I laugh and nod. “They have been broken a few times, haven’t they?” Before I have time to say anymore, he swings the hammer, and then broken glass goes flying. “Fuck! Jesus, Jagger, safety fucking glasses!”
“Those things are for pussies.” He swings again and hits the wall.
I head to the truck and grab two pair of safety glasses and another sledgehammer. I hand him the glasses, and he rolls his eyes yet puts them on.
After spending a couple hours releasing a shit ton of frustration, the storefront is demolished. We fill the wheelbarrow then take the rubble to the dumpster out back.
“What the fuck possessed you to do this shit now? It’s February, man.”
“Finished the hardwood upstairs last Sunday and Monday. The railing is up. The place looks too fucking upscale. Gonna put a garage door in the front. When we’re open and it’s warm, it can stay up. When we are closed, ain’t no motherfucker gonna be breaking a window, that’s for sure.”
“A garage door?” he laughs at me.
“Think about it, man. Fucking perfect.” I step back and look at the gaping hole in the front of my place. “Looks good.”
“Are you out of your dammed mind?”
“Nah, think of the private parties we can have.” I smile at him. “Monday night cards?”
“No, shit. Morrison will love that.” He is catching on now.
“His ass may be able to win every other place he plays, but not here. We know his tells.” I laugh.
“We sure as hell do.”
...
By dark, Jagger and I have the garage door hung. It looks cool as fuck.
In the cities, they use those gates in front of storefronts, but I’m not trying to make it look like the hood any more than it already does down here. I sure as hell don’t want to keep replacing windows, though.
To the right is another entry door, allowing access when the large door is down Consent is fucking required.
I laugh to myself and feel shit stir a bit in my jeans. The giggler was one hot piece of ass, and for some reason, I can’t get her out of my head.
I try to shake it off and decide I am sure as hell gonna have a sign made that says, ‘Consent is fucking required,’ when I finally get one that says, ‘Caldwell’s Dive,’ to replace the Hooligans sign of my dad’s.
...
I look up and laugh as Morrison struts into the bar. “Well, there he is. New do?”
I swear, not one of the three of us look alike, but you would think Momma was banging the delivery man when she got knocked up with Morrison. Jagger and I can pass as brothers, more on the basis of eye color than anything else. Morrison, though, he has blue eyes. Fucking pretty boy dresses like he is from uptown, too. “Gotta have swag,” he says when we bust his ass about it.
“You home for a while longer than expected?” Morrison’s choice of career gives him flexible hours and as he puts it ‘travel benefits.’
He takes off his jacket, blowing his hands to warm them. “Sure as fuck wish I was in Vegas right now. It’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra out there, man.”
“What’s keeping you?”
He holds his hands up and rubs his thumb and fingers together. “Waiting on pay day.”
“You broke, man?” Morrison always has money. The fucker is a card shark and never loses. He has been banned from a few casinos because they thought he was counting cards, even though he wasn’t. He is just that damn good.
“Bet everything I had on a fight.” He smiles as I slide him a cup of coffee.
“And you haven’t been paid yet?”
“I bet a lot.” He winks.
“I see. Good for you, man, good for you.”
“When you gonna have entertainment in here?”
“Couple weeks probably,” I say as I sit on my stool behind the bar and take a drink.
“What are you gonna do to draw them in until then?” He smirks, and I know exactly what he is thinking.
“Nah, man.” I smirk back.
“We haven’t done a proper ladies’ night in years, Hendrix.”
A few years back, Momma and the old man took off for a week. They went to a casino or some shit, and I was left in charge. We didn’t have a band that night, since the old man wouldn’t allow it. Said we couldn’t be trusted. I needed bank and so did my brothers, and band nights were the big pay nights. Morrison had a date the next week with one of his highballing bitches, the kind who required flowers and dinner before they put out. I was trying to fix up my Nova with a new, small block engine. Jagger wanted to hire a trainer. As a result, we advertised a ladies’ night, and the place was packed.
Morrison was fucked up and ended up dancing on the bar. Then Jagger hopped up there, too, and both of them stripped down to their boxers. The crowd started chanting my name, and I had drunk just enough to make me say, “Fuck it.”