Page 36 of Their Property
I was just about to tug T-Bone’s sleeve and head back out when he said, “We’ll put a deposit down on a grandfather clock.”
Now the man leaned his forearm on the counter and angled his head toward T-Bone. “All four of ya?”
T-Bone nodded. “All of us.”
The man’s gaze slid over each of us, as if he could tell by a look if we’d run our mouths or not. His eyes lingered on Kyrie. Not in a creepy way, but I could tell he questioned what a pretty, well-dressed girl in her twenties was doing with the likes of us.
“Let’s see it,” he said finally.
T-Bone reached into his cut pocket and pulled out a wad of Sevier currency. Kyrie started reaching for her coat pocket, and I grabbed her wrist to stop her.
The man counted out the bills, then jerked his head to the side as he shoved the money in his shirt pocket. “Side door, then follow me.”
“The Sons of Odin are grateful,” I said under my breath as we moved away from the counter.
The man startled at that, his eyes widening for a moment before letting out a dry chuckle. “You should have just said that.”
We went through the side door, meeting him next to the kitchen in a dark corridor. “You run an honest business,” T-Bone told him with a slap on the shoulder. “We’re honest customers.”
Kyrie followed him and the restaurant owner through the corridor and down a flight of stairs. I reached forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, leaning close to her ear. “You alright?” Her hair tickled my cheek, the sweet smell of it a reprieve from this musty stairwell.
She squeezed my hand on her shoulder in reply, so I kept it there until we reached the bottom of the stairs and entered a wide room.
The ceiling was low, nearly brushing my head as I stood to full height. Some vinyl jazz album spun on an ancient record player in the corner next to the bar, which had every seat filled and was backed by an impressive collection of liquor bottles.
Couches, armchairs, and low tables were spread out throughout the rest of the room, roughly half of them occupied. A few people glanced up at our arrival, but most kept their eyes away. It was an unspoken rule at establishments like this—if you saw anyone you recognized… no, you didn’t.
The patrons were mostly men, rough-looking sorts like us, but a few had women sitting with them. Long legs in short dresses stretched over men’s laps. Their partners’—or customers’—rough hands held possessively onto exposed knees and thighs. The women smoked thin cigarettes and peered through fake eyelashes to regard Kyrie with curiosity.
“Enjoy your stay.” The restaurant owner held his arm out toward a few empty couches clustered around a low table, then immediately headed back upstairs.
Grudge and I guided Kyrie in that direction while T-Bone headed for the bar.
“Culture-shocked, yet?” I asked in a low whisper as we sat down. The loveseat cushions were soft and well-worn. Kyrie nearly tumbled into my chest as we sank into them, and I had half a mind to put an arm around her and keep her there.
“This is so much fun!” she whispered back excitedly, eying every light fixture and detail of the room. “How many places like this are out there?”
“No one knows for sure.” I looked toward T-Bone, talking to the bartender in a low voice, before scanning the rest of the room. No one looked like trouble, and I didn’t get a bad vibe. You could never be sure in places like this where the drinking and smoking had to be kept underground. But tonight, it seemed like everyone in attendance was only trying to wind down for the evening.
“Hm.” Grudge tapped Kyrie’s thigh to get her attention, then pointed at T-Bone. Our president was gathering up a set of glasses and a whiskey bottle, while the bartender pulled up and down on a lever mounted next to the bar.
“The bartender’s pouring you a cask ale,” I said to Kyrie. “Hope it’s a good one.”
“What’s that?” She got up to watch him hand-pump the beer from the couch across from me.
Before answering, I toyed with the idea of pulling her back to me and never letting her go. “Beer at cellar-temperature, conditioned inside of a wooden barrel. It’s how they drank it before refrigeration. Or if a place doesn’t have reliable electricity since the Collapse.”
“Well, the lights are staying on,” she noted, glancing at the bare bulbs on the walls.
“They could be trying to conserve electricity too,” I said. “Or cask ale might even be some people’s preference.”
T-Bone returned and set the pint glass in front of her. It didn’t look bad for a cask. Natural carbonation had given the pale, golden beer a creamy head of foam on top.
“He told me what it was, but I’m gonna make you guess.” T-Bone smirked as he set out the glasses and poured whiskey for us.
“Oh, that’s not fair. I’ve never had beer before.” Kyrie took the glass and smelled it before taking a careful sip.
T-Bone openly stared like he wished he was the beer she was drinking from, so I whacked him on the arm. “Did you order food?”
