Speakeasy (True North #5)(59)

Alec is fast. I’m twenty yards behind by the time he disappears inside the Gin Mill. When I open the door a few seconds later, the bar is in chaos. Many of the customers are lined up in front of the bar, trying to see beyond it and into the storeroom. Other people mill around, wondering what the hell is happening.

Connor—the Scottish part-time guy—is behind the bar, trying to keep everyone at bay. “Kindly take a step back,” he says. “Leave space. The paramedics will need to get through.”

I hear the distant wail of a siren. But before it becomes truly loud, Benito Rossi bursts through the door behind me, an orange pouch in his hands.

“Look out,” I say to a couple of gawking customers. “Step aside.” I find myself blocking for Benito, nudging people out of his way, and then lifting the pass-through at the end of the bar.

“Thanks,” Benito pants.

I follow him to the storeroom. Benito drops to his knees beside Smitty, who’s stretched out on the concrete floor looking blue-lipped and way too still.

Benito makes a fist and rubs his knuckles up and down Smitty’s sternum. “Hey!” he shouts into Smitty’s face. “Wake up, man. Let’s go.”

Alec gets in on the action, but less carefully. He slaps Smitty. Hard. “Wake up you stupid fuck! Don’t you dare die on the damn floor!”

Ben puts a hand on his brother to nudge him back. Then he checks Smitty’s airway. He puts a hand beneath the unconscious man’s neck, pinches his nostrils and puffs a breath into his mouth. Then he does it again.

“Give him the shit!” Alec cries. “What are you waiting for?”

Ignoring him, Ben gives Smitty one more breath, then unzips the orange pouch. He starts assembling a small plastic contraption.

That’s when I see the syringe. It’s right there on the floor right beside Alec’s hand. It’s just lying there on the concrete, its sharpened end pointing at Alec.

And I realize I’m shaking. My knees feel squishy and my heart is racing. Look out for that needle. The sight of it terrifies me. I edge a little farther into the room and kick the syringe away from Alec. It bounces toward a case of beer bottles, and Alec doesn’t even notice.

I don’t know why I’m shaking, or exactly why the needle freaks me out. But I’ve never seen someone so close to death by his own hand.

Smitty was in the middle of a shift. Now he’s on the floor and not breathing.

Benito has squirted something into his nostrils and now he’s rolling Smitty onto his side. Smitty makes a horrible gagging sound.

“Breathe,” Benito orders, whacking him on the back.

Two paramedics arrive, crowding into the storeroom. I wiggle out of the way and find myself behind the bar, where Connor is valiantly attempting to run Alec’s business while a life is saved a few feet away.

“Could you fill three glasses with ice?” he asks.

A beat later I realize the request is aimed at me. “What glasses?” I ask in a hoarse voice.

“Rocks. Those right there.” He gestures toward the ice bin and I spot the glasses waiting beside it.

With shaky hands I dunk each one into the ice bin and then pass them toward Connor.

In front of me, a young woman wearing a baseball cap leans against the bar. “Hey, can I get three Goldenpours?”

I glance at Connor, who is pouring vodka over the ice I just gave him. With his other hand, he’s stirring something else. “Goldenpour is all out,” he says. “Try the Sip of Sunshine instead.”

“Okay,” she says, looking back at me.

So I grab a pint class, hold it under the Sip of Sunshine spout, and pull the tap. Tilting the glass to prevent too much head, I watch the honey-colored liquid roll down the side and into the bottom. I inhale the scent of yeasty heaven, and my mouth waters. Just one beer would do nice things for my shaking hands.

But the customer is waiting. So I hand her the full glass and then pour two more of them in rapid succession.

“Thank you, love,” Connor says. “That’ll be twelve bucks,” he says to the customer. To me he says, “I promised everyone four-dollar beers if they’d stand back and give me their patience.”

“Can I get a Heady Topper?” someone else asks. “And a glass of cabernet.”

“Heady is served in a can, and the wine is six dollars,” Connor prompts.

I get the beer from the reachin cooler, then look around for the wine glasses. I take one off the rack and then pull the rubber cork out of the cabernet bottle. It’s from California. The fruity, plummy smells rush me as I pour a healthy portion.

God, what I wouldn’t do for a glass of it. But I shove that rubber stopper back into the top when I’m done and hand over the glass. Not fair! my addiction shrieks. Why can that guy have it when I can’t? This is bullshit!

Because you won’t stop at one, I remind myself. Also, nothing in the whole world is ever fair. There is no fair. There’s only lucky and not lucky.

And I’m not the unluckiest person in the room tonight. I turn and look towards the storeroom. Nobody has come out of there yet.

I turn back around and find several more customers waiting in front of the bar. “Hey,” one woman says. “I’d love a Goldenpour when you get the chance.”

“Goldenpour is sold out,” I say, reaching for a glass. “Try the Sip of Sunshine.”