Justice

Author's foreword: Thank you for allowing me to share a small portion of the stage with these truly incredibly talented authors today. A special thank you to Randi, for your invitation and encouragement, and the gracious offer to edit my story which made it so much better than my original draft. Finally, to the readers, thank you for your support, kind comments, and e-mails while I was on my hiatus. I hope you'll enjoy the story.

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I just sat watching the last residual tiny air bubbles slowly ascend into what was the dissipating foamy head of the beer awaiting consumption. The frosty mug condensation was balanced between a mix of watery droplets and icy glaze. My hand felt the texture of the paper coaster and the salt granules poured by the bartender to keep the glass from sticking to the paper coaster; the rough disparity of texture was somehow soothing.

"You going to drink that or just keep looking at it?" the bartender growled.

I looked up at him, weighing a variety of responses from bitter sarcasm to meek acquiescence, then I decided on a middle ground.

"I haven't decided, Uncle Jack."

The answer not being the one he wanted made my uncle shake his head, turning away to tend to better humored paying customers located at the far end of the bar. Another family vote against me, sending ripples through my quandary.

Well, 'fuck him and the horse he rode in on', I thought. I didn't ask for this shit. To distract myself, I looked across the span of the bar. It was a microcosm, trapped in Fifties' décor, unaffected by a half century of change.

Walls adorned with neon signs of beers no longer in existence, dark wooden walls with just the right mixtures of windows allowing a golden glow pouring in each afternoon, giving a friendly ambiance. The mahogany bar was irregularly indented from countless glasses slammed into it in anger and joy.

In contrast, the colorful Wurlitzer jukebox stood against the far wall where a dancing stage competed against the loss of floor space for additional tables and chairs. Profitability be damned, was the order of the day.

Growing up, I was made painfully aware of that fact. I had been drafted as free labor at an early age since child labor laws didn't apply in a family business. I swept out the place, bussed tables, carried cases and crates, rolled kegs, cleaned urinals, and toilets, mopped up blood and cleaned up vomit.

In my unenlightened view, I thought I was vested into being allowed a voice in how the place should be run. The kind owners of this establishment, to wit, my uncle, my Aunt Kate, my mom, Mary, and my dad, Tom, quickly, and thoroughly, informed me otherwise. My dad and Uncle Jack, in addition to being among the owners, also served in the city's police department, dad being a lieutenant in one precinct, and Uncle Jack a patrol sergeant in another. Mom was a neonatal nurse at the hospital. Only Aunt Kate was a full-time family worker at the bar, therefore, she handled the day-to-day operation. Mom, Dad, and Uncle Jack pitched in when they could to help the working staff.

That said, even though Aunt Kate ran the place and all the business licenses and permits were in her name, they all deferred to my father for the important business decisions. I got the impression that somehow, dad had figured out the way to buy the bar initially, and he was the controlling factor in most decisions. Still, he always listened to the others' opinions. Except for me, of course.

I had suffered through more arguments than I cared to remember, trying to convince my dad and the others that we could make more money utilizing the space for bigger crowds. Dad and Uncle Jack usually just laughed at me as they fed coins into the jukebox and lead their wives out on the dance floor to slowly sway to a Sixty's tune.

Another example of the anachronism of the place, the jukebox contained an eclectic mix of tunes handpicked by my parents, and my uncle and aunt. All were subject to change at a moment's notice. On a given night, you had Procol Harum's "Whiter Shade Of Pale" and a little known rocker tune of theirs, "Whiskey Train"; The Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses" and "Little Red Rooster".

Booker T. & the M.G.'s, "Green Onions," and Muddy Water's "Mannish Boy," Miles Davis' "Summertime" and the Allman Brothers' "You Don't Love Me Anymore," The Animals' "House of the Rising Sun" and "Orange and Red Beams."

Little Feat's "Willin" and "Dixie Chicken," Jackson Browne's "Take It Easy/Our Lady of the Well," J.D. Souther's "How Long" and "The Fast One," Eric Clapton's "Tribute to Elmore" and "Layla," Bob Dylan's "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" and "On the Road Again".

The list would go on and on, and though any number of songs could be substituted for another one, one was sacrosanct. That was 'B4' on the jukebox. Not on pain of death, could there ever be another song in that slot.

