“Wood-fired pizza and mojitos,” Dwight said.
“I’m going to my mother's,” said Gabriel.
“You say that every night.”
“I go there every night.”
“And I don’t blame you, with the spread she’s putting on the table.”
“That’s not why. I’m worried about her.”
“Okay, and that’s important, of course, but your stress level is out of control, bro. I’m telling you, wood-fired pizza and mojitos. Go to Mama later.”
“Where are we going then?”
“The Hole.”
“Isn’t that the place where they arrested all those bikers?”
“It’s under new management. I drove by the other day and saw a sign in the window. Anyway, you can’t drink at Freak Bar anymore, right? Rachel’s probably there.”
Gabriel felt himself weakening. His top motivations were emulating his father, taking care of his mother, and avoiding his ex-fiancée. The only excuse he could come up with was pitiful at best. “Pizza’s really fattening.”
Dwight’s eyebrows shot up. Then he laughed. “And your mama’s fried plantains aren’t? So swim a couple of laps with Jorge tomorrow.”
“I need to go to my mother.”
“Wood-fired pizza and mojitos. I’ll pay, okay? Come on, G, I had a hard day of hedge-trimming, and I need some company. Besides, your mama probably needs a break from you.”
****
The entranceway of the Hole greeted them with the stench of dried pee and spilled beer, but once they entered the bright pink and blue interior, the allure of hot pizza dominated. The bar was circular, with two female bartenders, one of whom had a seriously angry-looking blonde ponytail and a disgruntled look on her face. Trays of pizza were set at intervals along the bar’s circumference.
Dwight nodded toward the blonde. “That’s the new owner. Sailor something. I think she’s in over her head with this place, if you ask me, but she’s got a great pizza chef at least.”
“Let’s try it then.”
A group of bearded men in mechanics’ shirts were clustered on the curve furthest from the door, with several seats between them and any other patrons. A band stage near the front window was occupied by instruments; the music came from an old-school jukebox that another big mechanic was sitting on.
As Gabriel scanned the room for a table that would put them close to the pizza and far from the pee at the entrance, he saw the blonde bartender talking to a familiar person. There was that girl from Kentucky, Harper Wheeler, still in her work outfit, with a slice on her plate and a knife and fork in her hands.
“Let’s go,” Gabriel said. "Let's go over to Mykonos for some gyros."
“Yeah. Let’s go is right. Let’s go over there and you sit next to her and make a move.”
“You bastard.”
An eruption of laughter from the gaggle of men opposite as the music stopped. The room suddenly got quiet. One of the roughnecks slouched around toward the blonde, leaned across the bar too close.
“A beer, pronto,” he said. “Can’t get no proper service in this fucking place.”
“I should cut you off,” the blonde replied.
“Cut me off, and you’re cutting off all my friends. We’re spending our money here, so show some fucking appreciation, okay?” He straightened, and his shoulder slammed Harper.
Gabriel winced as the young woman slid off the chrome and red stool and stumbled. She said, “Hey, watch it!”
“Look out,” the man snarled at her. “Damn, I know I’m sexy but you don’t have to get so close.”
Harper pulled the seat a foot away from the lout. "Believe me, that was closer than I wanted."
Coins clinked in the jukebox as the large man occupying it prepared his selection.
The big guy jostled Harper again, making a show of scooting his stool as though trying to make more space. There wasn't a lot of space between the stools to begin with, but he was definitely antagonizing Harper on purpose. Gabriel had been in a trance, watching, but he felt his temper building up. He hated seeing men act like jerks toward women.
“Excuse you,” Harper said.
“Yeah." He chortled. "Excuse me. Nice accent, by the way. Country girl. Come up to Brooklyn to meet some real men?” He chortled.
"There sure aren't any in this place," Harper snapped. "Get lost, okay?"
The blonde wiped out a flagon with a monogrammed bar towel. A large frown line was developing above her eyebrows.
