Imagine My Surprise! (28)

In which Stoli opens the pub.

(click here for previous installments)

28. Stoli’s Dream

Stoli often talked about creating a brewpub that ‘gave you a feeling’. His vision involved making the brewpub a destination that not only made you feel at home, but also like a paradise filled with beer and food served by friends who’d been eagerly waiting for you. A sort of cozy Irish pub feeling but without the shamrocks. We had a pub kitchen the likes of which could only be found in San Francisco, but not that expensive. A smart staff that made every patron feel special. He’d go on for hours about this, very passionately, really work himself up.

Stoli was pretty successful at delivering on his vision. He had a fireplace installed in the bar area, a stone hearth, a little prefab, but you could sit on it, and that’s pretty cool. The tables were sturdy enough to dance on. There were four bathrooms, one upstairs in the mezzanine, where there is also an extra mini-bar with taps, just in case things got crazy. The walls back then (two years ago) were a little bare because Stoli wanted the decor to grow organically. He mounted a couple vintage neon storefront signs from long gone San Francisco establishments, and hung a couple pictures from his army unit days and some shots documenting the build-out of the brewery. I’m in a couple of the wall photos hanging right now.

Drew was the brewmeister and a guy named Hiro Salinas was the head chef. Stoli reluctantly admitted he’d need a seasoned manager who knew her shit, and that would be Alex, a funny-but-firm tatted-up Austin transplant stolen from some downtown competition. She brought with her a few trusted waitstaff and a bartender, named Connor, very dependable. Of course there were a slew of others, many of whom still work there today.

Children of five aren’t usually given the latitude that I was at the brewery, but children of five weren’t like me, a fact wholly recognized by the entire staff; my presence was accepted wholesale. It was only my size and physical strength (okay, and the age requirement) that kept me from participating as a full-fledged crew member. Everyone watched out for me, and me them.

When three o’clock arrived, Lou and I were sitting on the stairs facing the door, me with a Little Monkey Root Beer (brewed with me in mind), her with a Lou Lager. The crew were lined up behind John, standing at attention as it were, a loose phalanx of maroon and cobalt-shirted staff, all grinning. Hiro, Alex and Drew headed the phalanx. Out of all of them, only Hiro seemed nervous, faking a smile with a stretched grimace. John unlocked the double doors and greeted the not-small crowd waiting outside.

There was also a good chance Franks might not show up that day, out of laziness or forgetfulness or disinterest, in which case the plan was to call up GameDaze and rent a seat in his suite. Easy enough, but the idea of him coming to us felt more organic, from the long con point of view. You see, we knew we were performing our own little grift. If we gained his confidence, he would be prostrate when I revealed my true identity. Grifters, like vampires, prefer to be invited inside before they do their dirty work. In any case, this was our plan, daft or not, and Stoli and I discussed all these contingencies before the big day.

“Hellooo! Welcome to the Eleventh Street Brewery! We’ve been waiting for you! Come on in!” There was a cheer. “You’re the first ones, so sit anywhere. The upstairs is closed until dinner time. Welcome!” About thirty people or so filed in, most heading straight to the bar. The waitstaff, led by Stella and Francis, intercepted the hungry folk and guided them to safe landings at the clean and ready tables.

Slowly the music came up, a steady stream of nineties rock. And thus, the Eleventh Street Brewery commenced.

By six, the lower dining room was full and Alex ceremoniously unstrung the velvet rope that cordoned off the stairs to the mezzanine. The need for the mezzanine to open to accommodate the diners seemed to trigger a feeling of relief and joy amongst the staff. If management had any concerns about a successful opening, they were now allayed, and the already good mood turned great.

I wandered from post to post, as the night wore on. For a while I played co-host at the door with Drew, the brewer and his son. I remember being at his side and it feeling natural. I felt both like a proud son and proud…uncle? I often felt avuncular toward my parents. When I was born, these two seemingly mismatched millennials were destined for marital ruin. My mother was a cheating whore who detested her goofy, ne’er-do-well husband — my guileless dad, that beautiful dope. But somehow, they had survived. They had grown up.

