Page 45 of Capitol Matters

Donovan shook his head as I began to fill the shaker. He remained somber, dark eyes drifting away rather than watching me spin the chilled vermouth bottle before adding its contents to the martini mix.

I capped the shaker, then tossed it behind my back for an over-the-shoulder catch that should have wowed, but the sole member of my audience remained indifferent.

No need to wonder about the cause of his gloomy mood. He had plenty of reasons for concern—the most recent addition to his storage unit zoo foremost amongthem. I pulled out a stemmed glass and filled it to the brim. Heavy pours across the board left extra in the shaker, so I downed that, too, then passed Donovan his drink.

Leaning against the bar, I snagged a few bottles from the shelves and set them hovering in the air. They raised and lowered in a circle like Ferris wheel gondolas slowly turning.

“Hey, Donnie,” I began after a moment, “you remember that game we used to play here? Invisible Man?”

Coming into the gang at the ripe age of fourteen meant that I was too young to participate in most of the activities the grown men considered entertainment. I didn’t develop a taste for alcohol till about two years later, around the time my interest in women peaked. Before then, I spent most of my time at the bar and brothel babysitting Donovan.

I’d done the same at home when our parents went out for date nights, or on long summer days when Dad was at work and Mom had errands to run. I had a decent repertoire of ways to keep my kid brother occupied but, as my magical prowess grew, so did his interest in seeing it in use.

Eleven years earlier

“That one next!” Donovan giggled as he crouchedbeside me beneath an empty booth table.

Beyond the shadow of our hiding place, bar patrons milled. They passed in stumbles and swaggers, moving to the beat of the music till they toppled over chairs or crashed into each other like human bumper cars.

Donovan’s chosen target sat at the counter across the room. The big-nosed man tipped back a frosted mug of beer that caked his mustache with foam.

I pointed at him. “That one?” I grinned at Donovan. “You sure?”

My brother’s dark eyes glittered as his head bobbed.

“You got it,” I said.

Leaning back against the lip of the bench seat, I aimed a finger toward the man at the bar. Mental rope snaked out, reaching for the handle of the big clear mug. When I caught hold and tugged, the man held on. His previously vacant expression turned to shock as he gripped his glass with both hands, starting a tug of war that pitched him back and forth on the stool.

Beside me, Donovan burst into snorting laughter. I couldn’t help but join in, rocking the drink side to side so beer sloshed first onto our intended target, then the woman at the bar beside him.

The woman leaped up, dripping with frothy booze. She glared at the man as he clung to his mug with scrunch-faced consternation. He remained so focused on regaining control of his drink that he didn’t see the punch the beer-soaked woman threw at his face.

A real ringer, the blow knocked him off his stool. He listed back, keeping his footing long enough to collide with another customer standing nearby. I recognized thetall, broad man the second he spun around: Vinton.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered.

Disaster unfolded while a weight plummeted into my gut. I released the mug too late to avoid the collision that splashed the last of the foamy swill down Vinton’s shirt. He stood, stunned and speechless, as the first man recovered enough to remain barely on his feet.

Donovan kept snickering despite my frantic attempts to shush him. I finally clapped my hand over his mouth, but Vinton was already heading our way. Tree trunk legs carried him across the hardwoods.

The table over our heads tipped back, bringing light and Vinton’s red-faced scowl. Donovan shrunk back, and I barred an arm across him. It was an unnecessary defense because the bald man’s wrath was all mine.

“Knew it was you,” Vinton growled.

He grabbed me by the ear, pinching then pulling so hard I thought he might rip it off. I yelped and swatted at his hand as he dragged me into the middle of the room.

He said something else, but I didn’t hear it as he shook me, unfazed by my attempts to loosen his grip on my ear. The side of my head burned with pain while the bald man slung me forward to land in the puddled mess on the floor.

“Clean it up!” he commanded.

The room went quiet. All eyes zeroed in on where I knelt while booze seeped into my jeans. The other gang members stood by, even Grimm, his silence endorsing Vinton’s authority.

I glanced back at Donovan, forgotten under the table. He huddled with his head ducked, barely peekingout. All signs of happiness had been superseded by pale-faced fear.

My fault. My idea to play the stupid game.

At the edge of the gathering crowd, the bartender, Nicholas Nash, approached with a towel thrown over his shoulder and a mop in his hand. He looked at me with something so near kindness I almost didn’t recognize it.

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