Gabriel had seen and heard enough. No one should treat a woman like that, any woman, but certainly not one he knew. In a few steps, he grabbed an empty stool and maneuvered it between her and the jerk, then slid quickly onto it.
“Sorry I’m late,” he told Harper, pretending to catch his breath. Her quizzical look lasted a split second before she understood he had intervened to create space between her and the big mechanic.
“This your boyfriend?” the man asked.
“Get your beer and walk away,” Gabriel told him over one shoulder.
“Free country. I can say what I want.”
Gabriel turned his back to the man. “What happened with the shoes?” he asked. It was the only point of connection he and Harper had.
“They’re, um, at the cleaners?” She looked at the blonde with slightly lowered eyes.
“Shoes?” the blonde asked as she set a foamy flagon in front of the drunk. “What about shoes?”
“I dropped off some boots at the cleaners before I went shoe shopping,” Harper said quickly. “Gabriel told me a place to check out that has good designer brands, but it was closed. Oh, and I'll give your shoes back soon.”
“Yeah, I guess I don’t go to the shoe store often enough to know their hours.” He’d picked up her cue; the chum-stained shoes weren’t a good topic.
“They’re talking about shoes,” the drunk idiot called to his friends. “Look, she’s got herself a pretty boyfriend. Ha!”
Dwight tapped the man on the shoulder. The mechanic looked up into the eyes of a man half a head taller than he. “If you don’t want to be my boyfriend, you’d better get to stepping.”
The mechanic laughed in his face, took his beer, and retreated.
“Talk amongst yourselves,” Dwight said. He grabbed a pizza slice in each hand. “Three mojitos,” he told the blonde.
“Guys,” Harper said, “this is Sailor.”
The blonde pointed to a confirming name tag on her silk blouse. The jukebox began to play “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang” by Ted Nugent.
“Got to get that song taken out,” said Sailor. "I shudder every time I hear that one." She began mixing mojitos.
“I’ve never had a mojito,” Harper admitted. “I like a nice mint julep, though. Listen, I’ll pay for my own.”
“I got it,” Gabriel said.
“You see my problem,” Sailor explained. “I need these guys for now to keep the bar afloat, and short of the police, there’s no way to run them out. If I get any classier clientele, like my tenant here, or you guys, those apes make them feel unwelcome.”
It was her bar -- Gabriel hadn't realized that. No wonder she looked stressed out.
“I’ll bring my crew over Friday night — honest, hardworking men — and see if they can change the atmosphere,” Dwight suggested.
Gabriel was aware of their conversation, but being only inches from Harper was distracting. He had offered to pay because he’d been raised as a gentleman, and wouldn’t let a lady pay. She was classy, it was true, and her Southern lilt remained a turn-on, along with the good manners — manners had never been one of Rachel’s strengths. But he had been looking at her strong neck and envisioned himself leaning in to kiss it, and looking at her lips and wondering if they would taste like lipstick, as Rachel's always had? Or maybe they would taste like the sweet breaths of heaven?
“You’re adjusting all right to Brooklyn?” he asked as Sailor set the mojitos in front of them. The bubbling carbonated water gifted them with the pungency of the limes.
“I can’t figure out the subway lines,” she admitted. “Sailor told me, Dwight told me, and I still keep going on the wrong platform and heading the opposite direction, or getting off at the wrong stop. But I need to learn how to do it. I must stop driving. I already got three tickets for parking on the wrong side.”
“You just need to get in the habit of checking, and remember what blocks have what timing. You’ll get used to it. Oh, and don’t forget to move your car in the morning if it’s on the wrong side. Where are you living, what neighborhood?” Was that too intrusive a question, he wondered? He had been with Rachel so long, he’d forgotten how to chat with women.
“Williamsburg,” Harper said. She tasted her mojito. “Hey, deelish.”
