“To friends,” I answer, dragging up a small smile I hadn't realized I could present. Noah's like that, always makes you laugh at something. He's the most easy-going twenty-seven-year-old in the Big Easy.
We throw back our spirits like old deck hands. The stuff is so smooth I just let the spices burn in my throat, no chaser. I realize my eyes have drifted closed on the soothing wave of oak barrel rum, and that Noah is staring at me when I open them. He seems concerned, his boyish face too serious, flat mouth framed by a few days' stubble.
“You look like shit, man,” he says, turning away to his drawer. He picks one of the three pens protruding from his long, twisted-up, chestnut hair, somehow avoiding the one that's holding the knot in place.
I sniff my indignation at the rocks glass. I'm vaguely comforted by the familiar warmth of liquor as he scribbles some figures on a piece of register tape, even as my thoughts mull over how I've been hearing how rough I look a lot lately. Never fucking mind how I feel.
Noah always knows the right drink for the situation. Aged liquor feels like a blanket of years, a buffer between reality and now. He's the best bartender I've ever met.
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically, watching him pull a wad of crumpled money from his tip jar and start to straighten it.
“What are you guys gonna do now?”
The back of his left hand is covered by a tattoo of the muscle structure of the hand. The reds and pinks catch my wavering attention. It's hard not to stare at his arms, full sleeves done in a myriad of images so intricate they're like puzzles, colors blurring a little as he moves. It would be so much easier to just get lost in the inky art, to feign drunkenness.
“I don't know,” I answer with a sigh and a shrug.
He shakes his head as if this is sad news as he unfolds a fifty. “You know,” he says without looking over at me, “if you guys stay in town, our weight could double.”
I almost choke on my beer. Double their current rate of distribution would be huge.
“You act like you don't want to make money!” calls the executive chef, older brother Jack, slicing into the conversation as he wanders out of the kitchen. He has a white towel slung over his shoulder, and a once-white apron hanging dangerously low over black-and-white-striped chef pants. I stare into the empty glass, hoping that it's big enough to hold my surprise so that Jack doesn't call me out.
“I know!” says Noah sharply. “I hate to turn the mob away.”
He motions past me, toward the door and the dark sidewalk beyond, still without looking away from bank-facing his cash. He and I are like little boys, holding out stubbornly under the weight of parental accusation.
“Well, maybe if we looked open, someone would come,” Jack answers pointedly.
I chance a look up as he pulls the black crocheted hat off his head, letting a sweaty tangle of curling hair loose, only to gather it up and wrap a large elastic around it. He's a taller and thinner version of Noah, slightly darker hair and, instead of tattoos, scars run along his arms from years spent in the kitchen. He'll make a Cajun burger that will knock you on your ass, then leave you begging for more. He grabs a Budweiser from behind the bar and turns the same fretful expression on me that Noah just did. Fuck, I'm caught.
“Make sure you write that shit down!” Noah cuts across the tension. “You'll fuck up my counts.”
“Why don't you write it down,” spits Jack without letting me out of his visual grasp. “They're your counts.”
Noah slams down his pen to give Jack a nasty look, but his insult dies at its root when he sees his brother's expression. I can see his large eyes turn on me, too.
“Is she going to do a funeral?” Jack asks, twisting the top off the beer with his hand, and finally letting me look away as he leans down onto the register with his elbows.
“Too risky,” I grunt.
I was unprepared for that question. Maybe he can tell I'm not ready to put words to all my misery. I can't sort out why he thinks I would know what she wants to do. He takes a long, chilled drink from the brown bottle, then gives Noah a meaningful look that makes my stomach flip.
“We'll throw a little something here,” says Jack. They both nail me with heavy eyes so that I cannot even speak to argue. I bet they can stop their own mother in her tracks with those eyes. He continues, “After hours, of course.”
On the surface, the offer is generous, very touching. Jack and Noah have been with my network longer than I have. Underneath, it's an honor and a huge opportunity to organize a quick alliance. Apparently, the implications of the attack on the house in Biloxi are already spreading. A time might soon come when choosing a side is necessary. It seems the guys are expecting a large influx of business. They have already chosen a side.
Finally, I find my voice. “It's not up to me.”
Again, the guys share a closed-connection glance. If their age difference were not apparent, I would swear they were twins. It's the same thing Charlie and Maria used to do. It always pissed me off, mostly because it's not a bond an only child like me can understand. I glare at my
