Page 82 of Broken Mercy
“A couple years that we know of. I bet he started small though. Probably made connections in that fancy private school you all went to.”
“It’s hard to imagine Sam around here, you know?”
“I have a feeling there’s a lot about Sam you haven’t seen.” He takes my hand and holds it tightly. I don’t think he’s being protective, more trying to be comforting, and that makes the gesture land even harder.
“He was always so charming, you know?” I think back to the young Sam, the teenager who was constantly getting into minor trouble. “I swear Papa got a call from the principal at least once a week, but nothing ever came of it.”
“You want to be the administrator to toss a Sarkissian kid out?”
“No and Sam definitely used our name to his advantage in ways none of us did. He used to sell candy from his backpack in elementary school. One time he got caught stealing test keys from the teacher’s lounge. Can you imagine?”
“He’d probably been selling those too.”
“Absolutely. He loves having some scheme going on.” I smile to myself, but it’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing how that led him to this place. “Do you think he knows? How bad it’s gotten?”
“I’m sure he does. He was the one who put those documents in that safe. He knows it’s only a matter of time before they’re used against him.”
“So why not run? Why not do something?”
“What can he do?” Brenden wraps an arm across my shoulders. “I guarantee he has plans, but for now, he’s stuck waiting.”
“This conversation should be a relief then.”
“Doubt it. But we’ll see.”
We stop outside a door stuck in the corner of an old brick building. There’s a faded red Coke sign hanging out front but no visible name anywhere. I’d never know it was a bar if not for the advertisements for half price beer in the papered-over windows, though who knows what the actualfull priceis supposed to be.
Brenden goes in first. The room is dim and packed with stools, tables, and an old jukebox in the back corner. TVs blare overhead playing Orioles games. The clientele is older than the faded, ripped vinyl flooring and the bartender’s a woman who looks like she helped build the place, her white hair a tangle, her leathery skin tanned and deeply marked by wrinkles. Nobody bothers glancing our way like they’re used to a couple young people strolling through. Like it’s not out of place.
“Can you imagine a couple dozen rich kids coming in here?” I whisper as we angle toward the back.
“They must be scared shitless. Worse than you are.”
“I’m not scared!”
“You’re trembling.”
“Stop it.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got you.” He takes the lead and I resist the urge to kick him in the back of the knee. Ahead is a short hall leading to the bathrooms, and past those is another door, this one propped open with a brick, bright light and sound spilling out. The loud baseball game commentary drowned it out, now the noise of dull conversation and the clacking of clay chips is hard to miss.
The back room is large, almost bigger than the front. This one’s packed by poker tables with green felt and bored-looking dealers in black shirts. The young men sitting around are all in some variation of rich kid chic: polo shirts, suit shirts and slacks without jackets, obscenely expensive ripped vintage tee shirts over designer jeans. Nobody looks up as we stand in the entrance.
Sam did all this. I couldn’t believe it before, not really, but now looking at how well organized it is, this has my brother’s stamp all over it. There’s even a tiny bar in the corner and a pretty young girl with a low-cut top is busy shaking a drink. Despite the grimy front portion, this area’s scrubbed clean, well lit, orderly, and reeking of high-end perfection.
A large man comes walking over, moving fast despite his size, weaving through the narrow lanes left by chairs. Half-lidded eyes follow him, the players mostly curious. He’s in all black with a scraggly chin-strap and pinched eyes. “Excuse me, you two, but I think you’re lost.” His voice is higher than I expected, and I realize he’s young, around Sam’s age. “I don’t think you?—“
“Jason Bellingham? Is that you?” I clasp my hands over my chest and make an exaggerated gasp of recognition. “Jason! It’s definitely you!”
The big man stops in his tracks. He frowns, scratches his neck, and his face lights up. “Holy crap, Tallie! I haven’t seen you inages.”
Jason Bellingham is one of Sam’s many lost children. They met in kindergarten and had a few play dates, but Sam quickly moved on to bigger and better things, while Jason’s family was never rich enough to keep him in the fancy private schools without financial assistance, which Jason was far from smart enough to earn. But Sam’s always been the type to keep a contact, and so here is Jason Bellingham, burly and grinning like a child, the same boy I knew a decade ago, but now about five times larger.
“Where’s my brother?” I ask, not bothering to introduce Brenden. I’m sure Jason’s heard enough rumors to figure out who he is anyway.
“Sam’s in the back. Wow, it’s been forever. I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“I try to keep my distance, you know, in case I run into someone I don’t want to see.” I laugh and Jason grins along as if that makes any sense. “Mind if we go talk to him?”
