Page 3 of The Fall Back Plan
Mostly, though, I watch. I recognize some of the faces that come in, even though it’s been several years since I’ve seen anyone but Ry and a handful of cousins in person. I don’t worry that any of them will recognize me, but I hang back anyway. If anyone realizes that Jolie McGraw bought Sullivan’s, I’ll have to field more questions than a deck of Trivial Pursuit cards.
Around 8:00, the office crowd thins, and a different type of customer starts drifting in. Jeans instead of slacks. More flannels than Oxfords. Unshaven versus groomed scruff.
Loafers give way to boots with heavy, worn treads, and this later crowd heads straight to the bar rather than claiming tables. They nurse beers or sometimes whiskey and don’t talk as much. Not sure how many of them will come again. This was my dad’s crowd, and he would have hated this place.
Which is why I bought it. I’d been called to fetch him far too many times from Sullivan’s. If Janice had known I was behind the purchase of the property, she would have declined, probably thinking I’d only buy it to burn it down. It wouldn’t have been a terrible guess.
A disturbance at the entrance around 9:00 draws my attention, but Mary Louise is already on it, moving toward a group of men coming through the door who have clearly already been drinking. I recognize the look in their eyes, the way the liquor makes them small and mean.
Mary Louise moves in front of them, speaking too low for me to hear. Her body is relaxed, but no one paying attention would be fooled. At least, no one who knows a thing about Mary Louise. If she doesn’t want to let them in, they haven’t got a shot of getting through her.
“—want a drink is all. Wanna try the house ale,” one of them says loudly enough for the entire bar to know their intentions.
Mary Louise glances over her shoulder to Ry, who nods. She moves out of the men’s way and welcomes them in with a polite wave of her arm.
They head to the bar and claim stools, making it nearly full. Only about four of the tables are occupied, and at one table, two middle-aged women exchange looks with each other. They appear to have reservations about these latest patrons. I wonder if it’s because these guys would look more at home in a honky-tonk or sports bar, or if they know something more.
It doesn’t matter. Mary Louise and I will watch them closely either way.
The one who spoke to Mary Louise wears a gray hat with the local hockey team logo. It’s a minor league team. The Appies, short for Appalachian. It’s clever, but I always read “apple” instead of “appie” at first glance.
Apple Hat’s voice has an arguing-with-the-ref tone and volume as he declares, “They wussified Sullivan’s.”
This gets grunts and mutters of approval from his friends. No, hiscronies. One of the middle-aged women glances over again and takes out her phone to send a text. They signal Precious to come over and she nods and returns a minute later with their check.
It’s what Apple Hat wants. I know this belligerence. They’re trying to start something. I catch Ry’s eye again and he gives me a tiny head shake to tell me he’s still got it handled.
It’s more satisfying to me to overcharge them for their drinks and stick it to them that way. Ry will make sure they pay what we call the “jerk tax.”
The tax climbs when they start griping about the ale, which is a craft beer from a microbrewery in Asheville I partnered with. “PBR is better than this,” one of the other guys says, using an impolite word to describe the beer.
Ah, yes. This carefully curated microbrew is definitely not as good as the cut-rate sour beer of high school keg parties. I allow myself an eyeroll in my private corner, then watch the rest of this drama play out. I don’t know these dudes, but I’ve known these kinds of dudes my whole life. They can be trouble, but so long as you pay attention, you can usually head it off before it bubbles over. Mary Louise knows this even better than I do, so I’m not worried.
“Y’all come in here with fancy lights and do some dusting and think that’ll keep us from noticing that you’re serving the cheap stuff?” Apple Hat demands. One of his sidekicks scoffs.
I notice the table closest to them gesture for their check too.
Another one of Apple Hat’s wingmen, maybe because of the liquid courage he’s drained from his whiskey glass, straightens and turns to run his eyes around the bar, sliding right over me like I don’t register on his radar. “Dang shame when Asheville hipsters come infesting the Hollow like stiltgrass. Good thing y’all do poorly at our altitude. Won’t last.”
“Gentrification,” Apple Hat spits. “Janice Sullivan is a good woman, and it’s going to break her heart when she sees this place. Old Tom is rolling in his grave.”
I rise and cross half the floor before I speak. “That’s enough.”
I must look like I materialized from the low lighting like a ninja in my black sleeveless shirt and black Calvin Klein wide-leg trousers, my dark hair pulled into a low bun at my nape. I’m average height but wearing three-inch heels, and I stare them down with the cool “do not mess with me” expression I used for eight years in the storied boardrooms of Blue Slate Investment Management. These men are right to see me as a silent assassin.
“Who’re you?” Apple Hat demands.
“I’m the owner, and the woman who paid Janice Sullivan a generous price for this bar.” I stop in front of him, out of arm’s reach, and give him a slow scan from head to toe, letting him know I’m not impressed. “Generous enough to guess she doesn’t miss it. And she definitely doesn’t miss the likes of you.”
He straightens, his jaw jutting forward in a way that’s supposed to signal aggression. All he’s doing is offering Mary Louise an easy target if he doesn’t back down.
“You can’t talk to a customer like that,” he says.
“Of course I can.” I offer him a slight smile. “What’s more, the longer you talk, the higher your tab climbs, so I’d shut up and pay up if I were you.”
“You can’t do that,” one of his wingnuts—wingmen—says.
I nod at the sign posted directly behind Ry, a chalked slate that statesPrices vary depending on your attitude. Behave or leave. “What do you think, Ry? Are they following the rules?”
