Page 8 of Crow
“Yep.”
“Sure. If they got a bottle of Italian soda, grab me one. Either blood orange or pomegranate will do.” Muerto took out a twenty-dollar bill and put it on the counter.
“I heard you mention Bella Vita’s,” Brandy said as she came up to the bar and placed the tray on top of it. “Are you going over there?”
“Yeah,” Crow replied. “Do you want something?”
“A small hot Italian with extra banana peppers, please.” She pulled a ten from the pocket of her apron and held it out to him.
“Put that away—it’s on me,” he said. He glanced over at the door and saw a group of college-aged guys walking in. “What time is Zach coming in?”
Muerto quirked his lips. “He should be here by now, but I can handle the bar. Go on and get our chow.”
Before Crow could reply, Zach rushed in from the back room, his wet hair matted down.
“Sorry I’m late, guys, but the traffic was a bitch. The snow’s coming down fast, and it’s fuckingApril. I’ll never get used to this.” He hurried behind the bar and started to wash the glasses in the sink.
“We’re not out of the woods until mid-May,” Brandy said.
“It’s days like this that make me miss Miami. I’m cool with snow in the winter, but”—he waved a soapy hand toward one of the windows—“this is just fucked up.”
Crow laughed. “In the middle of July when it’s hotter than hell, you’ll be dreaming of snow,” he said, walking toward the back room.
He grabbed his leather jacket from the coat rack and slipped it on as he walked out the back door. A cold wind blew snow flurries against his face, and Crow turned up the collar of his jacket, pulling it tighter around his neck. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure lurking in the shadows of the tattoo shop next door. Muscles tensing, Crow slid his hand into his pocket, curled his fingers around the .357 Magnum, and crouched low behind a dumpster. His outlaw biker senses were always on high alert. He peeked around the corner of the garbage container and saw the figure step out of the doorway. The man shuffled across the small snow-covered lot toward the alley, and Crow stood up, his fingers relaxing.
“Jim?”
The man hesitated, then looked over and recognition sparked in his eyes. A wide smile broke across his thin and wrinkled face.
“What’s going on, buddy?” Crow asked as he strode toward him.
Shrugging his stooped shoulders, Jim didn’t answer.
“It’s too fuckin’ cold and snowy to be out here.”
Crow’s eyes scanned over him. Jim’s beard and hair were matted and wet, his eyes bloodshot, his hands grimy. “You should be at the Rescue Mission or Sacred Heart Shelter.”
Jim shook his head. “I like being free. No shelters.” He shoved his hands in and out of his worn overcoat. “I don’t like staying in them. They make me feel like I’m in a fucking insane asylum. I’ll tough out the cold. I’m strong.” He glanced over at the dumpster and licked his chapped lips.
A strong smell of alcohol emanated from him, and Crow knew that the two shelters in town required people to be sober. Many times, if a person came to the shelter drunk, he would be sent to detox, which was very much like a loony-bin.
“Come into the pool hall and get warm. I’m headed out to grab some sandwiches. I’ll pick up one for you.”
“Do you think you could spare a nip of whiskey?” Jim asked as he stared at the back door. “Just to take the chill outta my bones.”
Crow clasped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Sure. Let’s get you settled inside.”
Twenty minutes later, Crow was parking in front of the deli after making sure Jim was comfortable on one of the barstools at the end of the counter. Muerto had poured him a shot of whiskey, and Brandy had put several bowls of pretzels in front of him.
Almost two years before, in the fall, Crow had met Jim after the biker had closed the business for the night. Jim had been sleeping in the doorway and had jumped like a scared rabbit when Crow had come across him. That night, he’d given the homeless man some money and food, which had quickly turned into a routine several times a month. It had taken a long time and an abundance of reassurance before Jim began to trust Crow. The man had a ton of demons, and Crow could relate to that—no one seemed to be free of them—but it was the courage to survive life no matter what bullshit came up that made Crow respect him. Jim was a gentle soul who had the determination to make his life betterifonly he didn’t have all those damn demons.
Crow switched off the radio and then the engine. He’d get Jim a motel room until the storm passed and the nights warmed up. It had taken Crow a long time to convince Jim to stay at a motel during inclement weather, but in time, the man accepted the biker’s invitations graciously.
Crow stomped his feet, then twisted the knob and pushed open the door. A welcoming warmth enveloped him when he entered the delicatessen. The aroma of imported cheeses, fresh bread, and pungent Italian olives filled the air.
The place was jam-packed with customers hovering around the glass cases that displayed various delicacies the eatery had to offer. Crow took his place in line and scrolled through his phone while he waited.
“Thanks for the slice of limoncello cake for my mom,” the older woman in front of him said.
