From where he sat, Al could see the front door. It was dented steel, all rust and old brown paint. It was just like any number of doors that Al had walked through as a boy, with his father and uncle and some of their downtown friends. These doors led to rooms that smelled of beer-soaked wood and cheap cigar burns. In these rooms were old men, older than their age, dark men, dull men, men with fat wives at home, wives who worried clutching bills and photographs. Al hated these rooms. These rooms pulled his safety away. Plywood table tops were stained with poor grain vodka and old, drawn-out ink written by these desperate men. Men took peasant risks and wore jackets out of season. Al lived to be the opposite of these men. And he had been successful at it.
So why was Al sitting in his cherried station wagon, thick exhaust rising above the large rear windshield, on such a grey Detroit evening? His father was long dead. He had passed like he had lived his life, unnoticed. But his Uncle Jamie, his father's younger brother, was still alive — and still involved in rooms like this. Jamie had always had a better head on his shoulders than Al's father. He could read a room better, understood people better, and, most importantly, knew when to lay-off better. Some time after Al had come back from the Navy, Jamie had opened a book of his own. Jamie was well-liked by most and well-respected by some of the more serious guys in the city, so he never had too many problems collecting. But occasionally, just occasionally, some college kid or sweltered brat from Grosse Pointe got in over their heads and thought that their lush lawns or college dorms would allow them to thumb their noses at the corner bar, cigar-chomping, city-dweller and the debt they owed him. That's where Al came in. Fresh out of the service, looking for work, and in the best shape of his life, Al was more than happy to lean on a Wayne State student to get his uncle what was his — and to take a percentage of course. But Al hadn't lived that life in a long time. Not until today. Not until his uncle had called him that morning and sounded halfway between dead and dead drunk. Some young street hood with dreams of his own Hamtramck book had tried to muscle Jamie out. Gave him five stitches and a whole lot of humiliation.
Al thought about all the ballgames his uncle had taken him to, all the gifts that had fallen off of trucks, all the devilish winks Jamie had given him while slipping him a twenty, much against Al's mother's wishes— and Al thought about, most importantly, all of the times Jamie had covered his family's nut when Al's father had messed-up again. This and more was on Al's mind as he stepped out of the car.
The door to the bar opened with the telltale sound of a metal ship squell. It swung shut, half stuck on a warp threshold, with a hollow thud. Al breathed in. He was right back in any number of nights. He was a child again. These men were part of him. These men were a sad part of Al's life. This one man, however, was going to have Al become part of his life.
Al put his hands in the pockets of his Harrington jacket as he stepped into the wide and shallow barroom. An all-black baseball cap sat low over his forgettable haircut; his natural blandness was rarely a virtue — but tonight he was grateful for it. There didn't need to be any words, and there wouldn't be, this message would be put into context whenever this man woke-up.
Just as Al approached the bar, the man stood-up from his stool, laughing and saying something to someone nearby. As he turned, a blackjack came down above his left eye. He was out on his feet. He never felt the next blow to his teeth. Bottom teeth bounced across the discolored wood floor. Two more swings cracked one of his kneecaps and collapsed his right collarbone. No one moved during the attack. No one moved afterwards. This wasn't a heavy bar. It wasn't exactly light, but Al didn't fear anything that may have been kept behind the bar.
Al walked out without any tails.
As Al pulled away, slowly, the hum of his spotless V8 engine made his life seem tucked-in and clean. He loved his uncle. He loved that he could help him. He loved that everything he needed to be separate was separate. What he needed together he still hadn't found but his father's brother was not alone.