"Yeah, that's a real hipster area these days. Good restaurants. I had some friends in that neighborhood back in high school.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, there was a guy I used to hang out with called Crunchy, because… Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, it’s kind of gross.”
“Gross is okay.” She offered a slightly naughty smile, and forked a strip of pizza into her mouth. “You know, if I’m a Brooklyn gal now, I have to roll with the punches, don’t I?”
“Good attitude,” Gabriel said. “You’re picking it up fast. Brooklyn’s about two things: rolling with the punches, and loving your neighborhood. Oh, and food.” He hadn’t realized he thought about those things — for a long time, since forever it felt like, he really hadn’t thought about anything except his parents, the sea lions, and his ex. Sitting next to Harper was pulling new and welcome thoughts out of his head. He changed the subject, hoping a work-related conversation would dull his excitement. "Hey, do you know who will be coming into the amphitheater? Are you bringing some kids' groups through? Or emceeing?"
"I might be. I'm a little nervous about that. I love kids, but that's a lot of people to perform in front of. How do you do it?"
"Well, I don't usually get that close. I'm really sort of talking to a lot of shadows and focusing on the animals."
Harper smiled. "Oh, I have an idea. I know you guys put kids' groups in the front couple of rows. If your mike reaches far enough, you can kind of walk poolside by the railing there and let them ask you questions."
"We have a ramp I can use to cross over. Yeah, that's a good idea. My dad just answered questions after the show." A burst of noise arose from the bigmouths across the way. Another Ted Nugent song blared from the jukebox. Sailor was over by the knot of loud men, apparently taking orders. The other bartender was delivering to a table.
"So what were you saying about this Crunchy guy?" Harper drew his attention back to her and consequently her tongue and how she licked at the sugar that lined the rim of her glass.
He cleared his throat and focused on his own drink. “Crunchy used to charge a dollar to eat any bug you brought to him. Two dollars if it was bigger than his knuckle. Then he’d spit out the wings.”
Harper inserted a plastic stirrer into her mojito and took a delicate drink through its narrow mouth. “So how much money did you give him?”
“Me? No, I just watched, but I’m a fan of animals, even bugs, so if I caught a bug, I’d put it in a jar with a hole in the lid.”
“Animal fan. Right, of course, you’re a seal trainer.”
“Well, I haven’t worked with seals that much. They don’t usually perform. It’s sea lions in most water parks.”
“Oh, sorry. I still get them mixed up. So you always knew you wanted to be an animal trainer?”
“Well, my dad, you know. He was always my role model. He was the strongest man I ever knew.” Gabriel looked away from Harper’s curious eyes toward a shouting match across the bar. "What the hell?"
Two of the loudmouths on the far side were leaning halfway across the bar yelling at Sailor, who was yelling right back at them.
“If you can’t say something nice, shut up or get out!” Posted up on her high heels, her straight blonde hair splayed across the back of her blouse, she was a picture of toughness and determination, but the men were increasingly belligerent. She kept her distance, but was obviously upset and unsure how to handle the situation.
“Yeah, baby, let’s get out of here and have some fun. Whaddya say?”
Gabriel could see a red embroidered ‘Mike’ on the guy’s shirt.
Sailor just glared then yelled over his shoulder at the drunk on the jukebox. "If you keep sitting on the jukebox, it will break! Do you want it broken?"
"It ain't gonna break any faster or slower if you keep naggin' me about it, bitch!"
Mike was eyeing Sailor’s body and licking his lips. He leaned into his friend, said something and made a squeezing gesture. His friend rubbed his palms together and snickered. She was trying to ignore them and went for some glasses below the bar where they sat.
“Dwight,” Gabriel said, elbowing his friend.
“I see it.”
Their eyes met. Dwight interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles.
“Excuse us a minute,” Gabriel said to Harper.
They walked side by side around the curve of the bar. Sailor stood up, glasses in hand. Mike swiped at her chest with a clawed hand. Sailor dodged, but Mike’s fingers brushed her arm. She dropped the glasses and stood over their shattered remains, mouth open in shock.