Opening night, and still we waited for the Irishman. I stationed myself on a stool behind the bar, tucked back in my spot against the wall. Around eight o’clock, Stoli, all handshakes and smiles, cut behind the bartenders to check in with me.

“I guess we go to Plan B,” he said quietly as he dried a pint glass.

“It was never a good plan to begin with,” I admitted. It was my plan. “But don’t give up — it’s early.”

There was an ear-splitting whine of feedback over the sound system.

“What’s that?” I complained.

Stoli wagged his considerable eyebrows. “That, my little friend, is the P.A. It’s showtime.”

Suddenly, Drew’s voice came loud over the speaker. “Hellooo, Eleventh Street Brewery! Can I have your attention?!”

I admonished Stoli, “You gave him a microphone?!” Stoli shrugged and disappeared into the crowd.

My dad continued: “Sorry to interrupt your good time, but this being opening night, we thought we’d say a few words. First of all, let’s have a round of applause for our owner and general manager, John Galvin! Get over here, John!”

And so it went. I watched from my stool. The customers held rapt attention with grins and beers as the Eleventh Street Brewery staff displayed their humorously detailed knowledge of the beer and menu in a rehearsed performance. It was toward the end of this gig, after Connor had performed his part and returned to the taps, that I spotted Franks and Poins.

And they spotted me. Squinting, Franks waved at me and I back at him. My first impulse was to play dumb but I was not going to let this fish off the hook. They got beers and made their way over, rudely cutting to the bar between the wall and a couple techies in conversation. Seeing Poins at Franks’ flank, the techie guys accommodated the interlopers without breaking their conversation.

“Hey, little man! Keenan! Remember me? From the baseball game?” Franks had on what he supposed was appropriate dress for this occasion: his best satin soccer jersey under a tweedy dark gray sport coat. At least he’d combed his hair. Poins had traded his hoodie for a leather blazer, which reminded me immediately of Bart. Fucking Bart.

“I remember, Uncle Frank!” I chirped happily.

“Where’s your Uncle John?” he shouted over the din of the P.A. I looked around. Stoli was lost in a sea of customers.

“He’s making speeches!” I shouted. Connor was suddenly at my side, looking Franks and Poins up and down.

“Hey, guys,” Connor asked, semi-protectively, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, boss, we’re here to see John — he gave us an invitation — we’re his baseball buddies.”

Poins stared blankly at Connor.

“Oh! Well, let me get him. I think they’re wrapping up.”

“Cheers,” Franks said as Connor disappeared. Franks eyed me, had a big gulp of the beer, and said humorously “What do you think of the beer?”

Poins shifted his weird stare to me. Very unsettling. To Franks I said, “I don’t know. I’m too young.”

“I was kidding, kiddo.” He turned to Poins. “PD, loosen up. Say hi to the boyo.”

“Hi,” he said.

There was an uncomfortably long beat. Franks had the unenviable task of small-talking with a five-year-old who was standing on a stool on the other side of a crowded bar counter.

“Well, I can tell you this beer here is pretty good — it’s not often you can find a lager at a place like this. Usually, it’s all that hoppy flowery shite.”

I nodded and said simply, “Yeah.” He was kind of right.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about — you’re five! But…” He saw that Poins had drained his glass already. “But Poindexter here loves the hoppy flower shite, don’t you, PD?”

“The shit’s good,” Poins said.

“See.”

That was when we were saved by Stoli’s appearance next to me behind the bar. I could tell he was half in the bag already.

“Frank! Poindexter! You made it!”

“John! Your place is killing it! And the beer is great!”

“Keenan, have you been entertaining them?” Stoli said.

“Yes, Uncle John. Frank and Poins like the beer.”

This came out of my mouth before I could stop it. Poins. I said Poins. Franks and Stoli didn’t seem to notice, but Poins sure did. That got his attention real quick. Nobody had called Poindexter “Poins” except Kurt Houston. And Kurt Houston was dead.

