Brothers. Shit.

He fired up the engine and cranked the radio, then stomped on the gas. He needed a shower. And then a drink. Several drinks.

Michael saw him as a flake? Fine.

Jason could play the part.

During Prohibition, the bar had been a speakeasy. The real estate agent who had sold Michael the place had known the whole story, told him about the hidden nooks and crannies, the safe concealed behind the radiator. She'd called the narrow basement steps "Navy stairs," and the phrase fit: narrow, steep metal that would be at home on a cramped battleship. Standing on them and looking up through the ancient trap-hatch, Michael could almost feel the basement roll with the waves. "Come on," he called. "Time to go."

"One sec." Billy was lost in a stack of cardboard boxes. The air smelled of dust and time, of the junk piled against crumbling retaining walls: a piano with keys like nicotine fingers, a sofa with cushions worn thin, his own stuff mingling with the detritus of a dozen previous owners. Someday he meant to go through all of it, figure out what was worth giving away. Meanwhile, the basement was Billy's favorite haunt. What was it about dark places packed with sharp rusting junk that so fascinated boys?

"Let's move, kiddo." The bar would open in less than an hour. Given the contents of the briefcase, it seemed ridiculous that he had to spend the rest of the day pouring boilermakers for municipal workers and construction guys, but at least he'd taken care of business down here. All he had to do was get through today, then tomorrow he could do some real work. "Now."

Billy emerged smiling, something clutched in his hand. "Check it out, Dad! Was this yours?" He held up a laser gun.

Michael squinted, recognized it as a Transformer, a toy robot that origami'ed into a purple pistol. "Would you look at that." He reached for it. The plastic felt oddly familiar, comfortable, like some part of him had been yearning to hold the toy again. "I used to love this thing." He turned it over. "See, I even carved my name on it."

"It's crossed out."

"I know. Uncle Jason won it from me on a dare."

"What did you dare him to do?"

Michael remembered just fine, but no way was he planting ideas about sprinting across the El tracks, so he just shook his head and handed the toy back. His son took it, stared at like there was a message written in invisible ink. "Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"What's wrong with Uncle Jason?"

The question brought him up short. "How do you mean?"

"He doesn't seem like when he used to visit." Billy stared at his fingers tapping the pistol grip. "He's sad, and you guys fight more."

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it. Truth was, he didn't know what had happened to his brother. The week he returned he'd stayed with them, sleeping on the sofa, drinking most of a case of beer during the day and bringing home a different girl most every night. When Michael had broached the subject, Jason had said he was fine. The next week he'd moved out.

Michael looked at Billy waiting for an answer, his eyes the same brown his mother's had been. The truth seemed to best way. Never could lie to those eyes. "You know your uncle was a soldier."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, sometimes when soldiers go to war, they get hurt. Wounded. Sometimes it's on the outside, like-"

"Getting shot?"

"Sure, like that. But sometimes it's not that simple. Sometimes they're hurt on the inside." He paused. "Sort of like getting sick."

"And that's what happened to Uncle Jason?"

"Yeah. He got sick, and so they sent him home." Not perfect, maybe, but not bad.

"Will he get better?"

"Of course." Michael smiled softly, and set his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Of course he will. But it might take a little while, and we have to be here for him."

Billy nodded thoughtfully. "Okay."

"Okay. Now," Michael gestured for the stairs, "what say we get out of here?"

"Can I bring this?" Billy held up the Transformer.

"My friend, you can have it."

They climbed back to the world. Billy immediately sat at the scarred desk in "his" corner of the stockroom and began playing with the Transformer, figuring out how the thing bent, which parts twisted to convert it back to a robot. Michael watched the boy work with that familiar feeling in his chest, a sort of liquid bursting. That's my son. Like always, the thought seemed both novel and ancient, a profound thing that could be taught only by the wet-lipped intensity of an eight-year-old boy.

Funny. The toy had been his, then Jason, and now Billy's. Just plastic and metal, and yet it bound them all together, tied the present to the past. Michael found himself remembering another trip to the basement, years ago, he and Jason clearing space, hauling loads of sweating junk up the narrow stairs. When they were finished, they'd dropped into folding chairs, and Michael had opened the safe, taken out the Black Label he'd stashed. He could still remember the smile on Jason's face.

He smiled himself, then ruffled his son's hair and left him at work. Behind the bar, he finished washing glasses, then checked the supplies of Beam and Jack. As he did, his eyes fell again on the rows of bottles, the dusty bottle of Balvenie he'd noticed earlier.

What the hell. The cork twisted free with a pop. Holding the bottle under his nose was like dissolving in a river of warm caramel. He poured two fingers, took another long inhale, sipped with his eyes closed.

Damn. Something to aspire to indeed.

The thought came with a stab of guilt. The words had come out all wrong, again. Hell, he'd damn near called his brother a coward. Michael sighed, reached for the phone. If he could get Jason back down here, he could apologize with a glass of single-malt heaven, try again. He'd dialed the first couple digits when the front door opened, the bell rattling. The brilliance of afternoon framed a silhouette, big, balding, another man behind him.

"Sorry," Michael said, setting down the receiver. "We're not open yet."

The men stepped inside and closed the door.

"I said, we're not-" But as they blotted out the light burning behind them, Michael Palmer saw who had entered his bar.

The highball glass slipped from his fingers to spin, glinting, until it passed into shadow and shattered.

The girl was up, bustling around in the kitchen. Jason could still smell her perfume on the pillow beside him, something fruity and strong. Nice, though. His head ached a little with the remnants of last night's bourbon, and he toyed with the idea of rolling over, grabbing another hour of sleep.

But the sheets were muggy and close, and a fat-bellied fly buzzed around the room, dodging between the blades of the ceiling fan. Forget it. He pulled himself upright, leaned against the bare wall and watched the girl make coffee in the studio kitchen.

She still looked good in the morning sun, a long, toned body. Pixie hair. A curvy faux-tribal tattoo led into pale blue panties that fit well, no droop. She opened one cabinet and then another, searching with quiet efficiency.

Her name was… Jackie. Yes.

"Filters are in the drawer." He rubbed his cheek, the skin sticky and full.

"You're up." She turned to smile.

"Yeah." He pulled the sheet off and spun to the edge of the bed. The hardwood felt nice, cool. As he started to rise, pain spiked his belly. The muscle had a purple and yellow bruise, courtesy of the wrestler's rings. He winced, then smiled, remembering the rushing air as he'd jumped off the parking deck. With one hand on his gut and the other on the bed, he stood, glanced out the window. Morning, world.