Page 24 of Street of Dreams
Without thinking, Mac started toward them, but Jake stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“I got it.” Jake marched to the front of the bar. “What’s the problem?” he demanded.
“You know your brothers are too young to be served alcohol,” Mr. Fleming stated. “As a matter of fact, no one under 18 is supposed to be in here.”
“We want a beer.” Henry looked to his older brother to override Mr. Fleming’s refusal.
Jake took a deep breath and flared his nostrils, clearly conflicted about how to handle the situation, so Mac stepped in.
“Look.” Mac pointed to a sign that stated the age requirement. “It says you have to be 18. Stop causing trouble. This is the man’s business.”
The twins looked like they were about to explode, but Jake silenced them with a raised hand. He took a mug from behind the bar and filled it from the tap himself, leaving a trail of suds. Mr. Fleming glared at him furiously, until Jake threw three twenties on the bar. “For the mess,” he said.
With the mug of beer in one hand, he shoved his brothers away from the bar and motioned them toward a table. “Get over there and stop causing fucking trouble.”
The twins grumbled and complained, but they clearly respected their older brother, and for once, Jake seemed to be defusing the situation instead of making it worse.
“Grab another mug from the bar,” Jake told Mac.
Reluctantly Mac got the glass, received an I-told-you-so glare from Mr. Fleming, and gave the mug to Jake, who divided the beer between the two glasses and placed one in front of each of his brothers.
“Share it. And then go someplace else,” Jake told the twins.
Unsure of what to do, Mac started to walk away.
“Where you goin’, Mackenzie?”
Mac stopped and slowly turned to face Jake.
With a snarl on his lips, Jake wore the mask of a bully. “You owe me fifty bucks.”
“For what?”
“For the game of pool you lost.”
“Are you kidding me? We never finished the game. Besides, I was winning.”
Jake slowly marched toward Mac while his brothers looked on. “You owe me fifty bucks. Hand it over.”
Mac wasn’t in the mood for mind games and just wanted to leave. He was about to tell Jake that he was going home, but he saw the pleading look in Jake’s eyes. A sudden wave of compassion washed over Mac. How could Jake live like this, having to put on a show for his own brothers? They were kids who looked up to him and admired him, yet he needed to play this gruff, cold-hearted person for their benefit. For what reason? At this point, Mac no longer cared and tossed two twenties and a ten on the pool table.
Jake picked up the bills, waved them in Mac’s face and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Sit at the bar. Finish your drink and leave. I’ll meet you at the lagoon in Washington Park in 30 minutes.”
Unsure if he wanted to continue this charade or not, Mac didn’t move.
“Get outta my face, Mackenzie,” Jake barked.
Apparently, Mac was going along with this bullshit after all because he retreated to the bar. As he sat with his mug between his palms, he listened to the old Jake. The crass and obnoxious one that grated on his nerves, and he didn’t want to be around him for one more second. He stood, glad to leave the bar, when the king of Kings walked in, making him freeze in place.
Bruce King barreled through the place with his thick arms, a burly chest, and legs like tree trunks, bringing a cold frost with him. Everyone quieted, and a layer of tension blanketed the room. Even the King brothers stiffened at their father’s presence. With a hard jaw, narrowed eyes that said he saw things that no man should ever see, and an angry scowl that could frighten the hardest of criminals, the head of the King family was someone you didn’t fuck with.
The man had a hot temper, and he was meaner than a chained lion with no love for anyone. Not even his sons. His only affection seemed to be toward Jack Daniels and the greenbacks in his wallet. He was a notorious street gangster and basically ran South Side.
Bruce King wiped a calloused hand across his unshaven jaw as he passed, leaving a trail of fermented alcohol in his wake that almost singed Mac’s nostrils. The head of the King family slammed his fist on the bar, and several people winced. “Jack Daniels. Leave the bottle.”
Mr. Fleming filled a glass with three fingers of the bourbon and rested the bottle next to it. He stared at the Jack Daniels and let out a breath. “You haven’t paid your tab in a while, Bruce.”
Bruce grabbed Mr. Fleming’s shirt and pulled him across the bar. “You callin’ me a deadbeat, Fleming?”