I would cringe and hate that song, due to it being played every night when my mom got off her shift as a nurse. She would come to the bar to be swept up by my dad and carried in jovial protest to the dance floor, placed down and kissed before they began their slow dance, oblivious to the world. The scene was so saccharine that it would've given anyone diabetes.

But, like I said, my opinion didn't count for shit, even when the opportunity arose for them to sell out the bar and enjoy a very rosy retirement. A tech billionaire with more money than God and his toadying entourage, deigned to discover the bar one evening.

After countless enquiries about various rare Scotch and single barrel bourbons, the effete crowd was informed they would have to make do with Johnny Walker and Jack Daniels, or take it down the road. Well that just pissed off the group, since my dad had the audacity not to grovel, but for some reason, it struck a chord with the billionaire so he settled in for the evening, along with his grumbling crew. What the hell could they do, since he was paying?

As the billionaire continued to suck down drinks, he discovered charm in each and every nuance of the bar, and when he discovered the jukebox with its selections, he started dancing with the nubile arm-candies of his group.

Then he started raving about the bar, counting it among the best he'd ever been to, including it among some bar in Singapore, El Floridita, in Havana, and a seedy beer garden in Munich. This, of course, immediately changed the attitude of the group as they dashed around the place, dragging their benefactor around, marveling at the quaint place.

Nothing would do but for Dad to join them at their table for a drink and pass some pleasantries. So my bemused father did, trying his best to avoid being included in the selfies being snapped by the duck-lipped silicone-enhanced vixens, posted in god knows what social media outlet.

"Tom," the billionaire slurred as he wrapped a comradely arm around my dad, "Tom, this place is an absolute treasure!" His sentiment was immediately and enthusiastically echoed by his friends. "You have to let me buy this place!"

Dad just smiled as he quietly slipped unnoticed out of his customer's embrace and told him it wasn't for sale. "Of course, it's for sale, Tom. The whole fucking world is for sale and I'm just the guy that can buy it!" the billionaire boasted as he plead his case.

"Tell you what; I'll give you a million dollars right now if you sell me this place."

My jaw dropped at the amount and dad continued to grin and said, "Sorry, Bill, it still isn't for sale. It's not just my place; I also got to answer to my brother, Jack, his wife, Kate and my wife, Mary."

'You forgot about your only kid', I mentally screamed at him. 'Your son, who would be quite happy with some part of a million dollars payout'. The look on my face must have enhanced my father's enjoyment, as his grin got bigger at my perplexity.

"Oh, so you've got partners. Well, I can take care of them, how about four million?"

'YES! FOR GOD'S SAKES, SAY YES'! I telepathically tried to impart my thought to my father.

"That's a nice offer, Bill and I'll tell the others what you've offered, but as far as I'm concerned, I'm not willing to sell," Dad replied.

My entire body was shaking. A four million dollar offer and my dad calmly turned it down as though anybody would want this dump for four million dollars. I wanted to go over there and tell the guy that why, yes, of course we'd sell for four million dollars!

Dad took another look at me and his shit eating grin got even bigger.

"I'm not used to being denied, Tom," the billionaire declared, "Final offer, eight million dollars! Two million dollars apiece. That should satisfy you and your brother and your wives!"

Dad looked at the billionaire and serenely said, "I never could expect this place to go for that much money. It is a wonderful offer and I'll always appreciate that you made it, but again, I'm saying no."

The flabbergasted billionaire looked shocked at my dad's refusal to sell and finally noticed my near state of apoplexy.

"What's wrong with that kid?"

"Oh, that's my son, Mike, and he's trying to tell me to take you up on your offer," Dad laughingly explained.

"All right, Tom, I'll help your son out. Ten million dollars, last and final offer. All you've got to do is say yes, and all of your dreams will come true!"

I almost yelled yes out loud, and then I noticed the subtle shift of expression in my father's face. This was the one that said, "don't fuck with me." The one I grew up with and learned well the lesson not to disobey. Pushing the envelope was all well and good, as I continued to assert my independence, but there were limits, and I knew I had reached that zone.

