I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to say here. Usually, Griffin is the one I have this type of conversation with. He’s been my best friend and confidant my whole life. That’s what happens when all your friends disappear from your life at age sixteen and refuse to acknowledge you.
“Umm. If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.”
“Thanks, Knox. But I don’t know if that’s an appropriate boss-employee conversation.” She smiles teasingly.
“Consider it team building,” I quip.
Raven’s melodious laugh drifts from her lips to my ears, and I feel myself doing an unfamiliar movement.
I smile back.
As Raven goes backto tending bar, Camden goes back to the kitchen, and I head to the back hall. The wainscotting does its job, hiding the secret door located right next to our office.
When I open the door, I’m hit in the face with boisterous clamor and an unmistakable herbal smoke. The narrow steps down to the basement are hazardous, and we don’t have any plans to change them.
Hitting the bottom step, I scan the room. Five of the six poker tables are full, each dealer in our employ is busy officiating the games at their assigned tables, and the bar on the right side of the room is at more than capacity as people gather around to watch various sports that they have all placed bets on. Multiple flatscreen TVs are streaming live events like the NHL, NFL, MLB, and NASCAR.
Griffin is standing in the corner with a repeat customer, the mailman, Ernie. I’m not sure where the poor, scrawny guy Ernie is from. He just kind of showed up in town one day and got the job as the Mystic River mailman. I’m not sure how he keeps his job. He constantly delivers mail to the wrong address. I swear he does it on purpose because it’s only certain people who get their mail mixed up. So, it’s either intentional or he’s taking one too many hits of the rolled-up buds before he clocks in for work.
Ernie and Griffin make their exchange, and Ernie makes a beeline for the exit. He doesn’t stick around for cards or sports. He shows up once a week, buys a bag, then dips. As Ernie passes by, Griffin and I make eye contact, and I nod my head, giving him the go-ahead to head back upstairs.
Our “little” side business is more rumor than common knowledge. Sheriff Jackson has never been able to get enough evidence to secure a warrant, and anyone who does utilize our services wouldn’t dare snitch. Not only would the rest of our customers go after them, but we’d make sure they were never seen again.
I begin circulating the room with keen eyes, walking by each and every player. Most are too focused on their hand to pay attention to me. Cheating doesn’t happen often, but it’s notuncommon. And there’s always a sore loser that we have to set straight.
We don’t have much down here. People can place bets on sports and races, or they can play poker at the tables. And we may not have the appropriate licenses or permits, but that never stopped our grandfather, great-grandfather, or great-great-grandfather. So, it sure as hell isn’t going to hold back Griffin and me.
Once I’m done with my inspection of the tables, I don’t have to fight my way through the crowd to get to the bar. Everyone parts like the Red Sea, so my path is clear.
“Hey! Back already, Knox?” Florence Baker, the local librarian, greets me. Florence tended bar upstairs when Pops ran The Wandering Raven, and she insisted she continue when we took over. We didn’t hesitate to take her up on her offer. But we knew Florence well before The Wandering Raven. She’s been the librarian since I can remember, and she’s one of the few people in town who didn’t shun Griffin and me.
“Yeah, just had a small teen problem upstairs,” I answer her.
“I hear you hired a new bartender.” Florence peeks at me out of the corner of her eye as she fills another glass with Bud Light and hands it to a customer.
“That we did,” I confirm.
A round of boo’s flood my ears as the Nets score another three-pointer against the Rockets, ending Florence’s line of questioning. I ignore her pointed looks, prying for more information, and busy myself filling drinks.
“So?” The woman is like a dog with a bone.
“Her name is Raven. She’s new in town,” I concede.
A flicker of approval crosses Florence’s face. “Good hire,” she praises in a monotone voice. “She works for me at the library, too. Hard worker. Talks too much, though.”
Turning my head toward her, I make a face conveying my annoyance at her hypocrisy.
“Don’t give me that look, Knox Montgomery. You have no room to talk.”
We go back to serving up drinks, and an hour later, the Rockets have won, and spirits are high. Well, most of them. There’s always at least a few who lose out on money. That’s the way it is here. The basketball fans begin to clear out after they collect their winnings or walk away empty-handed.
A fist slams on the far poker table, and someone shouts, “Aw, come on! This bitch is obviously counting cards!”
My feet are moving before I notice who is causing the scene.
Graham LeBlanc.
Like uncle, like nephew, I guess.
