Marcus Sakey: At The City's Edge

The door to his brother's bar wasunlocked, and a stool lay on the floor like it'd been knocked over.

Jason had blitzed to get here, the sun streaming in the windows as old Gordon Downie sang that he didn't have no picture postcards, didn't have no souvenirs, that his baby she didn't know him when he was thinking 'bout those years. He'd swung onto the shoulder when the Drive jammed up, then jumped to the Dan Ryan, slapping the steering wheel. Riding south in the express lanes, skyline in his rearview, the corporate monstrosity that had replaced Comiskey Park on his right.

Even after he'd pulled off the highway and into the sweltering decrepitude that was Crenwood, he'd barely touched the brakes. Just let the tires squeal as he rounded corners where hard-eyed boys in long white T-shirts postured before crumbling storefronts, gang tags and liquor stores and rusted fences sliding by in a blur of heat and failure. And all the while, Jason told himself that this errand was nothing. Mistaken identity. No way could Michael really be in serious trouble.

But the door to his brother's bar was unlocked, and a stool lay on the floor like it'd been knocked over.

Jason slid into the cool of the interior. The silence wasn't reassuring. Hiking up his T-shirt, he eased the Beretta from the waistband and disengaged the safety. Leaving the door open and holding the weapon low, he moved in. The animal part of him wanted to sprint. But he didn't know the situation, and a soldier didn't run in blindly blazing. He placed his feet gently, glad for his running shoes. A newspaper was spread open on the bar, the fallen stool in line with it, like someone had been dragged away while reading. Broken glass winked from a pool of dark liquid on the floor.

"Freeze!"

Jason's heart shot into his mouth. The voice had come from behind and beside him, and he whirled, pulse-pounding, pistol up, finger on the trigger, staring down the barrel-

At his nephew.

Billy stood behind the bar, arms braced and pointed like Starsky, fingers curled into the shape of gun.

"Jesus!" Jason jerked the Beretta downwards, then blew a breath as his heart hammered his rib cage. Sweat slicked his armpits.

Billy stared at him wide-eyed. "Uncle Jason."

"You scared the crap out of me, kiddo." He held a hand to his chest, made himself take slow breaths. The image of his nephew lined up dead between the pistol's rear sights burned on his retinas. "Where's your dad?"

"He's not here. Why do you have a gun?"

"Did he say where he was going?"

"Nuh-uh." Billy stared at him. "You're not in the Army anymore, right?"

Jason fought a grimace, knowing his nephew didn't mean any harm, but still feeling the Worm twist in his belly. His wet-palmed panic and greasy shame had built every day for months now. He'd named it just to have something to hate. "No."

"So why do you have-"

"Your dad left you alone?"

"Mrs. Lauretta was here for a while. But she had an appointment. Besides," Billy straightened, "I'm eight. I'm not a little kid. Can I hold your gun?"

"No," Jason snapped, harder than he intended, and he saw Billy recoil. "Listen, this isn't a toy. And your dad would kick my butt if I let you touch it." He cocked his head. "Actually, your dad would kick my butt if he even knew I showed it to you."

Billy sucked a bit of his lip between his teeth. He seemed to be weighing something. After a moment, he nodded solemnly. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I won't tell."

"Thanks, buddy. I appreciate that." Jason forced a smile, then tucked away the pistol. He closed the front door and bent to retrieve the stool. The broken glass lay in a pool of what looked like soda. "What happened here?"

"Oh, I knocked it over when I was reaching for… ummm…" The boy rocked from foot to foot and stared at the floor. "I just knocked it over."

Jason laughed. He went around the corner of the bar and ruffled his nephew's hair, then took two pint glasses. Filled the first with Coke, then pulled Bud into the second, the beer splashing sweet and cool as a memory of swimming, a lake he wanted to throw himself into. "Tell you what," he said, and handed the soda to Billy. "I won't rat on you if you don't rat on me. Deal?"

"Deal."

They clinked glasses on it, and Jason took a long open-throated swallow. The first hit off the first beer of the day was always the best, a deep and satisfying shiver of relief. Budweiser wasn't his favorite, but cold beer was cold beer.

He helped Billy clean up, gathering the big chunks of glass by hand, then sweeping the rest into a metal dustpan. His nephew bounced around like a cat with its tail on fire, and part of Jason was wondering whether another soda had really been a good idea.

But most of him was thinking of Soul Patch, the steady gun hand, the look in his eyes when he had said he wanted to talk about Michael.

He finished two Buds quickly and poured a third, let it settle on the counter while he went to the stockroom. The dim space smelled of stale beer and wet cardboard. Jason had just returned the broom and dustpan to the rack when he heard the front door open.

He stepped out of the back, hands at his side, alert.

Michael froze like a convict in a spotlight. His eyes darted in nervous circles. "Jason. Jesus." He wore khakis and a faded oxford, and carried a soft leather briefcase, tapping absently at the handle. "You startled me."

"Lot of that going around." Jason walked past his brother and shut the open door, then locked it. "I need to talk to you."

"Sure. Sure. Let me just," Michael hoisted the briefcase, then lowered it quickly. He turned to Billy. "Hey kiddo. Everything good?"

"Hi Dad." The boy waved, then went back to working on his crossword puzzle.

"Where's Lauretta?"

"She had an appointment."

"Ahh, right." Michael winced, glanced at his watch. "She said. Guess I ran a little long." He walked behind the bar, opened a cabinet and put his wallet and keys inside. Lifted the briefcase up, started to slide it in, stopped. He looked around, then set the case at his feet, beside the cooler. "Beer?"

Jason gestured to the one he had going, then pulled out a stool and sat down in front of it. "Where you been?"

"Errands. Nothing exciting." Michael held a pint glass under the tap. When it was finished, he set it down, picked up the briefcase, frowned, then spun in a circle and set it against the back counter. "Cheers."

They tapped glasses.

"So. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Jason looked at Billy, then back at Michael. Gave a little jerk with his head.

Michael got the point. "Hey buddy, your uncle and I have a few things to talk about. You mind finishing your crossword over there?"

Billy sighed. "I am eight years old."

"And you know what? When you're nine years old, I'm still going to want to talk alone some times." Michael smiled, then jerked his thumb toward the tables. "Git."

Grumbling, the boy collected his newspaper, slid off the stool, and moved in front of the window. A beam of afternoon sun set the paper on fire.

"So what's up, bro?"

"I was going to ask you that."

"Huh?"

"Are you in any trouble?"

"Trouble?" Michael took a sip of his beer. "Well, I haven't won the Mega Ball yet, but other than that, I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Sure. Why?"

"A guy tried to hijack me this morning," Jason said, then took a long slow swallow of beer. "I was jogging, this guy with a soul patch and a Cadillac necklace jumped me in the pedestrian tunnel, said it had something to do with you."

"A Cadillac necklace? He have a tattoo on his arm, some letters?"

The muscles in Jason's back knit tight. "You're kidding me."