I roll up the window and drive the three blocks to the little business corner in the heart of the Stacks. There are only two places open, but it’s really all people need. Mr. Bing’s corner shop that keeps the neighborhood supplied with snacks, drinks and scratch-off tickets, and then the Side Pocket, the pool hall.
I park and step inside, hit by the fact that it smells exactly the same. Chalk dust and old beer and something scorched into the wood that never comes out. The lights still buzz overhead, yellow and tired, like they’ve been thinking about quitting for years and never quite do.
I stop just inside the door.
It takes a second. Then people start to recognize me. Not all at once. A glance. A pause. They should. I spent my childhood running through the barstools. I head for the bar. The bartender looks up, squints, then nods like a door clicking into place.
“DK,” he says, reaching over the bar to shake my hand. “How you been?”
“Good.” My voice sounds flat, even to me. “She here?”
He tips his head toward the back without asking who I mean.
I nod and move on.
The back room is louder, the tables and players huddled close together. Pool balls crack against one another, and voices overlap while money changes hands in small, forgettable amounts. I spot herright away, bent over the table, dark hair hanging over her shoulder, cue steady in her hands. Tank top, jeans. Comfortable. Focused. The guy across from her already looks like he’s made peace with losing.
She takes the shot.
Clean. Ball drops. Her opponent, or more accurately, hermark, curses under their breath.
“That’s game,” she says, straightening.
Then she looks up.
Our eyes meet.
There’s surprise there–real, brief–it’s gone in a heartbeat, smoothed over by something neutral. A reminder that I exist–weexist.
She chalks her cue, already lining up for another round. “You gonna stand there all night?”
There’s no doubt she’s talking to me. I didn’t grow up calling herMomthe way other kids would have. Seeing her now, bent over the table, it’s easy to forget she ever had a kid at all. She was fourteen when she had me. Maybe fifteen. Depends on which story Rikki Kemp is telling that night and who’s listening.
“I didn’t want to mess up your rhythm.”
She snorts. “Please.”
The guy she beat grumbles and digs for cash. She holds out her hand, nails sharp as claws, and accepts her winnings.
When he walks away, she stuffs the money into her bra and leans against the table, cue tucked under her arm. She looks me over then. Not like a mother. Like someone taking inventory. My clothes. My stance. The metal piercings. Finally, the fresh tat.
“New ink,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t comment further. “I heard you’d taken up with the Crypt Keepers. What’s that like?”
She can’t be mad. She’s the one who taught me how to be like this. Flexible and adaptive. The ability to blend in while making an impression.
“It’s not bad. A bed, food, education.” I don’t mention the timespent collecting the dead, or the ceremonies, or the Baroness. “Better than the Pen.”
“Maybe you learned more from me than I realized.”
Shit. Maybe I did. “How about you? Anything new?”
“I got a job,” she says, like it just occurred to her to mention it. “Gentlemen’s Chamber.” My eyebrow lifts, and she rolls her eyes. “Behindthe bar, you little brat. My days of being on stage with my tits out are long over.”
I’m not sure I want the image of my mother dancing the pole in my head, but a job’s a job. She taught me that, too.
