by Hazel Parker
I rolled my eyes once Williams and his partner had turned their backs to me and exited. Biggie turned back to me, sighed, and apologized. Marcel, who had been looking at the car the whole time, looked at me in confusion.
“The hell was that all about?”
“Just let it be,” I said.
They were instructions I didn’t follow very well.
“I did what I had to, Chief,” I said.
“You did what you wanted to, which is why we’re removing your badge.”
“But sir—”
“You know we are bound by the law in how we act, Bentley!” the chief said, slamming his fist on the table. “Give me your goddamn badge.”
“Sir, the woman—”
“One more word, Bentley, and you’re going to lose a whole lot more than the badge.”
I didn’t say a word more. But the thought was clear as day in my mind. I knew I would rather lose the badge and have done the right thing than keep the badge and let him get away.
Most of the time, in law enforcement, we did our job well. But sometimes, justice required going outside the law. Sometimes, we didn’t serve the law; we failed it.
And if that meant losing my badge, so be it.
“We can get this done tonight before the morning; that would be ideal,” Marcel said. “I don’t want those assholes coming in here waiting for their cruiser to be fixed, and I don’t think either of you want that either after their little stunts.”
“Nope. Meeting’s at eight tonight, right?”
“Yep,” Marcel said. “So do whatever you gotta do. Shit, eat, nap. Just make sure that when we open at nine, this car has its oil changed and tires rotated.”
“You got it, bro,” Biggie said. “Niner, you—”
“I’ll take care of the car,” I said. “You go eat.”
“But—”
“I’ll be fine.”
Working on the car was something that I wanted to do. Maybe it was me trying to prove myself, but I tended to try and not overthink these things. Biggie always needed food; I could go days without it.
“OK,” Biggie said. “I’ll be back in thirty, Niner, to help you finish.”
“I won’t need it,” I said.
I got to work on the car, ignoring Biggie and Marcel sharing a look with each other. I knew what that look was—one of “is he serious?” But I always was. I liked to work alone. I liked to be alone.
It was something that my childhood had largely trained me to do.
Only one person, besides my parents, had ever made me want to be around them. Only one person had made me truly feel welcome in a way that didn’t feel like a social or career obligation.
Her. Carrie Griffith.
I thought about how I’d seen her last Friday evening. It had most definitely been her, as insane as that was. She was supposed to be a childhood friend left behind in Georgia—no, that was giving it too much credit. She wasn’t a friend. She was just someone I wanted to call a friend.
I thought about how I’d come outside ostentatiously to take care of the drunk prospect, but in reality so that I could see her. I thought about how I’d wanted to ask her if she remembered me but had been afraid to know the answer. I thought about her smile and how she seemed to hate the party as much as I did.
I wasn’t one for wild imaginations or fantastical escapes, but with Carrie, I absolutely thought of what it would be like to spend time with her. I didn’t go crazy, and I didn’t really quite think of her in terms of sex, but she had a spot in my mind that no one else, not even asshole NYPD officers, had.
And she was right here. Six days ago, she was here.
Why the hell would she have come to a party like this? What brought her here?
The questions kept me occupied as I worked in silence on the cruiser. I didn’t have the mental space to hate Officer Williams or anyone else in the NYPD. I treated the cruiser as I would an anonymous vehicle—something to work on, something to complete, and something to be checked off. I treated everything the same, from police cruisers to Honda Civics to taxi cabs to the rare luxury vehicles that we received.
The work and the mental space occupied me until just before the meeting, when Marcel came up to me.
“Done?” he asked.
“Take care of the left rear tire, and yes.”
“We’ll take care of that after the meeting. You’ve earned your night off. Come on.”
Begrudgingly, hating to leave a task behind, I followed Marcel into the office, where the rest of the crew sat. Fitz nodded to me and smiled. I ignored him. Uncle stole a nervous glance at me that I also ignored.
“By now, I assume you all know what came through last Friday,” Marcel began, getting right to the point. “Kyle sent over a message warning us that more was to come. The last time this happened, we had Uncle work out some back channels to prevent anything from happening. I am inclined to do the same, unless someone wants to advise me otherwise.”
I’d seen plenty of family feuds like this in my time on the force. They started out with just playful bickering that one party didn’t find so playful. Then people would resort to political maneuvers—they’d exclude someone, they’d leave someone out of an invite list “by accident,” or they’d make friends with the rival’s enemy. Then they would escalate said political maneuvers to matters of money. That was where the Stones were right now.
But there was another step, the one that forced the police to intervene. That was when family feuds became bloody. It didn’t matter who had what position or who had what prestige—when families got violent, all bets were off. And it was becoming rapidly apparent to me that the more Kyle’s attempts to undermine us politically got rebuffed, the closer to violence we were heading.
But I assumed Marcel and Biggie knew that already. They’d have to be fools not to see it. And so I kept silent.
Fortunately, for the sake of being aware of the possibility, Uncle did not.
“I can do that, but I think we gotta keep an eye on him and what he does,” Uncle said. “I know how you boys grew up. You two would always use your fists to solve problems, much to the chagrin of your mother. Kyle would rely on the fists of others or traps. This talking around each other and trying to take land is only going to go so long before things get violent.”
