VIII.

Davie was standing with Howard at the end of the playpen hall, peering through the peephole at the patrons seated around the bar and restaurant. The muted sounds of conversation and music from the band met his ears as Peyton strode down the hall towards the pair. Howard turned and gave Peyton a small smile as that individual approached, but Davie remained focused on the scene outside.

Peyton came to stand next to the shorter man, still puffing his cigarette.

“Is that him?” Davie asked, shifting so as to let Peyton glance through the peephole. “Third seat from the end at the bar. Expensive suit, sunglasses; sits tall, looks alert.”

Peyton already knew before he looked that Davie was describing Joey. He looked anyway, and saw – although not clearly through the dirty glass – his brother, seated comfortably with his back to the Playpen, nursing a drink that looked to be something strong.

Biding his time. Peyton felt the muscles in his cheeks bunch painfully as he ground his teeth together. Been here for over a half hour… You gonna kill me when I walk out there, Joey boy? Won’t look good if you bump me in front of all these patrons.

That made him feel a little bit safer. Joe obviously wouldn’t commit murder with everyone watching, which meant that Peyton was safe in Davie’s Place. At least, for a little while. What the hell, he wouldn’t – won’t – commit murder ever.

He straightened, removing the cigarette from his mouth. “Yeah, that’s him. Looks like me, eh?”

Davie smiled coldly, finding Peyton’s levity useless. “Sure, Peyton. You wanna go introduce me?” As he spoke, Peyton noticed the bulge tenting the chest of Davie’s white suit jacket, indicating something hidden within the inside pocket.

Or perhaps a chest holster.

Davie smiled when he saw Peyton looking. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make a scene – unless he starts one. C’mon, I wanna buy him a drink – get to know him. Maybe I’ll want to hire him.”

“Oh, shut up, Davie.” Peyton tossed the spent cigarette into a planter bearing a fake tree. “Sure,” he said finally, although what he really felt like doing was remaining behind the safety of the Playpen’s locked door.

But I’m no coward.

Davie opened the door wide, admitting the full noise of the restaurant. Howard and Peyton walked out into the bright room, shoulder to shoulder, both of them carefully watching Joey as he sat comfortably at the bar. The smoke from numerous cigarettes in the room created a hazy curtain that parted around them as they exited the Playpen. Davie closed and locked the door behind them and pocketed his key ring, following in Peyton and Howard’s wake as they mounted the short flight of stairs to the second level.

“Watch our backs,” Davie said as he caught up with the pair, clapping Howard on the shoulder. “Be ready for anything.”

Howard didn’t make any response, but it was clear that he had heard.

If he could have picked anyone to be watching his back, Peyton already knew from experience that his first choice would be Howard. Smarter than he looks, and faster too. Sometimes it pays not to look the part.

As they drew near, Davie flagged down the bartender and motioned for the big man to leave, then he himself passed through the half door and came to stand behind the counter. The barkeep disappeared into the kitchens without a backwards look, without looking even remotely curious. Howard took up a watcher position by an outcropping of fake plants while Peyton came up to stand behind Joe, his brother.

His palms were sweating.

“Nice suit,” Joe Werthin commented, his dark eyes casually observing the black marble of the bartop and not really looking at Davie. There was a trace of a grin on his face that Peyton caught from a glance at his brother’s profile: it was a maddeningly superior look. “Kinda pointless for a barkeep, huh?”

“What can I get you, Mr. Werthin?” Davie asked, and the muscles in his cheeks were taut, accentuating the firmness of his jaw. He pressed his hands flat on the bartop and leaned close to Joey, gazing intently into the darkness of the older Werthin’s sunglasses. The threat in his voice was implied, not spoken.

“Thanks, but I’ve had a few already, Mr. Clay.” Joe sat back on the stool and folded his hands in his lap, far from being put off. “Excellent scotch you have, by the way – if I’m ever in town again, I’ll have to stop by for another round.”

Peyton sank into the seat right next to Joey, keeping his face an impenetrable mask. He was good at intimidation, but he knew he would never win that game against Joe. When we were kids, we used to try and see who could keep a straight face the longest; I usually won, but that was before anything was this serious. The irony of that thought was not lost on Peyton, nor was the casual grin Joe sent his way as the older Werthin looked in his direction.

“H’lo, Peyton,” he said simply. Peyton couldn’t see Joey’s eyes clearly, but he knew they were twinkling with barely hidden mirth; Joe always got that look when he knew he was in control. The older Werthin looked back up at Davie. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Clay?”

