Bartender (8 page)

21.

Saim and Joe stare at the front of the building. This filing cabinet-looking place in Alphabet City. And Joe says, “Guy’s been in there forty-five minutes.”

“More like an hour.”

“You know what I mean. What’s he doing? We saw him take off his fuckin boots and crawl up the fire escape. Slip in a damn hallway window. That’s breaking and entering right there.”

“Except we ain’t cops right now, remember?” Saim chews on it. Considers it. Maybe the guy’s picking up or dropping off money. Or narcotics. Maybe just visiting a friend whose mom is asleep. None of this shit means anything unless they talk to the motherfucker.

Joe says, “He getting his dick wet?”

Not a bad guess, but...

Saim shakes his head. “He’s a good-lookin bartender on the Lower East Side surrounded by little college girls all the time. You know how much pussy he could get if he wanted?
Without
this kind of hassle?”

But that’s not this guy at all, is it? This is something else.

Saim says, “It ain’t fuckin. I don’t know what it is, but it ain’t fuckin.”

“You think he’s the one getting fucked?”

Saim thinks about that. Thinks about what the other bartender said. The blonde chick. How this guy doesn’t do nothin but try to take care of his kid.

Saim says, “Maybe.”

22.

Kieron’s eyes are open but he can’t see shit.

Story of his life.

His jaw is numb. Feels broken. He can talk, but not without effort. “Who the hell hit me?”

He tries moving his arms. His legs.

He’s tied down in a chair. Rope or duct-tape. Can’t tell, eyes blurry as they are right now. Not that it matters. He can’t move.

Jesus. And his chest.

Breathing hurts.

Now he can see shapes. People. Four of the fuckers walking around him. Watching him.

He hears a voice. A woman. “Been a long time, Kieron.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Kieron says, “Rebecca. Was kinda hoping you were dead.”

He can see her now. Still skinny and strung out. For the first time, since now he’s healthier and
has
some meat, he realizes she
doesn’t
. No meat. No ass. No tits. Just a board. But her hair’s nicer. Same with her clothes. Expensive.

Junkie Queen.

She smiles. Hyper-white teeth. Had plenty of work done there. She says, “If I was in your position, I wouldn’t be running my mouth like that.”

Then another voice. Deeper. A man’s. Russian. “I wouldn’t, either, my friend.”

That psycho Borovinsky.

Kieron lets his head fall. He starts to chuckle. “Shoulda known. You two. Hooking up.” And he cries on the inside. Weeps without showing it. A wave of darkness takes him. Depression.

There’s no way for this to turn out well.

Borovinsky says, “You must have been thinking that you won some small battle when you gave me to the police. When you put me in jail for five long years so that you could save yourself.”

Rebecca crosses her arms. “When you stole my son from me and kicked me out.” She spits at Kieron.

Kieron spits back. “You were a junkie whore.”

Borovinsky’s fist collides with Kieron’s face.

The Russian dealer says, “You were no better, Kieron. And you did something worse. Something unforgiveable. You turned your back on family.”

Kieron spits out a glob of blood. Fresh. Right at Rebecca’s pricey-shoed feet. Laughs. “Family? Haha. Fuckin
family?
” He coughs. “You kept us high and you fucked us. Her one way and me another.”

“I gave you what you wanted.”

“For a price.”

“And then you betrayed me.”

“I didn’t betray you. I looked out for my son.”

Borovinsky smiles. “I think we can handle that from now on.” He looks to Rebecca. The bitch. “You must have thought you were really clever, Kieron. With the jewels. The pawnshop. Sending your little girl out.”

Kieron tenses. His gut gets cold. “The hell’re you talking about?”

Borovinsky nods to the side. The two other shapes Kieron had seen walk in front of him. Fearless Leader and Boris. The two Russian regulars at THE THING.

Fuck.