“Let me give you a refill and I’ll show you guys around. What’re you having?”

“I’ll have the lager again, and PD had the Dennis Hoppy.”

The thing is, I’ve seen Poins get rattled. He was always looking for what he thought were signs. His paranoia had served him well, but could make him jumpy. I used the nickname a dead man had given him and now his eyes bore holes in me.

John handed them their pints and said, “Alright, let me duck under here and we’ll take a walk around. C’mon, Keenan!” I followed Stoli under the bar.

Not wanting to get crushed or left behind, I made a rare request, “Uncle John, can you carry me?” John looked at me a little quizzically.

“Um, sure, Keenan. Up!” And there I was, going for a free ride up with the giants. John started his tour: “So this is the bar, as you could see. I thought the fireplace would make it homey.”

“That’s a good touch, John,” Franks said.

Poins stared at me.

“Our chef used to run these really popular Japanese fusion food trucks. You should try the sushi tacos.”

“Maybe I will.”

We came up to the main service nexus, where kitchen, bar, and cash registers met near the back. My mom sat nearby on a stool. She was phone surfing and had switched to red wine. She looked up at John and his entourage. “Well, well!” she said.

“Louisiana, this is Frank and Poindexter. The friends we made at the Giants game with the fancy suite. Lou is our bookkeeper. Also, Keenan’s mother.”

“Thanks for coming,” Lou said.

Franks was predictable and crossed to meet her, standing in front of John and I. “Happy to meet you. The bookkeeper is the right one to know.” This weird non-sequitur almost made Lou wince, I could see it on her face, and I nearly laughed. In fact, I smiled, and she saw me, making her smile.

“You’re right about that, Frank.”

“Lou’s husband is the brewmeister. He’s the magic behind the beer.”

Frank hesitated ever so much. “Ah, the genius. I’d like to meet that guy!”

Stoli shifted me. “Hey, Keenan, you’re getting a little heavy. Can I drop you off with Lou for a sec as we go find Drew?”

This was disappointing, but I said, “Okay.”

They disappeared, and I climbed up on a stool next to Lou.

“That guy’s a little creepy,” she commented after Franks.

“That’s a word for it,” I replied. She looked at me, tilted her head and turned back to her phone.

About ten minutes went by and Stoli hadn’t returned, and I had a hunch so I told Lou, “I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Okay. Be good.”

I cut down the hall and stood at the closed door to the manager’s office. Muffled laughing came from within. Those bastards. I tried the door. It was unlocked, so I boldly strode in.

“Whoa!” cried Drew, who had his hand on a nearly empty bottle of Jameson. Everybody — Stoli, Franks, and Poins — turned to see me suddenly in their midst. They had clearly taken a timeout from the opening night mayhem to have a nip of the good stuff. Each had a glass of Irish whiskey in their hand.

“Oh, Keenan!” Stoli said. “Sorry, buddy. We found your dad and now we are drinking a toast to his health.”

“You gave me a fright, little man,” said Franks.

Poins stared at me.

“Actually, this is good timing,” Drew said, draining his shot glass. “I’ll go steer the ship, John. You entertain these fine men. Keenan, come with me. This is grown-up stuff in here.”

I shot a look at Stoli. “Grown-up stuff, huh?” This brought a laugh from Franks and Drew, but not the other two.

“I’ll be back out in no time, Keenan,” Stoli said.

“Come on, you,” Drew said, ushering me out the door. “Lock this,” he told Stoli.

The door closed behind us, and as we headed down the hallway I heard the door lock. Soon we were back with Lou.

“Look who I found, nosing around,” Drew said, giving Lou a quick kiss.

Lou barely looked at me. “What’d he catch you doing? Drinking with the boys?”

Drew knelt down and said to me, “Why don’t I get you some fries and you can hang out over with Connor. Where’s your tablet?”

“Over there.”

“Perfect.”

I did not see Stoli soon.

