Page 40 of The Street Disciples
He snorted and grabbed a bottle that pretended it was whiskey. “Ain’t nobody forgot.” The glass slid across the bar, amber liquid catching neon light like a dirty jewel. “This one’s on me, not ‘cause I like you. ‘Cause I like my floor not painted red.”
I drank. It burned like gas station fumes. Comfort wasn’t why I was here.
The TV above the bar played a Lakers game on low volume, screen cracked in one corner, static buzzing like a mosquito. A few men hunched over their drinks, talking too low for strangers to catch. Others barked over point spreads, slapping crumpled bills into a jar crusted with dried beer.
“Still the same,” I peeped, flicking ash into an empty shot glass. “Same men. Same stories. Same smell.”
“Some smells don’t wash out,” the bartender grumbled, polishing a glass that only got dirtier. “Like bad choices.”
I let a slow grin curl. “Lucky for you, I stopped makin’ those.”
He scoffed but didn’t answer. He knew better.
A man slid into the seat next to me like he owned it. Leather jacket with “City” stitched on the chest, creases sharp but soul tired. His eyes told me he used to be about something before a mortgage killed it. His fade was tight, but his hands shook like they missed the gun they used to hold.
“Friday,” he muttered into his glass.
“Monday,” I countered, sliding him a white envelope. Inside, the inspector’s donation receipt was folded crisp, like a letter from a woman you regret leaving. He didn’t look down, didn’t need to. His fingers twitched once, but he tucked it into his inner pocket like a guilty love note.
“You gonna keep this neighborhood from embarrassing me?” he asked. His tone meant his boss.
“I’m gonna keep your microphones from finding the wrong song,” I answered, voice low enough to cut through the static.
He nodded once, finished his drink in a single swallow that made his throat tighten like it remembered fear, and left cash on the bar—crisp bills that smelled like starch and secrets.
From the far side of the room, a man with a crooked Raiders cap grinned. “Yooo, Trig! That you? Still movin’ like the Crestdon’t sleep, huh? You outside like a streetlight, homie!” His laugh rolled loud, testing me.
I turned my head slow, gave him a look colder than the busted ice in his glass. “Keep talkin’, see if sleep finds you first.”
The laughter died quick. Even the TV seemed to choke back the noise.
The bartender watched me drain my glass and didn’t ask for payment. He leaned in close, voice rough like gravel. “Next time, call first.”
“Wouldn’t be a next time if I called first,” I muttered, pushing the glass back. He nodded once, understanding exactly what I meant.
Smart man. In this city, some tabs stayed open forever.
The tension stayed thick after the stool creaked underneath me. No one moved. Conversations had died the second I walked in, but now the silence was heavy enough to make the neon buzz sound like thunder. I felt every pair of eyes on my back—curious, calculating, and quiet. Some of these men had straps tucked under their hoodies, others had debts tucked in their pockets. None of them had the nerve to test me, but their stares weren’t out of fear. They were out of memory. In Lyon Crest, respect didn’t come from talk—it came from the last time you made an example out of someone who thought talk was enough.
I scanned the room, slow. Clocked every exit—front door with a busted hinge, side door near the pool table, and the fire exit by the bathrooms with the alarm ripped out years ago. Three men near the bar wore oversized black hoodies heavy enough to hide hardware. A fourth in the corner nursed a Modelo with his hand too close to his waistband. I wasn’t nervous. I was mapping. That’s what men like me do—we draw blueprints in our heads so no one else writes the ending for us.
“You good, Trig?” the bartender asked without looking at me, voice low.
“I’m always good,” I said, scanning him too. “You just keep pourin’ that unleaded you call whiskey.”
A chuckle rippled somewhere in the back, short and nervous. The air had shifted now—thick with recognition, not tension. These weren’t enemies; they were reminders. Reminders that Lyon Crest wasn’t safe, wasn’t soft, and wasn’t supposed to be. That’s why I was here.
I lit a cigarette and let the smoke curl around me, slow and deliberate. Nobody in this bar was a friend, but nobody wanted to be an enemy either. That was the sweet spot. That’s why I came here. I wasn’t here to drink or talk. I was here to remind the room I was still breathing—and that I’d stop theirs if they forgot. The bartender went back to polishing glasses that would never be clean, but his shoulders stayed tense like a man who knew he was in the presence of gravity. Even the man in the Raiders cap kept his head down now, whispering to his drink.
The door behind me creaked open, letting in a cold draft and the smell of wet pavement. Nobody looked. Not at the door. Not at me. In Lyon Crest, that was the highest sign of respect—pretending you didn’t notice the storm until it was over.
A man slid onto the stool beside me without asking, like permission was something he outgrew. His jacket said “City” in stitched white letters, but his shoulders told a different story—used to be broad, now slouched with mortgage weight and old regrets. His fade was fresh, but his hands jittered like they missed the cold grip of a pistol. His cologne smelled like a courtroom, and his breath carried last night’s whiskey and a divorce he didn’t sign for.
He stared at his drink, voice low and flat. “Friday.”
I flicked ash into an empty shot glass and leaned just close enough for him to feel the weight of me. “Monday,” I murmured, the word sharp as glass. I slid a crisp envelope toward him, inspector’s donation receipt folded neat inside. He didn’t needto open it—men like him didn’t need proof; they just needed a reason to look the other way. He palmed it like a dirty secret and tucked it into his inner pocket slow, like it burned. “On hood, this the one that’s gon’ keep y’all out the paper,” I added, low.
“You gonna keep this block from embarrassing me?” His voice cracked like it belonged to someone braver, but we both knew he was talking about his boss. “You feel me?”