Davie had long ago dropped his surname, going simply by “Davie” – even on legal documentation. Clay was a name of his past, and although he had not dropped it out of spite, something about hearing it spoken again – and in such a manner – set the veins in his temple to ticking.

“Nope,” he said simply, straightening slightly. “I just want to know what the hell you’re doing in my bar.”

Joe shrugged easily and crossed his right leg over his left. “Just came in to pay Peyton a visit – I’ve never seen the place he works at, and I was just curious. Is that a crime?”

“Depends on how curious you are,” Davie replied pointedly. He pulled open his suit jacket, and for one wild moment, Peyton was sure that his friend was going to pull out his gun and simply end it right there –

– but instead, Davie pulled out a pack of Malboro and offered one to Joey; the lump in his jacket had not been a weapon at all.

At least, Peyton thought dryly, not the kind that kills you right away.

Joe lit his cigarette with the lighter that Peyton offered, then sat back in his seat again, letting the smoke curl around his head like a cancerous halo. There was a moment of uneasy silence as the older Werthin gazed around the restaurant through the smoky haze, listening absently to the jazz band attempting some Miles Davis.

Abruptly, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the bar, using two fingers to hold his cigarette and two other fingers of the same hand to scratch a spot on his temple. “Well, I assume that you gentlemen didn’t come out here for small talk, especially considering that we all know why each other is here.”

Peyton said nothing, and instead remained seated on the edge of his barstool, broad arms crossed over his chest. If he’s gonna start the conversation, then he’s gonna make the first move.

Davie either was too impatient, or too nervous to follow the same strategy. “Yes, Mr. Werthin, we do,” he said tightly. “Normally, were this not an unusual instance, I would invite you into the back and we could talk business there.”

“…but not only would that disturb Jamie Constantine – who is hard at work in your office – but it would give you the perfect opportunity to just goddamn snuff me and be on your way.” Joey tucked the cigarette between his lips, apparently oblivious to the shocked look in Davie’s eyes. “Trust me, it’s not inconvenient.”

Recovering himself, Davie leaned forward over the bartop, dangerously close to Joe’s face. “Listen, you son of a bitch,” he hissed in an undertone, “I don’t know who you are, I don’t know why you care so much about everything we do here, but I want you to just leave now. You want money? I can pay you money. Girls? I’ve got them too. Just name your price and I’ll match it as best as I can, but leave us alone.”

He glanced surreptitiously at Peyton. “That is a generous offer.”

Joey leaned back comfortably in his seat and folded his arms, keeping the cigarette between left index and middle fingers. “I want Peyton,” he said simply, expelling a mouthful of smoke.

Davie glanced at Peyton again, this time sharply. “Why?” he asked when Peyton said nothing, his voice frustrated but genuinely curious. “Why is he so important to you now?”

Joe shrugged and took a drag from his cigarette. “I’ve put off coming for him too long. I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient for you, but I’ve come to get Peyton… and leave.” He emphasized the last word, perhaps to indicate his sincerity in the single–minded task he had set forth to do. “You’ll never hear from me again if you just step out of my way right now.”

Davie’s offer had been generous, but – considering all the knowledge he had – Joe’s was even more so, and Peyton would have been tempted himself. And for the first time in ever in the course of their relationship, Peyton’s faith in Davie wavered.

I’m useful, but am I so useful as to risk everything we have? The younger Werthin stared hard at Davie, unable to think of anything to say and sure that, had he tried, no words would have come out of his tight throat anyway.

Davie, we’ve been friends forever, he thought at the older man as Davie’s gaze met his and held. Now would be an awful time to end that friendship –

Davie looked back at Joe. “Peyton says you want to kill him. Why?”

Peyton’s throat grew, if it was possible, drier. He’s stalling. That means he’s thinking about it, but he needs time –

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” Joe dropped his spent cigarette into an ashtray on the bartop and brushed ash from his fingers. “The only thing you need to concern yourself with is what’s in this for you.” He held up a fist, the back of his hand facing Davie, then extended the index finger. “If you cooperate, you’ve got a fantastic little business running here that you could potentially keep –”another finger went up, the middle “– you’ve got a nasty history that can be erased in an eyeblink –” the ring finger “– and an enormous debt that will disappear promptly. But, that’s all assuming you let me take Peyton with me. If you don’t, you know what happens.”