So, so by ten o’clock, some word on the street must’ve got around because the already pleasantly full brewery was suddenly very packed, loud, and filled with an energy that could only be the booze talking. Connor and his bartenders were a whirlwind behind the counter. They would in later months be considered the A-team behind the bar. I watched it all from my barstool perch against the wall.

There had been a time, within those very walls, at the previous brewery whose ghost still haunted that address, when a certain K.S. Houston had quaffed and laughed and philosophized and strutted, when he’d been a fixture there. He’d been one of those impetuous, earnest, young drunk twenty-somethings that I observed that opening night, watched them flirt and puff themselves up, trade embellished stories, cast about for a dream. What a time Kurt had had before things turned to darkness, before he gave up.

These were my musings when I heard a shout: “Keenan! Helloooo! Hey!”

It was Connor trying to get my attention. “Oh, hi!” I shouted over the throng.

“Wow, where were you? I was shouting at you.”

Reminiscing, buddy. “Uh, I don’t know.”

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Can you run this envelope through the kitchen to John’s office? I need to make a drop but it’s too freaking busy.”

I looked at the fat manila banker’s envelope in his hand below the counter. “Sure, Connor.”

“Awesome! Thanks, Keenster!” He pointed an invisible gun at me and pulled the trigger. I raced down the narrow aisle behind the bar, cash envelope in hand, avoiding the Nic, Bryce and Michaud obstacle course. As I reached the swinging double doors to the kitchen, I slunk by Claudia, the kitchen manager, who called after me: “Watch out — you’re gonna get yourself killed!” I walked past the walk-in to what amounted to the back door of Stoli’s office, papered with employee compliance posters. I stopped and thought about what I was doing: walking into a room that held a couple hardened criminals with an envelope full of cash. But them seeing the cash was part of our grift, right?

I pounded on the door and nobody answered. It was very loud in the kitchen and my little fists just couldn’t cut through the clatter and shouting. I took off my shoe and really let the door have it. There was a muffled shout on the other side, and I was starting to worry a little for Stoli when the door came open.

“What?!” Stoli shouted, irritated. He looked down and there I was. He was clearly loaded, and it seemed that my presence reminded him that he wasn’t merely at the opening night party of his brewery; he was, in fact, on a secret mission. I was just in time. Past him, I saw Franks fussing with something while Poins half-blocked the view.

“Oh — hey! Keenan!” Stoli said over his shoulder to them, reassuringly, “It’s just Keenan.”

I yelled, “Connor gave me this for you!” My eyes said, let me in, you drunk fucker!

“What?” he grabbed the envelope and ushered me inside, closing the door behind me. The little office smelled of whiskey and sweat. Franks turned, blocking whatever was behind him on the filing cabinet from my view.

“Hey! Little man! Enjoying the party?!”

“Yes, Uncle Frank,” I said.

He looked at the other guys, “He calls me Uncle Frank now.”

“So, what’s it, Keenan?” Stoli asked. I couldn’t tell if he was back in acting mode.

“Connor told me to tell you to drop the package, whatever that means,” I said importantly.

John looked at the manila brick of cash and understanding dawned on his face. “Oh! Hey, Poindexter, can you stand aside there?”

Poins, who was staring at me again, moved aside to look. Behind him was a heavy duty drop safe, bolted to the floor, keypad and readout on its face. Stoli hefted the brick and said to the guys, “Looks like it’s gonna be a good night!” He then quickly flipped open the hopper and dropped the bundle inside, letting the drawer close with a clang.

“What are you guys doing in here, Uncle John?”

“Well, we’re just, er …”

There was a half-empty bottle of Michter’s on his desk.

“We’re just talking about business stuff, little man,” Franks cut in, helpfully. Poins stared at me stony faced, eyes darting to Franks.

“That’s right, Keenan,” Stoli said, “We’ll come and join the party in second. Why don’t you tell Connor you made the drop.”

“You have something on your nose, Uncle John.”

John brushed his nose self-consciously and opened the door for me. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.” And with that, he ushered me out and closed the door. I heard it lock.

