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“You should have called me after I left you a message, that’s what’s wrong. This isn’t a good place for you, understand?”
A man in a dark suit with a gold tooth looks in our direction with a laugh at the familiar story we’re playing out. Bratty kid. Old man. Except that Grandad’s acting like he knows something.
“Okay,” I say, looking up at the clock. Ten after ten. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” he says, wrapping his hand around my upper arm. I want to pull away from him, but my arm’s been wrenched out of its socket too many times in the last few days. I let him lead me toward the door until I come close enough to the bar to be able to get Anton’s attention.
“Look who I found,” I say. “You know my grandfather.”
From the way Anton’s eyes narrow I’m guessing Grandad isn’t his favorite person. The zinc bar top is littered with shot glasses and at least one empty bottle of Pshenichnaya.
“I just stopped in to see some old friends,” Grandad says. “We’re going.”
“Not Cassel,” Anton says. “He hasn’t had a drink yet.” He pours one for me, which gets the attention of some of the other young laborers. They turn their evaluating gazes in my direction.
There is a burning intensity in Anton’s face, belied by his half smile and the languid way he’s leaning against the bar. If he wants to lead the family, he’s going to have to lead guys like Grandad. He can’t afford to be shown up by an old man. He’s got something to prove, and he’s happy to use me to prove it.
“Take the drink,” Anton says.
“He’s underage,” says Grandad.
That makes the guys at the bar laugh. I throw back the vodka in a single swallow. Warmth floods my stomach and sears my throat. I cough. Everyone laughs harder.
“It’s like everything,” one of the guys says. “The first one’s the worst.”
Anton pours me another shot. “You’re wrong,” he says. “The second one’s the worst because you know what’s coming.”
“Go ahead,” Grandad says to me. “Take your drink, and then we’re going.”
I look up at the clock. Ten twenty.
The second shot burns all the way down.
One of the guys claps me on the back. “Come on,” he says to my grandfather. “Let the kid stay. We’ll take good care of him.”
“Cassel,” Grandad says firmly, making my name into a reprimand. “You don’t want to be tired for that fancy school of yours.”
“I came with Barron,” I say. I reach across the bar and pour myself a third shot. The guys love that.
“You’re leaving with me,” Grandad says under his breath.
This time the vodka goes down my throat like water. I step away from the bar and make myself stumble a little. I feel heady with confidence. I’m Cassel Sharpe. My mouth wants to shape the words. I’m smarter than everybody else and I’ve thought of everything.
“You okay?” Anton asks, looking at me like he’s trying to figure if I’m drunk. His plans depend on me. I look as blank as possible and hope that it freaks him out. No point in my being the only miserable one.
Grandad tugs me toward the double doors, against the tide of people. “He’ll sleep it off in the car.”
“Let me just run to the bathroom,” I tell Grandad. “I’ll be right back.”
He looks furious.
“Come on,” I say. “It’s a long ride.” On the wall the clock reads ten thirty. Anton’s going to be heading into position, guarding Zacharov. Barron’s probably already looking for me. But how long before Zacharov will show is anyone’s guess. His bladder could be made of iron.
“I’ll go with you,” Grandad says.
“I think you can trust me to piss without getting in any trouble.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but I don’t.”