“Well,” Marcel said as if he had something to say in response, but his words seemed to fail him. Nothing came.
“We’ll be ready if that’s the case,” Biggie said. “Niner can step in if need be, right?”
“Sure,” I said.
It wouldn’t be that simple. It depended on the violence, who was in range, and what level of force I needed to apply. But yes, in general, I was the front man for violence in the club.
“For now, let’s take the backdoor approach of, ahem, taking care of the problem,” Marcel said, a phrase that wasn’t lost on anyone. “In the meantime, let’s talk prospect recruiting.”
Marcel, Uncle, and Biggie took on the majority of the talking for the next fifteen minutes as we discussed everything from prospects to income streams. Aside from me saying “sure” to Biggie, I might have said a couple of other words, but otherwise, I just listened as much as I could.
That’s something a lot of people misunderstood. A good SAA wasn’t good because he could intimidate people. A good SAA thrived by listening, knowing what to be aware of, and facing the issue before it could bloom into a real problem.
Thus far, the only real problem we’d had was the Savage Saints of Las Vegas, but even they had approached us less as a threat and more as an entity to be negotiated with. But it was only a matter of time before copycat MCs showed up, wanting to take our turf, causing us trouble along the way. For now, though, I’d take the peace.
“Alright, we’ll throw our party tomorrow,” Marcel said. “As far as Kyle goes, Uncle will go through the normal channels, but we’ll stay alert for any problems that may arise. You all are free to go home, except Biggie—stay with me to finish on that p
olice cruiser.”
I stood up as everyone else talked and headed out the door. With my job done for the day, there wasn’t a reason to stick around any longer than I had to. It was at this point that I began looking for food, but feeling a little adventurous, I decided to try something I hadn’t yet done before.
I went for the BBQ joint a couple blocks away called “Southern Comfort.” I’d obviously grown up in Georgia and had plenty of exposure to good BBQ, but moving to NYC had made it a rare treat, and I had not had any at this location.
It was only about twenty minutes to closing time, so I intended to get my food and get out. I opened the door, ignoring the ringing that it produced, and went to the register. No one was there, which wasn’t a surprise at this late an hour, so I waited.
But I waited far longer than I had to.
“Hello?” I said.
No one answered. I turned around.
And then I heard the door open behind me.
“Sorry.”
I recognized her voice at the same time she emerged from the back of the kitchen.
Carrie Griffith.
Chapter 2: Carrie
The tension in my head felt like a wrench tightening with every new line of data read, with every new report, with every single second spent considering where this restaurant was headed.
The grave.
The numbers just weren’t working. The novelty of some southern food in Brooklyn had worn off, and now we’d just become one of many niche restaurants in the area that all the hipsters had wanted to try but had quickly forgotten when they went back to their usual ways. It was too Southern for a place full of Yankees and hipsters.
It was my fault but taking ownership of it didn’t make it any easier from a stress perspective. It still hurt like hell to know that this restaurant was going to fail. It still pained me to know I was going to put quite a few people out of work in the next couple of weeks.
The thought of returning to Georgia had some minor appeal to it. I’d get to be with my parents again while I got back on my feet, and I’d feel at home once more in the slower environment. I wouldn’t have to smell sewers, cover my ears at blaring taxis, and struggle with the downtown light flooding into my apartment.
But still. I’d be going home as a failure.
“Hello?”
That voice sounds familiar. Though that was true, it didn’t compel me to get up. If anything, my immediate reaction was just to pretend I wasn’t there.
Just pretend that this whole restaurant wasn’t a smoldering pile of failure. Just pretend that an employee had left early that I could blame this whole mess on. Just pretend that I was back in Georgia.
No, don’t do that. You’re better than that, Carrie. If you’re going to have to close the restaurant, at least close it out being professional and honest.
I stood up with a sigh, summoning what little strength I had under the barrage of stress.
“Sorry,” I called out as I turned the corner.
I stopped when I saw him. The same man who stood outside the repair shop from Friday night. The same man who looked like he wanted to say something to me…the man that I thought I knew from somewhere.
“Hi,” I said, sounding like a nervous teenager.
“Hi,” he said back.
He didn’t look mad, but he didn’t look like he appreciated having to wait any longer for his order.
“Um, welcome to SoCo,” I said. “What can I get you?”
“SoCo,” he repeated. “Nice.”
He gets it.
Maybe I knew him from Georgia?
“Let me get some beef brisket with a side of mac n cheese, collard greens, and Brussel sprouts.”
“OK, OK,” I said, struggling to find a piece of paper to write it down. “Beef brisket, mac n cheese, coleslaw, and Brussel—”
“No, collard greens, not coleslaw.”
“Oh,” I said. I didn’t realize that I could feel even more flustered, but that was certainly happening. My cheeks flushed red, and my hands turned to jelly. “Beef brisket with mac n cheese, collard greens, and Brussel sprouts.”
“Yes.”
“OK. Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring it out to you.”
