Page 95 of Wicked Pickle

“The good stuff,” Sherman says. “What’s everyone’s poison? Whiskey? Scotch? Bourbon?”

I nod toward Jake, who starts pulling bottles and pouring. He slides glasses down the bar with ease.

“Good crew,” Sherman says. “Good crew.”

But Two-Shit, Low Joe, and Chain haven’t budged. They like a conflict more than a shot of anything else.

Sherman picks up a glass and holds it to them. “Can you imbibe, or is that no-go on the clock?”

“We don’t work here,” Two-Shit says. “But we do what Diesel says.”

“We like throwing people out,” Chain adds. “It makes our day.”

Sherman slaps another wad of cash on the bar. “Second round if we’re still here in half an hour,” he says.

A cheer goes up, and glasses clink. There’s only about twenty people in the bar, but it includes all the hardcore bruisers.

Sherman turns to Chain. “Your friends here won’t want to miss out on another free drink. If you’re planning on escorting us to the parking lot, you’re outnumbered.”

But Chain doesn’t budge. “There’s some shit money can’t buy. And overstaying your welcome in our bar is one of them.”

“Look at that loyalty!” Sherman booms. “We should have had Diesel in charge at Dougherty when things were down over there. No matter, Bailey got that settled.” He spins on his stool to face me again. “So good of you to come to their wedding. What a surprise appearance.” He sips the glass he offered Chain and doesn’t quite suppress his grimace.

Yeah, it’s probably not his usual.

Merrick and I haven’t moved. This is getting old.

“Just say what you want to say and move on,” I tell them.

“He wants to hear from me!” Sherman says, turning to the bar. “I was beginning to wonder if I a ghost!”

“That can be arranged,” Chain says.

Dad goes pale.

But Sherman laughs. “I’m so impressed by all this.” He examines the glass. “Keep costs down with low-end spirits. Widely available beer. How often do you renegotiate your distribution contracts?”

He doesn’t seem to expect an answer and goes right on. “You could add merchandising. With this sort of setup and crowd, you could probably have a secondary pool of customers willing to people watch. Provide pricier cocktails to them. Voyeurs.”

The roadies test the drum set with a clash of cymbals andthump thumpof the bass.

“Live music!” Sherman crows. “Even better. Although I hope they’re playing for tips since it’s a Monday.” He downs the rest of his drink with another grimace. “I’ll send some people over. We can have this place upgraded in no time. Double your receipts, I’d bet, inside a month. Those reviews you have add loads of authenticity. What formerly rebellious office worker wouldn’t want to revisit his misspent youth by coming here? Or new empty nesters wanting a taste of the wild side?”

Two-Shit meets my gaze. “He goes on like a movie villain, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” Merrick says. “Now, show them out.”

“We’re off,” Sherman says, standing before any of the men put a hand on him. “Come along, Martin. Don’t look like you’re about to piss yourself. Diesel, Merrick, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

What the hell? “You won’t,” I say. “This is your first and last visit to our bar.”

“I wish it was,” he says, and his tone shifts. “You’ve got some real problems in this jurisdiction. Did you know your expansion permits have been held up indefinitely? And that your liquorlicense is coming up due, and they have no intention of renewing it?”

I glance at Merrick. “That’s bullshit.”

“Not a bit. Nobody wants this bar out here. You know that. You’ve traded your leather for a suit to attend their council meetings.”

Fuck. He’s done his homework. And more.

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