“I hope I didn’t just see you trying to grab this lady, because if I did, you and I have a real problem,” Dwight said. He cupped Mike’s shoulder in a firm grip.
The guy shook Dwight off, which was his first mistake. “Yeah, what are you gonna do about it, asshole?”
Second mistake.
Then he turned and spit on Dwight’s shoe.
Game on.
Dwight caught the back of his head and ran him face-first into the wall. Blood splattered and ran down the wallpaper and he slid to his knees. The other man who had been leaning in drew his fist back only to get caught by Gabriel’s right uppercut to the chin. He stumbled over Mike and fell to the floor across Mike’s lap, butt facing up like he was about to get spanked.
There were five mechanics in the bar. Two were stunned or out. One sat slack-jawed on the jukebox. The other two moved in. One threw a punch which missed Dwight by inches. Dwight shoved the man backward. He crashed into a bar stool and fell on his ass. The other man rammed into Gabriel and caught him around the waist, forced him back. Gabriel hammered the back of his neck, and the mechanic fell on his face and puked on the floor.
And on Gabriel’s loafers.
The fifth man slid down from the jukebox and staggered toward them with his fists up, saw two sober, ready opponents, and spread his palms to indicate he was backing off. He started to circle the bar in the opposite direction, making for the exit maybe, but Gabriel wasn’t sure. He rushed over next to Harper and stood ready for action, watching the staggering drunk for any sign of aggression.
“Ted Nugent sucks,” he called as the mechanic slipped out the door.
“Oh my God,” Harper said. “Are you okay?”
Gabriel inspected his hand, which was throbbing. He flexed his fingers, assessed the location and intensity of the pain. “Nothing broken, but I probably bruised my knuckles.”
"I've seen a couple of bar fights before, but they were mostly pushing and shoving. You guys really know your stuff."
“I think that's just because they're so drunk, but I did take karate classes for a long time. I even used to compete. And this is hardly the first scrap Dwight and I have gotten into together.”
“I guess you… look out!”
The final drunk mechanic had staggered back in holding a tire iron and was swinging it overhead with skull-crushing potential. Gabriel, warned, just dodged it, crashed into Harper as she was retreating, and they both stumbled backward. The big drunk lurched toward Gabriel with his weapon held at about waist level. It gave Harper time to grab an empty pizza pan and swing it with real force at his temple. It bent at the impact.
"Flimsy pan," Harper said. She kicked him about where his balls were, assuming he had any.
The tire iron clanked to the floor. The man fell to his knees, holding his crotch, and after a single cough, barfed directly on Harper’s pink tennis shoes.
"Him again?" she said. This guy wasn't just one of the mechanics; it was the man who had been messing with her before.
Gabriel got to his own knees, then gave the man a firm shove sideways. That was all that was necessary after the nutshot.
“Seriously?” Harper said as she got up. “This is two pairs of shoes in two days.”
Sailor came over, holding her mobile phone to her ear. “Yes, the Hole bar. A group of disorderly men. I asked them to leave, but I wound up needing help from some patrons to subdue them. How soon?” She mouthed a thank you at Gabriel and Dwight. “And the worst part is, how will I get these jerkholes to pay their tab?”
“Well, at least these shoes are mine,” Harper added, looking at her vomit-stained pink sneakers. “Oh my God, Gabriel, he could have killed you! You sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Me too,” said Dwight as he approached. “Thanks for asking.”
Gabriel took a moment to look at Harper. Damn, the girl wasn't only smart and sexy. She could hold her own in a Brooklyn bar fight, too. Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath from the fight. Her cheeks were flushed, and she held his gaze with one that made his head swim more than the drink had yet to finish. He could get used to that.
Oh, and they had one more thing in common, too: seemed like they couldn't keep their shoes clean.