My brother’s words strike something in me.“Fuck, Fal.This is why you didn’t want me picking you up when you got out.You came here first.”
“Yup, I did.”
“Breaking your parole already?”I shake my head.
He chuckles lightly.“Only once.Didn’t have a valid ID either.But the bartender, a middle-aged woman named Iris, served me anyway.”
“What did you drink?”
“Rotgut bourbon,” he says, “and let me tell you, it tasted like fucking Pappy Van Winkles after the toilet hooch I was used to.”
I wrinkle my nose.“I imagine.”
“But that was the point, too.”He shrugs.“The shit was both awful and delicious at the same time.But this place is special to me for a reason other than that.”
“Why?”
He leads me to the bar, sits down on a stool covered in cracked red vinyl.“This is where I met Savannah.”
“Seriously?”I sit down next to him, hoping the stool doesn’t crumble under my weight.
“Yeah.She came in here with Gert and a few others for their ladies’ night.It was the night…”
“Fuck.The night her friend died.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
Inside, it’s cold in the way only old bars pull off—AC too strong, lights too dim, day held back by stained blinds.It smells like spilled beer and floor cleaner.Pool balls clack somewhere in the back.A guy in a Dallas Cowboys hat sleeps at the end of the bar.
A male bartender nods at us.“What’ll it be?”
“Where’s Iris?”Falcon asks.
“Off today.I’m Byron.”
Falcon nods.“Good enough.Two bourbons, Byron.The shittiest you’ve got.Neat.”
Byron chuckles.“Been that kind of day, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I reply.Then, to Falcon, once Byron turns his back.“You sure you want to do this?I don’t want to be responsible for you violating your parole terms.”
He chuckles.“I’m a big boy, Hawk.No one knows me here, and no one cares, either.”
Two glasses appear.Two fingers each.
I pick up my glass.“Bottoms up,” I say.
Falcon nods and we both take a drink.
“Damn,” I say, once the burning in my throat subsides.
“Right?”Falcon sets his glass down.“Smoke, a touch of caramel, and a lot of battery acid.”
“That’s about it.”I take another drink.“It’s perfect.”
He elbows me in the ribs.“Was I right or was I right?”