It went unnoticed by the besotted billionaire as he waited smugly for my father's acceptance. "Bill," my father replied, "thank you for your generosity. I'll tell you what, if you still feel this way tomorrow, come by and make the offer to my partners. If they say yes, then I'll agree to your terms, but I doubt you'll be able to convince them, either. So, next time in town come by for a drink, the first round will be on me."

With that, the billionaire left, vowing to return tomorrow and swearing undying friendship with my dad and everlasting allegiance to Genero's Tavern, the, quote, "best fucking bar in the world," unquote, from the wobbling Midas as his minions helped steer him to his limo.

My dad just sat there at the table watching them leave with a little sad smile on his face. As he slowly finished his shot of whiskey, I finally trusted myself to go to the table and start clearing away the debris.

He looked up to me, expecting me to look at him. I tried in vain not to, but finally I couldn't stand it. "Dad, how could you?" I sputtered, "Ten million dollars," I paused, trying to voice my frustrations adequately and failing to do so.

"Yeah, ten million would've been one helluva payoff," dad agreed, musing in response. "Sit down, Mike, and I'll explain why I turned him down." I sat waiting to hear what possible reason he had to turn down the key to the bank.

He hesitated. "Mike, I've dealt with guys like that my whole life. You, on the other hand, you're still a teenager and you've got a whole lot of growing up to do when you get out there in the world. You're going to find a Bill every time you turn around.

"He's either going to be smarter, richer, or better looking than you, and he'll never let you forget it. Now, there are two ways to deal with a Bill. You can meekly agree that he's better than you, or you can stand eye to eye with him and let him know that you're just as good as him.

"That guy," he nodded to the door, "came in here expecting to lord it over everybody. Ordering $100 dollars a shot Scotch and boutique bourbons and expecting me to grovel and apologize for not being able to fulfill his requests.

"When I told him that he'd have to settle for Johnny Walker or Jack Daniels, or otherwise take it down the road, he took that as me telling him 'fuck you,' so he settled in trying to find some way to assert his superiority. While he was doing that, he got a surprise and realized he was actually enjoying himself.

"Just sitting there, drinking and dancing with his friends, talking and enjoying himself for a rare change, but he still had to get that one last shot at showing me how big his cock was, figuratively, and he made his offer.

"Now, I could've immediately accepted and thanked him profusely, comped all his drinks and shook his hand until his hand was bleeding, but that was what he was wanting and expecting. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction, and I turned him down."

"That was me letting him know that my cock was just as big as his, and he didn't faze me a bit. So, he upped his offer, and again I turned him down. He raised it again, hoping that I'd agree, because now he was locked into a contest of will.

"I could see that Bill was trapped and he had no way out. You see, son, a guy like Bill needs a bar like I need a third nipple. He's smart and made a shitload of money and he didn't do that by making many mistakes. There's no way he could ever justify paying that kind of money for a place like this.

"I could've continued turning him down until the offer would've been ridiculously noticeable to his friends, but I decided to cut him some slack and gave him his out by telling him to come by tomorrow and talk to Jack, Kate, and your Mom, and convince them.

"But, he won't come back. Chances are, we will never see him again. He'll go on making obscene amounts of money and we'll continue to work here, and I'm okay with that. I make a good living and provide for you and your mom. I'm beholden to no man, and I'm good with that."

For some reason, his comment gave him pause and he blurted out, "There's only been one time I've ever been on my knees to another man, and that will never happen again."

The cold steel determination on his face frightened me. He must've picked up on it as he morphed back into character. "So, he left with his pride intact, and I'm sitting here with my pride intact and you're sitting here at a table that needs to be cleaned so some paying customers can sit down."

I had to say it. "But what if he's shows up tomorrow with a ten million dollar check?" Dad replied, "If he does that, I'll scramble and get Jack, Kate, and your mom to sign so fast that it will make your head spin. I ain't that stupid, son!"

Bill didn't show the next day.

*******************

Fuck!!! Another goddamn Sixty's favorite started blaring out of the jukebox. My uncle noticed my grimace and he winked at me in response. Frigging Allman Brother's "Mountain Jam" started cranking up.

Don't get me wrong. Hearing guitar gods like Duane Allman and Dickie Betts trading licks for 33 minutes is amazing, but, try hearing it night after night in the bar, and coupled with the mood I was in, the pleasure factor was hovering around zero.

