The Alibi was quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. A few regulars nursed beers at the bar, the TV murmured some talk show nobody was watching, and the floor still had that sour smell from last night's spill that Francis hadn't gotten around to mopping yet.
He pushed through the front door, lighter in one hand, fresh pack in the other. He'd been in the back counting inventory—or pretending to, anyway. Mostly he'd been sitting on a keg, staring at the wall, thinking about Carl and that principal and the way the guy had looked at him like he was something scraped off a shoe.
He stopped on the sidewalk.
The car was there. Same one from the house. Parked crooked, engine off, two shapes in the front seat. They weren't even trying anymore.
Francis stood there for a long second, letting the cigarette hang unlit between his fingers. He could feel his jaw tightening, that slow burn building behind his ribs. Not anger. Something colder. Something that had been sitting in him since he was twelve years old, watching Frank stumble through the front door with that stupid grin, reeking of whiskey and bad decisions.
He sighed.
Then he walked across the street.
He didn't hurry. Didn't slow down. Just crossed, stepped onto the curb, and knocked on the driver's side window with two knuckles. Polite. Almost friendly.
The window came down slow. The guy behind the wheel was thick-necked, flat-faced, the kind of guy who looked like he'd been hit in the head one too many times. The passenger was taller, leaner, sharper. Suit that didn't fit right, eyes that didn't blink enough. Francis knew the type. He'd been seeing the type his whole life.
"Who the fuck are you?" Francis asked.
The driver opened his mouth, but the tall one cut him off. "You Francis?"
"I asked first."
The tall one smiled. Not friendly. "We're looking for your father."
"Yeah, I figured," Francis said. "Frank's not here. Frank's not with me. Frank's not gonna be with me. So whatever this is, you can pack it up and drive it somewhere else."
The driver's eyes narrowed. "You don't even know what this is."
"I know you've been sitting outside my house all night," Francis said, voice flat. "I know you followed me to my siblings' school this morning. And I know you're sitting outside my bar right now." He let that hang for a second. "So let me be real clear. You're harassing my home. You're harassing my business. And you're doing it over something my old man did, which means you're wasting your time."
The tall one leaned forward slightly, resting an arm on the door. He studied Francis the way you'd study a horse you were thinking about betting on. "You know what he owes?"
"Don't care."
"Thirty-two thousand."
Francis didn't react. He just stood there, thumb running along the edge of the cigarette pack, waiting.
"He borrowed it two years ago," the tall one continued. "Said he'd pay it back in three months. We were generous. We gave him six. Then he disappeared. Drowned, they said. But we never found a body." His smile widened. "And now here you are. Raking in millions on some little phone game. Funny how that works."
Francis let out a short laugh. Not amused. Just tired. "Yeah. Real funny."
"So here's the thing," the tall one said. "You got the money. Your father owes us. You pay it, we go away. Simple."
Francis leaned down, got eye level with him through the window. His voice was quiet. "I will make sure you don't see a dime from me. Not one. You want Frank, go find Frank. But you come near my house again, you sit outside my bar again, you even look at my brothers or my sisters again, and I will take action. And it won't be all good."
The tall one's smile faded. Not into anger. Into calculation. He looked at Francis for a long time, the way a man looks at a door he's not sure he wants to kick open.
The driver snorted. "You think you're something, huh?"
Francis didn't even look at him. Kept his eyes on the tall one. "I think I'm a guy who's been cleaning up other people's messes his whole life. I'm not adding another one to the pile. So you got two choices. You leave, or you don't. But if you don't, you're gonna find out real quick why I don't lose sleep over guys like you."
The tall one's jaw worked for a second. Then he leaned back, gave a small nod, like something had been confirmed for him. "You got your father's mouth."
"I got nothing from my father," Francis said.
The tall one tapped the dashboard twice. The driver put the car in gear. As they pulled away, the tall one called out the window, "We'll be back, Francis. Debts don't die."
Francis watched them go. He didn't move until the car turned the corner and disappeared.
Then he lit his cigarette.
He was halfway through it when Mickey came up behind him. Francis hadn't even heard him come out of the bar.
"Who the hell were they?" Mickey asked.
Francis took a long drag, let the smoke out slow. "Loan sharks. Frank owes them money. They figured since I got some cash now, I'd be good for it."
Mickey's expression shifted. His eyes tracked the empty street where the car had been. "They the ones been sitting outside your place?"
"Yeah."
"And they just left?"
"For now."
Mickey crossed his arms, leaned against the wall next to Francis. He didn't say anything for a minute. That was one of the things Francis liked about him. Mickey didn't fill silence with useless noise.
"So what now?" Mickey asked.
Francis stared down the street. The cigarette burned low between his fingers. "Now we get ready."
"Ready for what?"
"They're not gonna let this go. I told them no, they're not getting paid, and they didn't like it." He flicked ash onto the sidewalk. "They'll be back. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. But they'll be back."
Mickey was quiet for another beat. "You think you just started something?"
Francis exhaled. "Yeah. I think I might've started a war."
He said it like it was just another Tuesday.
Mickey didn't flinch. Didn't ask if Francis was scared, didn't tell him he was stupid. He just nodded, slow, like he was filing the information away somewhere useful.
"Alright," Mickey said. "Then we get ready."
Francis glanced at him. "You don't gotta be in this."
Mickey's eyebrows went up. "The hell I don't."
"Mickey—"
"You just told two guys with neck tattoos and a car they don't own that you're not paying them thirty-two grand your deadbeat dad owes," Mickey said. "You think I'm gonna sit on the couch while you deal with that?"
Francis almost smiled. Almost. "Fair enough."
He finished his cigarette, ground it out under his heel. The street was quiet now. Normal. Like nothing had happened. But Francis knew better. The South Side never stayed quiet for long.
He turned back toward the Alibi. "Come on. I gotta call Fiona. Tell her not to let the kids out of her sight for a while."
Mickey followed him in. "You gonna tell her about this?"
"Some of it."
"She's gonna lose her mind."
"Yeah," Francis said, pulling the door open. "She usually does."
Inside, the bar was the same as he'd left it. The same few guys, the same low hum of the TV, the same cracked stool in the corner that nobody ever fixed. Francis walked behind the counter, pulled his phone out, and stared at it for a second.
Then he dialed.
Fiona picked up on the second ring. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Francis said. "Just keep the kids close for a few days. Pick them up from school yourself. Don't let them walk anywhere alone."
A pause. "Francis."
"It's nothing. Just something I gotta handle."
"Frank?" she asked, and her voice was already climbing.
"Not Frank. Frank's mess, though. Same as always."
Another pause. Longer this time. "I hate him," she said quietly.
"I know."
"If he walked through that door right now, I'd kill him myself."
"Get in line."
She breathed out, slow, like she was forcing herself to calm down. "You need me to do anything?"
"Just watch the kids. Keep them out of trouble. I'll handle the rest."
"Francis."
"Yeah?"
"Don't do anything stupid."
He almost laughed. "Me? Never."
She hung up. Francis set the phone down on the bar, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at the front door. The glass was old, warped, made everything outside look a little bent out of shape. But he could still see the street clear enough. Empty for now.
"She buy it?" Mickey asked from his stool.
"She never buys it," Francis said. "But she'll do what I asked."
He grabbed a rag, started wiping down the bar even though it was already clean. He needed something to do with his hands.