The Devil's Brew by Rhys Ford Page B

Miki wholly avoided during the bleak times when he’d believed Damie was dead. He couldn’t begin to count how many times they’d sat on the shop’s narrow patio, straddling its long cushioned benches and staring out onto the bay. Stuck in between an old clothes factory and a midcentury office building, Felix’s was a bustling, well-kept local secret—nearly hidden between the two taller structures and manned by a handsome silver-haired Hispanic man with an eye for pretty boys.
    Its oddly triangular building and patio overlooking the water was a frequent stopping place for Sinner’s Gin. Cheap beer and even cheaper excellent food were a great attraction to a struggling band. It’d also been one of the few places Johnny hadn’t been fired from for letting his New York mouth run off on its own.
    “Shit, I can’t believe this place is still here.” Damien beamed at Miki as he handed over two full orders of fish and chips wrapped up in brown paper.
    Miki grabbed the food carefully, having already learned a long time ago it was open on one end, and its contents seemed to easily elude their paper prison if tilted the wrong way. Damie set two brown glass bottles on the bench before slinging his leg over to face Miki.
    “Beer?” Miki grabbed one of the bottles to examine its label. “Kind of early, no? It’s like one or something.”
    “Who’d ever think that would be coming out of one of our mouths,” Damie snorted. “And no, it’s cream soda. Twist them open. I’ll spread out the food.”
    “These don’t twist.” Miki held up a bottle after fighting with it for a few seconds.
    Damie dug out Sionn’s car keys from his pocket. “Here, Sionn’s got a church key.”
    “Shit, how much does he drink that he’s got one of these?” He made a face at Damie. “Owns a pub. Yeah, forgot.”
    They switched off, passing over a soda for a helping of food, and Miki made a face at Damie’s drenching a pile of fries with rooster sauce. After breaking off a piece from a strip of deep-fried, panko-coated cod, Miki dropped the bite-sized piece onto the paper and blew on his fingers to cool them off.
    “You never could wait,” Damien said wistfully.
    They felt right sitting there—together—their knees touching and blocking the wind from chilling their hot fish and chips with their legs. Miki’s eyes drifted to the right, where another bench sat waiting for another pair of men who’d never sit there again, and he blinked, wiping away the sting of tears forming in his eyes.
    If he listened carefully, Miki could almost hear Dave’s soft, rolling laugh and Johnny teasing the Southern man about the merits of mashed potatoes over grits. They’d both stuck to the fish, even when Felix got his hands on Dungeness crab to make into cakes. Damien’d sworn they were the best he’d ever tasted, but Johnny refused to put anything that came out of a shell into his mouth. Dave just said he was a purist, sticking to what Jesus gave the masses to eat.
    Until Damien pointed out draft beer wasn’t on the Jesus menu, and Dave retorted wine was a pussy drink.
    They were stupid, teasing arguments—gone over and over again until Miki could recite them from memory.
    And memory was all they had left now—held together with a melancholy joy of Damie sitting across of him.
    As if able to read Miki’s thoughts—a definite possibility considering all they’d gone through—Damie held up his soda bottle and murmured, “To Dave and Johnny. God, I miss those fucking sons of bitches.”
    “To Dave and Johnny,” Miki echoed. “God help the fucking angels above.”
    This time the tears came in full force, and he let them fall. The men he’d shared a stage and a life with deserved them. Hell, Damie deserved them too, and God knew he’d cried his fucking soul out when he’d found out Damie was alive.
    He’d spent too many moments looking around for the other two members of the band since Damie’d come back. Time slipped away from