Yeah, and now you're about to remind me that a jukebox only plays 45 singles, so there's no way the antique could play long versions of rock and roll songs. Well, thanks to my dad cutting some slack on a computer hacker he arrested, the guy converted the mechanism to play multiple CD's instead of records, as a way of showing his appreciation not to be heading to jail.

C'mon, my dad is a cop, not a saint. Rules and laws were made to be bent when common sense dictated. The hacker wouldn't have lasted a day in jail, and dad got the kid a legitimate job. So what if the kid wanted to return the favor?

Taking legal shortcuts to provide a common sense solution was a specialty of my dad and Uncle Jack. Take the time two rocket scientists decided to hold up the bar at happy hour.

I suppose the two thugs first got a clue after they drawing their weapons and announcing a holdup, when twenty off duty cops enjoying a drink drew down on them and covered them from every angle. Somehow, they kept from pissing in their pants as their weapons were collected and their wallets were inspected.

Now, the misguided youths expected the usual routine: get arrested, go to jail, get bonded out, show up for plea and arraignment, get assigned a public defender, have a court date set near the speedy trial deadline, have a mental evaluation ordered, plea bargain a deal with an overworked prosecutor, and be back on the street robbing someone who wouldn't defend themselves.

What happened was, my Dad had a simple solution. The thugs' money was "liberated" from their wallets, along with their weapons, and their getaway car, and their clothes. They were pushed out in the street to be laughed at by gawkers, and videoed upstream to the internet before being arrested for public indecency by a police unit that "just happened" to be patrolling by.

Word got out on the street what had happened to the two, and they were a laughingstock. Interesting enough, an anonymous contribution to the Victim's Reparation Fund was donated in the exact amount provided by their money, clothes, weapons, and car (after a visit to a chop shop) brought. The two would-be gangsters, having lost all street cred, finally left town to avoid the embarrassment. Nobody ever tried anything in Genero's after that. Moral of the story: Don't pull any shit in a cop bar.

I took another look at my beer. The icy glaze had melted off and I hadn't even taken the first sip. Not that I was really in the mood for drinking, if I started there was no telling when I'd stop, given the mood I was in. How the fuck did I ever get myself in this situation?

The previous night was supposed to be the best night of my life, and it was. Until it wasn't. Now I'm sitting there trying to figure out what to do, and I'm scared. Scared that I was going to make the wrong decision. Scared that I'd let the wrong person in my life. Scared that I might wind up losing her. Scared that I might not. Nothing made any sense anymore.

Christ, less than 24 hours before, we left the reception and we were all over each other in the limo. Kissing and groping and clutching at each other in a frenzy, heat boiling and percolating, held back by a thin strand of propriety as we exited the limo, managed to collect our key to the suite, riding in the elevator, oblivious to bemused onlookers, pausing at the door and finally negotiating the locking mechanism while she rubbed the crotch of my trousers. Swooping down and collecting her and carrying her over the threshold. The door swinging shut as I carried her through the suite, kissing her the entire time until I gently placed her on the bed.

I had an entire plan of slow seduction for the entire night, and it went right out the window. She broke away from me, adorned in her virginal white lacey finery and fixed me with a lusty gaze. She slowly began dancing to an unheard song as I sat on the bed, darting near me and then moving just out of reach before I could grab her, pivoting her luscious body clockwise and dipping low as she made her direction counter-clockwise to an unknown tempo. Rubbing her hands against her torso, she whipped her long brown hair across her face, sliding her arms down, lower and lower, the palms of her hands joining at the juncture of her legs while she looked at me in a plea to satisfy her and groaned softly.

Turning away from me, swiveling her tight buttocks and giving me a teasing look across her shoulder as she bent down she was at a ninety degree angle. Slowly, she rose up, as once again she twisted until she faced me, a huge smile on her face as she knew she had me mesmerized.

Then teasingly, she fiddled with the collar button of her Victorian gown, slowly drawing out the drama of unbuttoning it and then pretending she wouldn't. Back and forth it went, as she ramped up the suspense of when it would finally happen.

A flourish, as her neckline was exposed. A view of her throat I had seen countless times, yet now appeared as a forbidden treat. I continued to stare at her as she danced joyfully across the room, celebrating holding me in thrall.