Fearless Leader says, “Hey, bartender. Don’t suppose you got any Baltikas for us, huh?” Then gives Kieron a hard punch in the stomach that makes Kieron think he’s gonna puke in his own lap.

Boris says, “You
gotta
know we fed you all that info, right? We woulda thought you’d known earlier. Easy score like that.”

Fearless Leader says, “I mean, you really think money just leaves itself open? Jesus. None of this seemed, I dunno,
convenient?
”

Stupid.

Kieron winces. “Well, I guess I just ain’t as smart as I made myself out to be, huh?”

“Not even close,” Borovinsky says.

Kieron nods. Yeah.

He looks around the room. Looks for the Sig they musta done something with. Kieron gets lucky, maybe he can take someone out.

There it is. On the floor.

Five feet away but still so far out of reach.

Borovinsky says, “What makes me totally crazy is, you know, you gave it all up. Her. Me. Kicked her out. Traded me up. For what? For a gig as a goddamn bartender? I could have taken care of you.”

Kieron says, “Y’know what? I’m tired. And you’re an asshole. You wanna give a speech? Give it to your dumbfuck Ruskie thugs. Not me. Just do what you’re gonna do.”

Thinking Borovinsky’s gonna pull a gun or make someone else pull and maybe he can get loose enough to grab it and kill someone and get away and...

Man, that’s all a fantasy.

Borovinsky readies a syringe. “
This
is the great reunion, isn’t it? You. Me. Rebecca. Heroin. Four friends, together again.”

Kieron wriggles. Strains against the chair.

Goddamn needles. He can’t deal with em.

Borovinsky says, “How long has it been, Kieron? Since you got high?”

Kieron looks away. Doesn’t want to say anything. Doesn’t want to admit a damn thing. Then mutters. “Long time.”

“Don’t you miss it? All the warmth. That euphoria. The perfect sense of being. Knowing, not just thinking, that you’re pure and happy and at peace with yourself?

“
I
think that’s what people don’t understand about it. We’re in love with the feeling. That’s why we do it. How often do you think about it?”

Kieron keeps straining back. “I don’t.”

The psycho Russian laughs. Busts a gut. So does Rebecca and the jackass thugs.

Borovinsky says, “Bullshit.” Then, “Come here, my love.” He gestures to Rebecca. She smirks. Walks over to him. She offers her arm. He taps the soft flesh. Looks for a vein. The syringe sits between his teeth.

The whole time, Rebecca stares at Kieron. Right in the eyes. Smiles. Giggles. That same fuckin look she used to give him when she wanted to get high and screw around.

Borovinsky slides the needle inside her.

She shivers. Her eyes roll back in her head. She blinks hard and she tries to focus back on Kieron.

She says, “Best thing is—” She stops. Her cheeks flush and the breath goes out of her. Yeah. Like she’s fuckin. She says, “We’re gonna to get my son back.” She starts to nod off, just standing there. Says, “I know he misses me.”

Kieron glares at her. Thinks about how he can hurt her the most. “Stupid, sloppy bitch. He doesn’t even
know
who the
fuck
you
are
.”

Borovinsky pulls a pistol out and whips Kieron across the face with it. The front metal iron sight cuts a slash through the bartender’s cheek.

“Why is it,” Borovinsky says, “that you think you have any cards to play?”

Kieron tries to get his face working again. “Know what I was wondering? None of you dickheads actually sound Russian. Why is that?”

“We’re children of immigrants, you fool. We grew up in America. But we keep Russia with us. This?” He hefts the pistol. It’s pristine. “
Pisolet Yargina.
” Letting the accent kick in now.
“MP-443. A wonderful, modern Russian gun.”

Kieron tongues the hole in his cheek. Spits blood. Shakes his head. Keeps thinking of the Sig on the floor.

Rebecca slips into a chair nearby. Stupid smile still stuck on her fuckin face. Mocking Kieron.

Borovinsky pulls another syringe. He struts over to Kieron. The bartender struggles in his chair. The image of the needle in his eye.

