Kinkaid’s sponsor would have greatly preferred him to stay out of Gibbons Tap. But pool league was every Friday, and Kinkaid wasn’t missing that.
The booze still called his name sometimes, but he could shout it down.
Cocaine wasn’t a problem anymore. He and cocaine had an ugly public breakup and he was thrilled to be divorced from it.
Still, it was rough watching these suburban kids come in, talk to Welker, then spend the rest of the night on an emotional gondola to the bathroom.
He watched Phelps combo the six into the nine, pointed with a nicotine-stained finger to say “good game” and walked to the corner of the bar for another can of Vernors. Never pop from the gun. Too easy for someone to spike.
Old Westwood Hoods still liked to roll people in this neighborhood. A few of them suburban powderhorns had found out the hard way.
Kinkaid pulled off his hat, smoothed his hair back, replaced the hat.
Essence put his Vernors on the bar, eyeing the hat with contempt.
“Reelect Urlacher? Fuck him. Four years and the house across the street from me on Minock still ain’t torn down. Fuck him.”
Kinkaid licked his lips, thinking that about twelve thousand vacant homes had been demolished, but Urlacher was gonna pay big for the ones his crews did miss.
“Still sitting there huh? Demo stickers still on it?”
Essence nodded emphatically. “Sure are. In fact, they came about a year ago, slapped new stickers on there because the old ones were so faded.”
“No one got the electric or anything wired up in it, did they? Little makeshift dope house?”
Essence laughed. “Electric?” Ain’t no damn roof on the thing. Four walls, rats, someone dumped a boat trailer.”
Kinkaid said “Urlacher can’t get ‘em all. Sorry it’s a pain in your ass.”
“Fuck Urlacher,” Essence said. “I’m voting for Stevenson.”
After league was over, Kinkaid took Phelps for ninety bucks on one pocket. Sat around listening to Phelps tell stories about his time in the Persian Gulf. Essence called last call.
The words would always trigger adrenalin in Kinkaid, til the day he died.
A couple young powderhorns tumbled out of the bathroom, sniffing, shadowboxing, talking a million miles an hour.
At the bar, Essence was done. No more beers, no more shots.
He could hear the cajoling. That was him once. But Essence wasn’t listening, she was locking up liquor.
Kinkaid did a quick inventory. He had two sledgehammers, couple crowbars, a few ratchet straps and best of all, his ex-brother-in-law’s Bobcat in the garage.
Kinkaid walked to the corner of the bar, by the touchscreen game, Boxxi lighting up his face multiple colors, motioned Essence over.
“You’ll sell me three cases to go, right?”
“Damn Kinky, I guess, but…”
“It ain’t for me. It’s for you.”
Kinkaid walked over to the still grumbling suburban kids.
“You guys in the mood to pound back some beers and get some aggression out?”
The guy nearest Kinkaid sniffed in a little rivulet of cherry vanilla snot and nodded happily.
***
Photo by Alex Quezada on Unsplash
Today's Tom Sawyer, mean, mean guy...