Page 94 of Wicked Pickle

I know from his tone exactly what’s happened.

I stand up.

Our very own Uncle Sherman hurries toward the bar, arms outstretched. “You’re both here! This is perfect. Look, Martin. Your two boys. What a great day!”

Dad looks ill at ease, rubbing the back of his neck.

The bikers are watching. Both Dad and Uncle Sherman are wearing full-on suits, like this is some high-end whiskey lounge where they’re about to strike a business deal.

Merrick and I brace our hands on the bar like we’re preparing for an attack.

Because we are.

Neither of us greets the two men as they settle on stools at the bar.

“Seems safer over here,” Dad says, working hard not to make eye contact with any of the regulars.

“Nonsense,” Sherman says, turning to wave at the occupied tables. “Just hard-working folks.” He ensures his booming voice carries wall to wall.

This gets a ripple of laughter from the room.

“Watcha got on tap?” Sherman asks, nonplussed by the reaction to his comment. Dad glances around nervously.

I ignore his question. “Why are you here?”

“To see your establishment, of course!” Sherman says. “There’s a lot of room here. High occupancy. Good for growth. Did you know our first pickle deli only sat twenty?”

“We’ve been there,” Merrick says. “Grammy still runs it.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Sherman taps the counter. “I can see you have a pilsner. Can I get one of those?”

I don’t move. Neither does Merrick.

“I’ll get it,” Jake says.

But I hold up a hand. “I don’t think these gentlemen will be staying long enough for a drink.”

“Nonsense,” Sherman says. “There’s no need to be uncivilized. Bring two. Have a drink with your father.”

But Jake knows who signs his checks. He holds still.

Two-Shit sidles up to the bar, unable to resist seeing what’s up. “This your pop?” He tilts his skull cap toward Sherman.

I don’t answer him either. “They were just leaving.”

“Hell yeah,” Two-Shit says. “I love it when we’ve got ourselves a problem.” He lets out a sharp whistle and motions Low Joe and Chain over.

Dad’s eyes about pop out of his head when the three men in jeans, boots, and leather come up behind him and Sherman.

“These your bouncers?” Sherman says, turning to look. “They look like they get the job done. And loyal. That doesn’t come easy. You boys are doing good work.”

Two-Shit knows bullshit when he hears it. “Diesel says you were leaving.”

Dad stands up. “It was good seeing you boys. We’ll call ahead next time.”

But Sherman holds up a hand. “Martin, sit the hell down. I didn’t get to where I am by being intimidated by a couple of heavies.” He feels around in his pocket and drops a pile of cash on the counter. “Let’s buy a round for the entire bar.”

Nobody misses that. The tables clear, everyone heading to the counter for a free pint.

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