Kieron wants to cry out. Wants to tell the Russian psycho not to do anything. But he doesn’t. Cuz he knows that’s what the psycho wants: For Kieron to beg.

And fuck that.

Borovinsky doesn’t bother looking for a vein. He grabs Kieron, high on the forearm. Twists. Brings Kieron’s soft white flesh up.

The Russian dealer says, “Everything I said about warmth. Sense of self. Being happy. Just happy. At peace. You won’t have any of it. Not with this. This is a personal mix, just for you.”

Kieron grits his teeth. Hard enough that he cracks a couple.

Borovinsky slams the needle into Kieron’s arm.

***

Kieron’s brain doesn’t know what to do.

There’s warmth and hell.

Peace and war.

He thinks of sex.

Jitters. Orgasm.

He thinks of being shot.

Shaking. Bleeding out.

A hard dick with organ failure.

He recognizes that his heart is overloading at the same time he feels it slowing down. One beat, one pulse, one jump away from death.

He’s overdosing.

***

Borovinsky says, “Cut him loose. I want to watch him crawl.”

***

Kieron hits the floor. But it’s more like hitting a brick wall that turns into pillows. So comfy he just wants to fall asleep. Except there’s something wrong cuz he knows he shouldn’t be here.

He laughs.

He wants to cry.

***

“Look at this piece of shit,” Fearless Leader says.

Boris says, “Just crawling like a... like a...”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“I dunno. Like a maggot. Squirming.”

“So he’s dead.”

“Nah, man. Maggots
eat
dead shit. I watch the Discovery Channel all the time.”

***

Kieron hears people laughing.

The nightmare.

Aaron’s tied up under the pendulum. Its blade so close to his flesh. Dropping lower and lower. He sees his son reach out for him.

Then he sees three other figures. Two Borovinskys. Stuffing their dicks into Rebecca. A big smile on her face as she becomes Sarah.

She laughs at him.

***

Rebecca says, “I need to fuck. Who’m I fuckin?” Her head rests against the back of the chair.

Borovinsky grabs her. “Who do you think?”

“Dunno what I’m thinking.” A laugh. A grin.

Borovinsky looks at his thugs. Says, “We’ll be across the street.” He smiles.

Fearless Leader says, “What room?”

“Like you need to know. I call you. Don’t call me.”

Boris says, “What about this asshole?”

Borovinsky says, “Dead in twenty minutes. He isn’t? Put two in his head. Set fire. Dump the guns. There’s enough high-octane smack in here—hell, and he’s on the books as an ex-con junkie—nobody’s gonna bother too much.”

***

Kieron doesn’t know who he is.

He’s Kieron but he isn’t.

The pendulum goes
tick
ing and
tock
ing over Aaron’s little body. While the two Borovinsky clones hump and pump and Rebecca smiles. Then Sarah smiles. And they keep turning into each other.

Laughing. Laughing.

Kill em.

How can he kill them?

He had a gun before.

He wants that gun.

***

Fearless Leader says, “Why don’t we just shoot him now? Stead of watchin him crawl around for twenty minutes.”

Boris says, “Maybe get a beer, yeah. I mean, the boss is off gettin his dick wet with the junkie wifey.”

“Why we gotta waste
our
night, is what I’m saying.”

“Yeah.”

Fearless Leader stops. Stares at Kieron. “The fuck is he doing?”

***

Kieron puts his fingers on the handle of the Sig.

***

Boris says, “He’s going for the fuckin gun.”

Fearless Leader says, “Why the fuck you toss it on the floor, you stupid asshole?”

“Just light him up.”

***

Kieron feels the Sig in his hand.

Feels good. Feels right.

He turns it on the guys he thinks are two Borovinskys fucking his girlfriend and his ex-girlfriend at the same time. Says, “You’re dead. You’re all dead.”

