drop the chopstick. Gary’s eyebrows have flown up to his hairline. Laura’s bitten down on the pen she cuts her eyes to me. I stand, holding my hand up to tell them all that I’ve got it covered. Wait here.

Catching up to him as he strides determinedly past cubicles, I match the hasty fall of his steps. “How you doin’ B-man? Everything okay?”

His hands are in his pockets, his face grim, mouth set. If he wanted me to leave him alone, he’d tell me. So I get on the elevator with him and watch him hit the button for the lobby. Mirroring him, I slide my hands into my pockets and stare ahead, wondering what he’s up to. The doors slide open with a speed achieved only by modern architecture, and we both head for the street. I jog a couple steps to get the door because it’s like he’s a locomotive that will barrel right through it if I don’t. He walks out without a word and I follow, curiosity killing me. My body is tensed under the possibility he suspects me, adrenaline pumping hard as we walk several blocks until we’re clipping across the pavement of busy Geary Street. Still he hasn’t said a word. Just as I can’t take it anymore and I’m about to ask where we’re headed, he turns into a bar. I look up at the sign and my heart thunderclaps: Whiskey Thieves. He opens the door and holds it for me to join him. This is the first sign he’s given that he knows I’m even here. Well, that can’t be a coincidence.

Fuck.

So this is it.

The reckoning.

I pass him into the dark dive bar as a calm overtakes me. Ever since the shooting, I’ve been haunted by a pervading agitation, fear of being caught slicing into every minute detail, action, step, and breath. And now, it’ll be over. I can finally rest.

Like I’m walking inside a thick drum, I head for a barstool and take a seat with Brendan following closely behind. Bottles of whiskey line the wall underneath signs that read Bourbon & Rye, and Scotch-Irish. It’s only 1:00 p.m. so the place is nearly empty save for people who should be at an AA meeting. The light from the small windows illuminates shafts of dust across the room. Through them, a bartender walks to us, his face jaded and tired from having seen years of men wasting their lives away on a seat like this one.

“What can I get you fellas?” He lays one gnarled, tatted hand on the counter, the other fiddling with an invisible something on his shirt, overgrown eyebrows curled together in skin that looks like he spent his boyhood summers on a oil rig.

Brendan is sitting to my right, hunched over with both forearms on the bar just like me. “Scotch. I don’t care which one.”

If this is going to be my last drink, I’ll be damned if it’s gonna be the well, so I correct him, “Two Lagavulin. One rock each.” The bartender steps away without facial comment and I pull out my wallet. Brendan raises a hand to object but I mutter, “I got it.” His hand drops back down. Fox News is on the T.V. above us and I glance up, pretending to look at it.

The bartender ambles back and smacks the full glasses on the counter without a napkin underneath them. Interesting choice. I hand him my Amex card and tell him with a jerk of my chin to keep it open. His nod is an eyelid-flicker, the way a lot of guys do when they’ve got too much testosterone to actually bow their heads. He taps the side of my card on the counter on his exit, and when he does that, Brendan stares at the guy’s hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his reaction. Something really bothered him about that. Even after the bartender has walked away to join some regulars at the end of the bar near the wall, Brendan is still staring at where he tapped the card.

I pick up my glass. He picks up his. We clink them together and take a sip. The sting feels good against my tongue, heating my throat on the way down. The one cube of ice opens up the flavor, makes it even more layered and complex. This might be my last glass for a long time. I want to savor it. I take another slow sip, move my tongue around in my mouth as I swirl the glass around, watching the ice melt, the amber lightening. “This is the shit right here,” I mutter.

He’s staring at his glass, too, like he’s looking for answers in it.

I glance to him, and dive in. “Okay, let’s have it.”

“She lied to me.”

Like a car hitting the brakes, my blood shifts. He doesn’t know it was me. I’m not going to jail. This is about the chick he’s been banging, the one who took my gun. But he doesn’t know I know about her. Since I’m a professional liar, I don’t miss a beat. “Who? Rebecca?”

Brendan shakes his head and takes a big gulp of the single malt. His lips curl back and he sets the glass on the bar as he swallows the burn. “No. The owner of the bar, the one where I got shot.” He glances to me. “You know the place I invited you to, for the reopening?”

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