Whether or not Stoli was putting on a show, that had to be an enticing scene for Poins and Franks. Watching Poins clock the cash envelope as it fell into the drop safe was classic.

All parties must end, however. They cordoned off the upstairs around eleven, and I’d gone up there to get away from it all and was embarrassed to find that I’d dozed off sitting up in a booth. I was startled awake by Lou calling my name from the top of the stairs.

“Here, mom,” I responded.

“Oh, thank God. I was looking everywhere for you. We gotta go, honey. It’s late. And we have a nice hotel room to stay in.”

“Nothing like a fresh hotel bed.”

“Like you would know.”

“From what I hear.”

Downstairs the front doors were locked; staff were cleared and cleaned tables, Connor wiped down the bar, and Stoli sat on a stool drinking a cup of coffee next to Drew, who drained the last of a keg.

“Found him. You ready, honey?” Lou asked Drew.

“Am I ever. Going to be so nice to sleep in a hotel.”

Stoli turned and saw me. He grinned, cheeks rosy. “Ah, Keenan! I’m glad we didn’t lose you.”

“Nope. Just keeping watch. Have a good time with your friends?” I asked pointedly.

“Yeah. Interesting couple guys.”

Drew said, “The short one looks kind of rough.”

“He’s okay,” Stoli said.

“The Irishman looks kind of shifty,” Lou said.

“He certainly is a salesman. He invited Keenan and I back to his private Giants suite again. I think he’s trying to get me to invest in something or other.”

“Be careful,” Lou warned.

“Don’t worry, I sank all my money into this place. Ain’t nobody getting nothing out of me for a while. Did you have a good time, Keenan?”

I yawned. “It was very amusing.”

Drew stood. “Come on, family. Our ride is here. See you in the morning, John. Congratulations.”

“To you, too.” They quick-hugged. “See you. Safe home, er, uh, safe hotel?”

“Bye, Uncle John.”

~~•~~

Back home, the day after the pub opening, while the parents slept it off, I finally had a chance to get away. Behind the shed in the backyard, within reach of the wireless router, I called Stoli on my tablet.

Stoli was at his apartment, eating lunch.

“Ho-ho! I was wondering when you would call,” he chirped, mouth smacking with a sandwich.

“Oh, my god, you bastard. Tell me everything!”

“Well, you can probably deduce most of it.”

“Jesus Christ, how did the fucking cocaine get introduced?! Bad boy, Uncle John!”

“Well, you know how it is — and I guess you really do, from what you’ve told me. We got good and lubricated and Franks just up and asked if I cared for a line of coke. So, I went with it. I was having a hard time differentiating between being myself and being undercover.”

I said, “I could tell you were in some sort of way. You were heated. But did you talk about renting his suite and all that? Did Franks try to grift you?”

“Yes, and yes. I let Franks steer me into renting his suite. He thought it was his idea. It’ll all happen at the next Diamondbacks game.”

“Holy shit!”

“Predictably, he started prying for financial information, acting casual, asking about financing the brewery, asking if I have any more projects lined up. Finally, he asked if I’d be interested in investing in a start-up he’d been dreaming up. I strung him along.”

“When’s the game?”

“Like three weeks.”

“Plenty of time to talk myself into it.”

“I’m unclear on what we are going to do.”

“So am I, mostly.” There was finally a pause in the call. “I should probably get back inside and pretend to be five.”

“Okay. Let’s work out a plan next time you come up.”

I’m not going to go into the plan, so-called, because that would ruin the dramatic telling of this story. We realized we had to rent all the seats in the suite, otherwise we couldn’t execute said plan. It had to be just Franks, Poins, Stoli and me. That cost a pretty penny, but it was essential. The reason we thought a suite was perfect for the confrontation was this: it was a public space; it had a lockable entrance; ballpark security made it impossible for people to bring guns and knives; and we could alert security if things somehow got out of hand. There was still a chance Franks or Poins might be armed, but even if they weren’t, the likelihood of violence was pretty high.

This will all make more sense to you soon. I anticipate your surprise.