The Russian thugs put five bullets in him.

23.

Saim and Joe hear the shots. Five loud bangs inside that filing cabinet of an apartment building.

Saim says, “Go.” Whatever shit the bartender got into? Now he needs to know. Even more badly than before.

Joe says, “We ain’t cops right now, remember?”

“Changed my mind. We
are
goddamn cops. Something’s happening here. People could be dead. And some bad motherfuckers could be getting away. Call the station house if you want. Let em know. I’m going in.”

Joe pulls out his phone. Looks at it for a dumb moment. Realizes making the call will cost em time. Says, “Shit.” Pulls his Beretta.

He follows Saim up to the apartment building door.

They bang on the glass and buzz apartment numbers at random. They don’t say they’re cops. They don’t say anything. Then the damn door
Zzzzks
and unlocks cuz very few people can be bothered to figure out who’s going where and why.

They shove the door open.

Saim leads. Both hands on the Colt, the barrel aimed down as he ascends the stairs toward the third floor.

Nobody opens their doors. Nobody wants to know or see just what kind of fresh hell is walking into their building.

Saim stays quiet. He listens.

Took him and Joe less than a minute to get inside. No way the dirtbags with the guns knew they were coming. And no way the dirtbags coulda gotten their shit together fast enough to bail. Cocksuckers should still be here.

Unless it was planned out.

Saim’s gut tells him it wasn’t.

At least the shooting wasn’t. He doesn’t know much about the bartender. Doesn’t know much about the assholes the guy might be involved with, either.

But folks who plan to kill each other don’t get all
bang bang
unless something’s gone wrong and they think they got no other choice.

Or they’re fuckin stupid.

Stupid thugs can be more dangerous.

Saim thumbs the safety off his M1911. Plants a firm foot on the first step of the flight leading up to the third floor. He cocks an ear to hear any footsteps. Voices. The sound of a body being dragged around.

Nothing.

Till they reach the top of the stairs.

The tangy stink of gunpowder hits them. Hits them the way the stench of urine does on a moving subway car and you look around for the hobo or the drunk guy who peed himself.

Joe nods. Moves to cover Saim’s side.

They creep down the hall. Pause by every door. Listen. A TV playing some sitcom. A toilet flushing. Then two guys bitching at each other inside 306. Where the gunpowder smell is strongest.

Saim and Joe each take a side of the door.

Guys inside the apartment say:

“Night’s fucked.”

“Not totally fucked.”

“We got this asshole to deal. Tell me. Please. How’s it not fucked?”

“We fuckin clean up and get out and go do some other shit. It’s early enough.”

“Boss said to burn this place.”

“So? That ain’t hard.”

Saim shoots Joe a look.
They’re fuckin stupid.

Joe whispers: “We breach?”

“Or we knock. Kick the door when they open?”

“Depends just how dumb they are.”

“Gonna have a hard time kicking open the deadbolt. Let’s knock.”

***

Fearless Leader says, “This sucks.” He kicks Kieron’s prone body in the gut. His shoe comes away bloody. “Asshole.”

There’s a knock at the door.

Boris grips his pistol tighter. Shouts: “Who’s there?”

A heartbeat. Then the answer from outside: “Pizza delivery.”

Boris glances at Fearless Leader.

Fearless Leader shakes his head.

Boris shouts: “We didn’t order no pizza.”

The voice says, “I got it right here. Room 306.”

“I don’t give a shit what you got. We don’t want it. So how about you fuck off?”

Fearless Leader brushes past Boris. Looks through the peephole. He doesn’t see anything but an empty hallway.

Something ain’t right.

Maybe one of the people in the building screwing with em cuz they’re making noise. Maybe they called the cops. Hard to mistake gunshots.

The voice outside says, “Man. I don’t give you this pizza, my boss’s gonna tear my damn head off. C’mon. Help me out here.”

Fearless growls. “God
damn
it.” He throws the door open with every intention of kicking this joker’s teeth in.