The man nodded and stood at the counter for a second as if he had something more to say. I looked at him in confusion and then looked back at…
The register.
Small wonder you’re struggling financially. You can’t even ring up customers when they order food!
“Oh, sorry, one second,” I said as I headed over and typed up his order on my iPad. “It’ll be fourteen dollars.”
The man silently produced a credit card and swiped it as we both waited for the order to go through. I wanted to ask him if I knew him and he knew me. I wanted to know why we both wanted to say so much to the other, yet had said so little.
But my mind felt like a chaotic hurricane right now, and the best course of action was just to keep my mouth shut as best as I could. I feared that opening it and revealing myself to be the mess I was would do no one any favors and ruin whatever chance of wanting to be around the other. Why are you thinking like that?
I turned the iPad to him to let him leave a tip. I tried not to react when I saw that he had left a tip of twenty-five percent.
“Thank you for that,” I said, a dramatic understatement. No, an extra three dollars and fifty cents was not going to change the store. Nor was it going to my pocket, as any money I made in tips went straight to the restaurant’s bottom line. I think it was more just shock that something good had happened. “I’ll have it right out.”
I hurried back to the kitchen and started preparing the food. The beef brisket I cooked fresh, but the mac n’ cheese and the Brussel sprouts were pulled from pre-cooked stores. It wasn’t what we usually strived to do, but at this point, just keeping the store open was a miracle.
Just treat him like you would treat your first customer ever. With a smile, some kind words, and an attempt to get to know him. Go back to the basics. Go back to the things that got you a thriving business in the first couple of months.
So make it weirder with him? Do the things that wore off after those first couple of months? That’s your plan? Some plan, Carrie.
I ignored the roaring thoughts in my head long enough to prepare the plate well enough for the man. I put it on a tray, sighed, and smiled as I walked out and brought it to him.
“Thanks,” he said.
I stood there for half a second, debating whether to ask—
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
Well, that’s one way to do it. Just blurt out the question before you can consider if it’s smart or not. That’s not connecting so much as it is just being creepy.
The man smiled.
“I know you from somewhere,” he said, somewhat cagily. “But do you know me? Do you remember me?”
“I…you do look familiar, but I can’t place you. I don’t mean to be weird about this, I’m sorry. I’ll let you eat in peace, you just looked—”
“No, no, please…if you can, sit down.”
He extended his hand as I pulled my chair back.
“Lane Bentley. My friends call me Niner, but you can just call me Lane.”
His hand felt warm—very warm, actually, almost like he’d been working on a hot surface all day.
“Carrie Griffith,” I said.
His eyes seemed to flicker at that. But unfortunately, I couldn’t say that I had the same reaction to the name Lane Bentley. I struggled to think if I knew any Bentleys from New York or Georgia, but nothing came to mind.
“So you said you know me from somewhere,” I said. “Where do you know me from?”
“It’s a long story,” he said.
I waited for him to tell the story anyway. But no, he didn’t. He seemed to enjoy being a little coy with me right now. That was…fine? It was kind of fun, actually.
“But tell me, Carrie, what brings you to New York? What’s the story of this pl
ace?”
“Oh, Lord,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Well, I grew up in Georgia, but I wanted something bigger. At the same time, I wanted to bring some of the Southern charm to a big city. I couldn’t afford Manhattan, but Brooklyn was a much stronger possibility. So I moved here, took out a ton in loans, and opened a BBQ store. And that’s what you see now.”
“SoCo,” he said with a short smile. “I know. I grew up in Georgia too.”
So that must be where I know you from.
Unless this is somehow a wild coincidence and I know you from somewhere else instead. Well, now I’m just running in circles in my head here.
“Yeah, unfortunately though, things aren’t…well, you know what, they’re acceptable,” I said, not wanting to sound so negative to someone who already knew me from the past.
“I don’t think any restaurant owner wants to be told that where they are in the business is acceptable,” Lane said.
Yeah, true. I tried to laugh it off, but Lane saw right through it.
“I’m surprised to hear that the place is struggling,” he said. “I’ve never met a lady from the South that didn’t know how to cook. And you have the charm and politeness to attract a crowd.”
I blushed as I pushed a strand of hair behind me. I wasn’t sure if I could necessarily call what he had said flirting, at least in so much as that it wasn’t directed at me personally. But I could say that it made me feel good and that I was starting to like Lane.
For one, he didn’t seem hell-bent on being loud and in my face. He hadn’t raised his voice at all during conversation, and his tone hadn’t become snarky or rude like I had felt many New Yorkers had. He had seemed very calm and at ease with me.
Second, I still remembered how he had treated me at the party last Friday, and though maybe I was giving him more bonus points than he deserved for how everyone else had acted at that party, I still gave him those points.
I didn’t know anything about Lane, but I knew enough to know that he was much more my type than anyone else at the party. Or almost anyone else in Brooklyn and New York City, for that matter.
“Turns out that a bunch of hipsters and Yankees don’t understand the appeal of a good vinegar sauce,” I said with a wistful smile. “They don’t see why they should put such things on their meat.”
