Inside, the bar itself was a gorgeous rustic counter, the front of it made from brushed corrugated metal, like you find on posh farmhouses that no longer have real farms and that people rent for fancy weddings. A dozen industrial stools sat in front of it, purposefully mismatched in bronze, white, and gunmetal. But the real stars of the show were the taps—at least twenty of them, lined up one next to the other along the right-hand wall, like a self-serve yogurt place, but for craft beers with names like Liberty Ale, Hale to the Hop Thief, and AmiRite?
“You see him?” Zig asked, glancing around.
A dozen customers—all young, a mix of Black and white, some with an educated polish, some looking more working class—were scattered throughout, drinking and eating jalape?o poppers and nachos.
“You’re just a cop?” a man called out.
The door to the kitchen swung wide, revealing a bald African American man with thick caterpillar eyebrows. Slightly younger than Zig, though he looked older than he did in the painting.
Strolling behind the bar, he never took his eyes off Roddy’s police uniform. Behind him, on the back wall, was a framed dollar where someone had written, “This was in a stripper’s thong! Go, Elijah!” in thick black Magic Marker.
“You said you were a fed,” Elijah added, calm as could be. He had an ease about him, pouring himself a glass of water, which he sipped like a scotch.
“I said I was investigating,” Roddy countered, two of the higher-polished customers, both with bougie beards, already getting up to leave.
“He’s also Nola Brown’s brother,” Zig added.
There was a pause.
“We’re trying to keep her alive,” Zig explained. “You as well. We know what happened to Colonel Mint and Rashida Robinson.”
Elijah studied Roddy’s face. “You got her eyes, alright,” he said. “Now lemme guess—you wanna chat about Grandma’s Pantry.”
72
Nola spent the next hour around back, in the skate park.
From her angle, on a bench that was spray-painted with a Puerto Rican flag, she pretended to flip through a newspaper, her eyes never leaving the small Card Kingdom parking lot. Three cars in total.
Old light blue Kia.
Even older Honda Civic.
And the one Nola was watching: a sleek black Audi A8. Freshly waxed. A hundred-thousand-dollar car. Find the driver, and she’d find who’d paid for the elevator.
According to the sign in the front window, Card Kingdom closed at 5:00 p.m. Half hour to go. Just had to wait.
Sure enough, at 5:02, the back door swung open. Beanie Hat strolled out, lit a cigarette, and drove off in his old Civic, where a decal in the back window read: The Empire Doesn’t Care About Your Stick Figure Family as Darth Vader sliced apart a bunch of stick figures.
Twenty minutes later, the back door opened again. This time, it was an older woman—Asian, midfifties, angry gait—who plowed toward the light blue Kia. As she pulled out of the lot, an old AC/DC song faded behind her.
Even before the Kia was out of sight, Nola jumped from her seat, quickly hopping the chain-link fence that separated the skate park from the parking lot.
From her back pocket, she pulled out a small leather case that held colored pencils, an X-Acto knife, and a few metal tools that looked like dental instruments—a torsion wrench and short hook among them. Lockpick kit.
With a careful push, she shoved the pick into the door’s keyhole. Same cheap lock as the front door. Was smarter than it looked. In neighborhoods like this, expensive locks make people take notice.
For a moment, she jiggered the tools.
Click.