[b]Last Night[/b]

"There's a saying, Beth," Sheehan said as he sheepishly stopped pouring Max' usual drink. "Don't shit where you eat. Think he wants to come in here and relax, just to watch some fuckup fucking up?" He dabbed at the spilled beer. "Honey, you wanna maybe be a little more careful there? Less cleaning I gotta do, the better," he said as he took a discreet pull from the whiskey and coke he kept under the bar, set carefully on a coaster between the Louisville Slugger and the Charter Arms Bulldog.

[b]Today[/b]

The bar always seemed so strange at noon. Light and airy, as opposed to dark and closed off.

Of course, there were chores that had to be done that he just hadn't felt like doing. Receipts to reconcile. Cash to take to the bank. Product to be stocked. And it was a Friday, of course, good crowd tonight, good tips. Not to mention the gambling ought to be good. He had cranked up the radio as he worked. 

Sheehan looked up at the sound of the front door swinging open, squinting into the bright sunlight pouring in. "Oh, hey," he called. "Uh, we don't open until five, I'm afraid." 

"Not here to drink," said the first and smallest of the men with a noticeable accent. They stepped into the bar, ignoring Sheehan's stricken expression. It was easier to see them when the door swung shut. Less glare. Three men. Sheehan looked them over. Two big guys, bearded and long-haired, wearing sunglasses and denim vests. The patches over their breast pockets declared them to be members of Manhunter MC. With a small note of alarm, Sheehan noted the proudly displayed "1%" under the club rockers.

But the bikers didn't do any talking. It was the smaller man, thin and dried-up, who did that. With his olive complexion, the thin white knife scars on his face were that much more noticeable. He smiled in a friendly manner. "You the manager here?"

"Yeah," Sheehan answered guardedly. "Kelly. What can I do for you?"

"Name's Gabi Cohen," the newcomer answered, passing a nicely embossed business card across to Sheehan. He looked down at it. Gabriel Cohen, CEO, Adloyada Kosher Winery, Branson, Missouri. Underneath was something in an alphabet Sheehan didn't recognize. Possibly the same thing written in another language. Hebrew, maybe? "I've got an interesting opportunity for you. The very first batch from my winery could be stocked at your bar," the stranger said excitedly.

"Well, that sounds interesting, Mr. Cohen, but I can't say I get too many requests for kosher wine. Are you new here in town?"

"I came over from Israel just last year."

"Not much call for that in Northland. Maybe try down around the Country Club district."

"Thanks for the advice," Cohen said politely. "Though I had a young fellow in here last night scouting this place out. He seemed sure my product would sell just fine here, and he knows the scene in Kansas City quite well." Cohen shrugged. "Speaking of which, I haven't seen this young man since last night. Fellow by the name of Lenny. That ring any bells?"

"No, can't say it does," Sheehan replied, heart pounding in his chest. This story was sounding too familiar for his comfort. "Sorry."

"Quite alright. If you see him, have him give me a call," Cohen said with a smile. "Think over my offer. I'm in town for a few days." Cohen nodded politely to Sheehan then spun around and left, bikers close behind.

Sheehan wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs, then dug for his phone. He was pretty sure he had a number for Lowrey, or at least a burner he used. He bit his lip as he waited through the ring tone. 

"Max? It's Sheehan. Uh, what exactly did you do to that guy last night?"