Alice nodded. “No real reason for it. He’s nice to her and she likes his car. That’s all I ever hear about. You know teenagers and cars. Just another crazy dream of hers.”

“Natty shouldn’t be anywhere near Bailey Mae.”

Alice said, “He did his time.”

“He always does. But he’s still a drug dealer.”

“He’s family.”

“Maybe by New York State law, but not the way I see it.”

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I purposely left Alice in Marlboro when I made my way down to Newburgh. My old station wagon sputtered a couple of times but got me there in about twenty minutes. Route 9 was open this time of day and I parked directly in front of the State of Mind Tavern, just past the I-84 underpass, the dive bar where Natty, my older brother, does business. I immediately spotted his leased sports car on the side of the dingy building. Natty had gotten tired of having cars seized every time some industrious cop stopped him and found dope inside. All it took was enough weight to be charged for trafficking and the car became part of the crime—and also part of police inventory up for auction. So now he switched out cars every year. The hot little convertible was near the end of its term.

As I opened the door, the bartender looked up through the haze. They aren’t as strict in upstate as they are in the city, so cigarette smoke hung in the air. The smell of toaster pizza was permanently stuck in the discolored wallpaper. The bartender, who looked like he dined on steroids every day, gave me a cursory look and deemed me unworthy of an acknowledgment.

My brother, Nathaniel, or “Natty” as he’s been called his whole life, is two inches shorter than me, at six feet even, and thin as a rail from a life of drugs, coffee, and cigarettes. I had no clue why he got called Natty while I’ve been called by my last name, Mitchum, since childhood. Only our mom calls me by my first name.

His head jerked up instantly. Instinct from his line of work. We have the same blue eyes and prominent jawline, but not much else in common.

I headed directly toward him when the bartender, who doubled as Natty’s bodyguard, stepped from behind the bar to grab my left arm. Now he wanted to dance; a second ago he was too good to speak to me. A quick twist and thumb lock with my right hand dropped the ox to one knee in pain until the man understood how stupid his idea had been. Thank you, SEAL basic training class 406.

Natty stood up quickly and said, “Tony, no need for that. This is my little brother.” He moved around the table to greet me, rushing past Angel, his semi-regular girlfriend, who once posed for Penthouse or one of those magazines.