At least, that’s what Jonathan often says.
Sweetwater has always been my least favorite place to hang out, but I seem to end up here all the time anyway. A typical sports bar, it’s filled with large-screen televisions and features a college-aged, male crowd with an extra boost of testosterone. It’s a close walk back to my apartment, so it has that going for it. Jonathan lives nearby as well, and he’s pretty friendly with the bar staff. I can’t stand the bartender, and I’m pretty sure he knows it. He always takes forever to bring me a damn drink.
It’s a pretty young crowd tonight, and the bartender is checking a lot of IDs. Chicks are buying lemon drop shots and guys are nursing beers, hoping to stay just a little more sober than the women they surround. Half of the guys are watching a basketball game on the big screen televisions, hooting and hollering every time a basket is scored, which is more than a little annoying.
I return with two bottles of domestic beer to the table Jonathan has procured. Bottled beer is not my preference, but they are easier to obtain than a draft, and I’m not about to wait for the asshole bartender to actually draw the good stuff. Jonathan always starts the night with a big glass of chocolate milk, but he had already bought a carton and finished it while we were walking to Sweetwater.
“That chick at the bar is checking you out,” Jonathan says.
“Which one?”
“The blonde.”
I glance over quickly, determine which one he’s talking about, and then look down.
“Not my type.”
“Oh yeah?” Jonathan elbows me. “What is your type?”
“The type that wants my cash, not my phone number.”
“Ha! That’s custom.” He keeps laughing as he chugs half the beer. Looking up at the closest television, he makes some comment about the teams that are playing, but I don’t care and barely listen.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
There’s a group of four guys at the table behind us. At first, I think they are big basketball fans, but their shouts don’t correspond with plays from the game. I glance over my shoulder. They all have some degree of facial hair and are dressed in decent clothes. They’re closer to my age than that of the student population, and I get a bit of a yuppie vibe from them. The loudest one in the group has a scraggly beard and wears a jacket. He looks like a college professor right out of the seventies.
When I listen more closely, the conversation is political in nature. I quickly tune it out.
“I still think you should tap that,” Jonathan says as he points the top of his beer toward the blonde at the bar. “Hell, give her my number when you’re done. I don’t mind.”
“You into sloppy seconds now?”
“Dude, I haven’t gotten laid in a month. I’d take anything about now. I’ve been spendin’ my nights doin’ nothin’ but diggin’ into the past of that guy Rinaldo has guarding him now.”
“Paulie?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s up with him?” I lean back in the seat and put my feet up on the chair opposite me. “I thought he was already vetted.”
“He was,” Jonathan says. “Becca checked both him and Cody out, but after that shit with Marcello’s gang, I’m lookin’ a little closer.”
“Rinaldo doesn’t trust them?”
“Just bein’ cautious. I haven’t found anything.”
I think about it for a while, and I’m concerned about how many people in Rinaldo’s organization I don’t know. I used to know everyone quite well. Maybe I need to do some of my own investigating if Rinaldo is nervous. Obviously, someone gave Marcello information about the shipment, and someone still has a collection of our guns.
“How did the South Side gangs manage to get so bold?” I ask.
“Gradually,” Jonathan says.
“Beni thinks it’s because I wasn’t around.”
“Nah.” Jonathan shakes his head. “Somethin’ else.”
“Agreed. Someone has to be working with them, but who?”