decade. Or more. And maybe the bartender hasn’t. Not like that’s Saim’s problem. Thing Saim doesn’t like is how the bartender sizes both him and Joe up. Reading em. A bit much.
Saim’s also thinking about how he got a week’s suspension for killing a couple bad guys who wanted to rob a bank and maybe kill some cops. How the fuck is that fair?
You killed two of the bastards but Joe cuffed the third one. Arrests are better than bodies. Plus Joe shot the way he was trained to—center mass.
Saim mumbles. “Shut up, brain.”
Then the bartender says NYPD get their first drink free and Joe’s just happy as a pig in dirty shit to hear that.
Saim thinks: How’d this guy make us as cops so quick?
Saim and Joe are wearing jeans and shirt and jackets. No uniforms. No badges.
Maybe the bartender’s an ex-con. Got those hard lines on his brow. More hard lines that streak down his cheeks. Looks tired all the time. Maybe a junkie who kicked the habit and now he’s slinging booze in an effort to earn money some way that doesn’t involve fucking someone over or getting fucked in return.
Or maybe he didn’t kick it and is just good at hiding it.
This bartender. Why’s he looking so hard to make out cops?
Junkies aren’t exactly known for their calm disposition…
Saim goes over the sheets for the Lower East Side in his head. Tries to put the bartender’s face on any mug shots. Tries to attach his description to open crime files. And can’t.
So Saim prods a little. “You get a lotta cops in here?”
Joe drinks and watches the Knicks play the Pacers on TV. He’s not paying too much attention to the conversation, but he’s listening.
The bartender shrugs. “We don’t get a lotta anybody in here. Some regulars, cuz of where we are. Then stupid college kids thinkin we might not card. Why?”
“Eh. Nothing really. Just funny how you assumed we were cops.”
The bartender smiles. “But you are cops. I mean, hey, if you’re not, that’s fine. I can be wrong. I’ll just have to add twelve bucks to your tab, but that’s no big thing, is it?”
Saim and this bartender look at each other. Sorta smile like it’s a joke. Except it ain’t. They’re both giving off a certain vibe.
The bartender reaches his hand out. Says, “Name’s Kieron. You are?”
Saim says, “No offense, but I’m not planning on being a regular. I live in Queens. But the name’s Saim.”
“Sam.”
“No. S-A-I-M, with a little oomph toward the ‘I’ and the ‘M.’ Like Say-im . But subtle.”
“Say- em .”
“Y’know... Sam’s fine. That’s what Joe calls me anyway.”
“Your partner.”
For a second, Saim mistakes that to mean “life partner”—as in gay as gay can be—but he realizes that ain’t it. The bartender means beat partner. “Yeah.”
“Okay, so you’re cops. And that first drink’s free.”
Saim shrugs. “I’m all right with that. But I’m still curious about how you picked us out so fast. You got someone looking for you?”
“You sayin you’re looking for me?” That same smile from Kieron.
A smirk. Like he’s so clever and playing it off.
And maybe it is just that. Maybe Saim needs to calm the fuck down, considering he shot a coupla dirtbags a few hours ago. Takes the bloodlust a while to die down.
Or maybe this guy’s just guilty as hell of something.
That cop radar going off.
The Knicks make a ridiculous play on TV. Joe claps. Orders another beer.
Saim shakes his head. “Nah. We’re not looking for you.” Puts the breaks on. “Just, y’know, the cop shit sticks with you. I see a guy eyeing me, I wonder what he’s thinking. That’s all. Sorry.” Not really meaning the apology.
Kieron pours Saim a shot of Evan Williams. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Just tip.” Smirk.
Saim takes the shot. Smiles. “All right.” Not trusting a fuckin thing the bartender says.
***
Kieron’s glad when the cops start talking shop. Means he can keep his mouth shut. Avoid
Saim’s also thinking about how he got a week’s suspension for killing a couple bad guys who wanted to rob a bank and maybe kill some cops. How the fuck is that fair?
You killed two of the bastards but Joe cuffed the third one. Arrests are better than bodies. Plus Joe shot the way he was trained to—center mass.
Saim mumbles. “Shut up, brain.”
Then the bartender says NYPD get their first drink free and Joe’s just happy as a pig in dirty shit to hear that.
Saim thinks: How’d this guy make us as cops so quick?
Saim and Joe are wearing jeans and shirt and jackets. No uniforms. No badges.
Maybe the bartender’s an ex-con. Got those hard lines on his brow. More hard lines that streak down his cheeks. Looks tired all the time. Maybe a junkie who kicked the habit and now he’s slinging booze in an effort to earn money some way that doesn’t involve fucking someone over or getting fucked in return.
Or maybe he didn’t kick it and is just good at hiding it.
This bartender. Why’s he looking so hard to make out cops?
Junkies aren’t exactly known for their calm disposition…
Saim goes over the sheets for the Lower East Side in his head. Tries to put the bartender’s face on any mug shots. Tries to attach his description to open crime files. And can’t.
So Saim prods a little. “You get a lotta cops in here?”
Joe drinks and watches the Knicks play the Pacers on TV. He’s not paying too much attention to the conversation, but he’s listening.
The bartender shrugs. “We don’t get a lotta anybody in here. Some regulars, cuz of where we are. Then stupid college kids thinkin we might not card. Why?”
“Eh. Nothing really. Just funny how you assumed we were cops.”
The bartender smiles. “But you are cops. I mean, hey, if you’re not, that’s fine. I can be wrong. I’ll just have to add twelve bucks to your tab, but that’s no big thing, is it?”
Saim and this bartender look at each other. Sorta smile like it’s a joke. Except it ain’t. They’re both giving off a certain vibe.
The bartender reaches his hand out. Says, “Name’s Kieron. You are?”
Saim says, “No offense, but I’m not planning on being a regular. I live in Queens. But the name’s Saim.”
“Sam.”
“No. S-A-I-M, with a little oomph toward the ‘I’ and the ‘M.’ Like Say-im . But subtle.”
“Say- em .”
“Y’know... Sam’s fine. That’s what Joe calls me anyway.”
“Your partner.”
For a second, Saim mistakes that to mean “life partner”—as in gay as gay can be—but he realizes that ain’t it. The bartender means beat partner. “Yeah.”
“Okay, so you’re cops. And that first drink’s free.”
Saim shrugs. “I’m all right with that. But I’m still curious about how you picked us out so fast. You got someone looking for you?”
“You sayin you’re looking for me?” That same smile from Kieron.
A smirk. Like he’s so clever and playing it off.
And maybe it is just that. Maybe Saim needs to calm the fuck down, considering he shot a coupla dirtbags a few hours ago. Takes the bloodlust a while to die down.
Or maybe this guy’s just guilty as hell of something.
That cop radar going off.
The Knicks make a ridiculous play on TV. Joe claps. Orders another beer.
Saim shakes his head. “Nah. We’re not looking for you.” Puts the breaks on. “Just, y’know, the cop shit sticks with you. I see a guy eyeing me, I wonder what he’s thinking. That’s all. Sorry.” Not really meaning the apology.
Kieron pours Saim a shot of Evan Williams. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Just tip.” Smirk.
Saim takes the shot. Smiles. “All right.” Not trusting a fuckin thing the bartender says.
***
Kieron’s glad when the cops start talking shop. Means he can keep his mouth shut. Avoid
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