He pulled all his fingers back into a fist besides the middle one, which he left standing proud and tall, mocking.

The intent was not lost on Davie, and his eyes flashed dangerously, but – to his credit – he remained composed.

Peyton’s heart was hammering painfully against his ribs and he was sweating. His lungs felt tight, and he breathed heavily through flared nostrils. There’s no way Davie can say no to this one – it’s too good an offer to refuse. But would I be ready to take them both on – now? Here? And Howard –

Davie’s eyes closed slowly, and he straightened with a sigh. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, so he closed it again and simply shook his head. Sweat had condensed on his forehead and upper lip, a testimony of his inner turmoil.

Joe dug in his pocket for his wallet, pulled out a ten and dropped it on the bartop beside his empty scotch glass. “Just think about it, David,” he said, in an almost gentle manner. “But whatever you do, don’t be noble. Peyton’s worth a lot more to me than he ever possibly could be to you.”

He got to his feet and nodded in a business–like manner at both Peyton and Davie. “When you decide, give me a call on my cell, but by midnight, it will be too late. I’ll take Peyton with me no matter what you’ve decided. But, considering you’re a good businessman, I’m sure you’re smart enough to realize the best course of action is the one I’ve offered.

“When you call, I’ll give you further directions.” He turned to go, then glanced over his shoulder at Peyton. “Take it easy, little brother. Poppy sends his regards.”

Unable to respond, Peyton sat in stunned silence, watching as Joey jogged down the short flight of stairs and continued towards the exit. Upon reaching it, two more men clothed in black suits met him and followed him outside. Peyton was sure that the taller of the new arrivals had turned to look back at them – still seated at the bar – but he couldn’t be certain.

They must have been watching the whole time – if Howard had made any moves, they would have killed all of us to save Joe –

Peyton looked up at Davie cautiously, afraid to open his mouth, suddenly hollow inside.

The older man was staring hard at the exit, both hands resting on the bar. He seemed as lost for words as Peyton felt, and the veins in his temple had not relaxed. For that matter, Peyton’s heart had not calmed any either.

I can’t take much more of this, he found himself thinking, and was surprised at the thought. He had been in gunfights more serious than this, been arrested more than once, and yet now… In the wake of a simple conversation, he felt as though he couldn’t breathe. He gripped the bartop tightly; the very room seemed to be crushing in around him –

A shadow fell over them, and Howard’s hand dropped onto Peyton’s shoulder. Peyton looked up at the big man, expecting to see a sympathetic, fatherly smile, but instead, Howard was looking hard at Davie.

“What are you thinking?” he asked sharply, his protective hand more than welcome to Peyton. “You’re not really considering anything, are you, Davie?”

Davie kneaded the spot between his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, still unwilling to open his mouth. “No, Howard,” he finally said – slowly and perhaps reluctantly. “No… I’m just… Just not sure what to think at the moment. Maybe Jamie can pull up something we can use against him – blackmail or something…”

Although Davie’s impromptu plan of action was shaky at best and in no way a good solution, Peyton couldn’t help but feel a rush of heartfelt relief combined with adoration for his friend like he had never felt before. I knew I could trust you, Davie – I knew you were a good man –

“No,” Davie said again, shaking his head slowly, blinking blearily. He didn’t seem to be all together at the moment, and judging by how Peyton felt – somewhere near the opposite end of the emotional spectrum – that was understandable. “We’ll do something, Peyton… We have until midnight at the very latest to think up something…”

“How are we supposed to call him anyway?” Howard demanded, anger filling his deep voice. “Won’t the line be tagged, and – do we even know his cell number?”

Peyton had been wondering the same thing; it had been a long time since he had called home, and he couldn’t recall his mother ever relaying a cell phone number so that he could reach Joe. Maybe he just forgot to give it to us – was afraid to stay any longer with Howard covering him from behind –

With a heavy sigh Davie pointed mutely at the ten that Joe had left for his drink.

As he surveyed the simple bill, Peyton felt a hopeless chuckle rise in his throat – one he couldn’t contain. No, Joe’s thought everything out too well to simply forget details. He has everything planned out so completely, God Himself couldn’t have orchestrated anything more perfect.

Written overtop Alexander Hamilton’s cynical face in black sharpie was a phone number in Joey’s neat scrawl. Beneath the digits, glaring up at them, were five simple yet fateful words.

“Take it or leave it.”