Page 29 of Ghost
“That's deep, Prez,” he says, smirking, but I can see it in his eyes. I’ve hit a nerve. I’ll let him get away with the casualness he’s trying really hard to play. Still, if Tizzys taught me anything its that this life ain't worth livin’ if you're doing it alone.
“Alright fucker. What do you say we head upstairs and check out what the old fart-bags have tucked behind the counter? Betcha it's some good shit,” I say, smiling and rising from my seat.
“Betcha ten it ain't under the sink anymore. Caesar sniffed out the good stuff about a week ago. They’ll have found a new place for it. Sure you got time for a drink? I didn't mean to come in and distract you.”
“Not at all. Just finished up a report and needed a good place to stop,” I say as we head through the common room and up the back stairs to the bowling alley upstairs. We make small talk as we make it to the bar and go in search of the old hard stuff.
“So, when you gonna make it official?” he asks, jumping up and checking the top of the cabinets.
“Actually, got Piper and Halle working on her cut. I need to find a ring, but I have some ideas in mind,” I tell him honestly. There's nothing I want more in this life than to spend the rest of it with that woman, so why the hell wait? I may not have done it right the first time, but come hell or high water, I’ll get it right this time.
“Aha!” Omen yells out as he pulls a bottle out of the old, dusty cookie jar shoved on the back of the counter behind somesuspicious-looking limes. I grab the glasses, and the door bangs open just as we get our first drinks poured.
We both draw our weapons and then put them away again seconds later. We hear the old coots yelling and fussing as they make their way through the door. When I look up, I see Fossil with the collar of some ragged-looking guy pushing him toward the bar. I lift my brows, confused, until the face gets closer. A familiar face.
“Ghost, remember Lambert? He’s gonna be staying with us for a while,” Fossil says, lumbering to his usual seat.
“That's right. You want to drink your life away, dumb fuck? You're going to do it right here with us two old fuckers. And you're not going to enjoy one minute of it,” Hag grumps.
I’m still stuck looking at Lambert, who is completely unphased as he gives me a chin lift and a “Wassup Ghost, good to see ya.”
“Well, we probably ain't living longer than Christmas. Think one of you two lazy fucks can pour us a damn glass?” Fossil barks at us.
“Hell, at least give us a damn beer. If we don't die of heart attacks, you asses will have us dying of thirst,” Hag adds as I roll my eyes. These two may act the part of two old, retired, disabled, and unassuming old men, but they are some of the most skilled and dangerous fuckers out there. They taught Lambert and me everything we know.
I take in my old friend and comrade as Omen gets all three of them a drink. His haggard appearance tells me that the years haven't been good for him. He’s lost his way a bit, but I can also tell he hasn't fully let himself go. There’s still some fire in his bones, and I’m determined to pull it the fuck out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tizzy
Determined to get the full experience, I start in the newly patched and weed-whacked parking lot. Taking a deep breath, I step inside. The door swings open smoothly, and its faint creak is now more welcoming than eerie. To the left, the eight bowling lanes shine with a fresh coat of polish, their wood grain glowing under the warm light of restored hanging lights. The cracked vinyl seats have been replaced with new ones in cheerful retro colors—mustard yellow and burnt orange—just a bit of sentiment. You know, keeping it to the alley’s roots.
Those old duct tape travesties they dared to call pins now stand tall and bright, their scuffs lovingly smoothed over. A hand-painted mural above the lanes, a vibrant mix of stars and bowling balls, adds an old-school touch that draws the eye. I wanted to keep it classy, so manual scoring sheets sit neatly in small bins by each lane, with freshly sharpened pencils ready for use. The scent of mildew is gone, replaced by the comforting aroma of popcorn and nice, shiny wood polish.
“Looks like it’s been brought back to life,” Devon says, grinning.
I smirk. “Feels like stepping back in time.”
I’ve changed more than just the lanes. Now to the right, the counter has been carefully restored. The bowling shoes, cleaned and polished up real nice, now sit organized in tidy rows on wooden shelves, each pair labeled with a hand-stenciled size marker. The smell of fresh leather still lingers in the air, too. Behind the counter, the makeshift bar remains but with a few upgrades. The wooden bar top has been sanded and varnished to a rich shine, and the three stools are now freshly upholstered with vinyl in matching retro hues. Oh, and one of my biggest and best finds? A vintage tap handle shaped like a bowling pin stands out, while a small chalkboard menu hangs on the wall, offering up some simple goodies.
The arcade is a love letter to the past. The foosball table has been repaired, its rods straightened, and its handles replaced, ready for action. The pinball machines flash and ding all their restored and moving parts, their vibrant artwork cleaned and preserved under a glossy finish. The skeeball machine in the corner has been carefully patched up, too, even going as far as replacing the netting, and its lanes smoothed out for a perfect roll. The dim lights of the arcade area are strung with colorful string bulbs, giving it a soft, playful glow.
The entire space just seems to vibrate with life, not from rich and fancy updates but from a reverence for what it always was—a place for friends, family, and good times. It feels like stepping into a memory, but one that’s been given a second chance to shine like the lights of Memphis.
The space is packed with all the brothers and the old-timers, and the town has shown up in force, which is both a blessing and a curse. I love seeing the new faces in the space, but if tonight goesthe way the guys are expecting… well, I just hope no one gets sucked into our drama and hurt.
Puttin’ on my best hosting face, I weave through the crowd, making sure everyone is having a good time, and notice all the little details I’ve spent the last few months pouring my blood, sweat, and tears into. After I make at least two full rounds, the sound of clinking glass draws everyone's attention to Devon, standing behind the bar, looking like he’s gearing up to give a speech… one of his least favorite activities.
“Welcome, Welcome. I hope you all came here to enjoy this great new addition to the town. There is one person and one person alone who should take credit for this unbelievable place. Tizzy girl, come on up here. Your boys got you something,” Devon announces, surprising the devil right on out of me. I bounce my way up in front of the bar to him.
When I get there, I see a white box on the counter by the register, and all the guys spread throughout the crowd. Devon hands me the box, and as I grab it, I see all the guys lift a beer in cheers for me. Without further ado, I rip open that lip and go to town. What I pull out has me gasping and tearing up. It's a bright pink bowling shirt with my name on the pocket. It even has glitter pear snaps!
“Turn it around, Lil’ Mama,” Devon says, and when I do, this time, I can't hold in the tears or the laugh that burst out of me. On the back, in big, bold letters, are the words “Owner, Operator, OFF-LIMITS.”
“Well, cross my heart and hope to fly sky high,” I say, taking it all in.
“What does that even mean?” I hear whispered somewhere behind me. I ignore it and, instead, hastily pull on my new shirt.