***

Saim catches Fearless Leader by the throat as the guy storms out. He slams the bastard against the wall. Waves the Colt. Says, “Hush hush. NYPD. Drop the gun.”

Fearless Leader is taller than Saim by six inches. But he obeys the cop’s .45 caliber handgun and lets his MP-443 fall to the ground.

Ruskies
, Saim thinks.
Maybe this is some wacko Moscow mob shit.

Saim slips plastic zip-ties around the dude’s wrists.

The other thug inside shouts: “Fuck’s goin on out there?”

Saim spins the Russian around. Marches him face-first into the doorway as a meat shield. Then announces: “Neighborhood watch.”

Joe slides into the apartment behind Saim. Keeps his Beretta up.

They see the second thug farther inside. He’s got a pistol up. Another MP-443. Behind him, a body on the floor. Both cops can smell the blood in the air mixed with cordite.

Joe says to the second gunman, “You decide if you’re going to the ICU tonight, but I’d put the goddamn piece down if I was you.”

The second gunman says, “Who the fuck’re you?”

“NYPD. It would be a real good idea to behave.”

“Show me a badge, motherfucker. How I know you’re not just some crooks who wanna rob me?”

“Well, we got your buddy here. And we didn’t just outright shoot you.”

“That don’t mean shit.”

Saim says, “You don’t need to see our badges.” He commands. “We’re NYPD. We heard shots. We’re here now. And you’d be wise to stop the tough-guy act, put the gun down, and get on the ground.”

Fearless Leader says, “Fuck you. Dirty fuckin sand nigger.”

“Sand nigger?” Saim clocks him in the back of the head with the Colt. “Watch your mouth.” He pushes ahead, closer to the second gunman. Nobody can miss at this distance. “Smart move here is to just stop. Give it up.”

Joe watches the gunman’s hand. Guy won’t even lower the weapon. But he’s shaky. So Joe says, “You got three seconds.”

The gunman moves the barrel around. Tries to decide who to point it at. Joe or Saim. Saim or Joe. Not like it’s gonna do him any favors either way.

Joe says, “Two seconds.”

Saim keeps most of his head behind the meat shield.

Fearless Leader says, “Don’t give em nothing. Don’t say a thing. The boss’ll have their heads.”

The gunman points at Saim.

Joe says, “One.”

The gunman fires. Twice. The bullets pound into the meat shield. Two in his chest. He grunts. Starts to fall.

Saim lets him topple to the ground.

Saim and Joe open fire. Their shots hammer the Ruskie. Push him back. Nine-millimeter and .45 rounds that make blossoms of blood bloom. Ten rounds between the two officers.

Overkill, but fuck this guy.

“Check him,” Saim says. Then he leans down to check his own meat shield. Flips the guy over. The thug’s alive. Bleeding. But alive. “How you feeling there, sport?”

“Ffff—fuck you.”

“Atta boy.”

Saim looks over to Joe. His partner shakes his head. The second gunman is dogmeat.

Both cops walk over to the broken body on the ground. Joe turns him over. Saim hisses through his teeth.

It’s the bartender. Kieron.

Saim reaches under the poor bastard’s jaw. Tries to find a pulse.

Can’t.

He sees the chair with the cut strips of duct tape on the arms. Sees marks around the bartender’s wrists. He sees two spent syringes on the ground. Both with residue of some crap inside. He checks under the bartender’s forearm and sees a fresh pinprick. The blood only congealed a little while. Still bright red enough to be five minutes old.

Five minutes.

He and Joe’d waited outside for an hour, and they missed the fireworks by five minutes.

Saim thinks about that girl outside the bar. And the blonde who said this guy—
Kieron. His name was Kieron
—never did anything except try to take care of his kid.

His kid.

Saim sighs. “What the hell did you get yourself into here, Kieron?”

He closes the bartender’s eyes.