C29: A bar
[A few days later] [The Old Haunt]
Late afternoon rain tapped softly against the dusty front windows of The Old Haunt while tired jazz music drifted through half-empty rooms that smelled faintly of stale beer, old wood, and decades of cigarette smoke buried deep inside the walls.
The place looked like a relic stubbornly refusing to die.
Half the ceiling lights flickered inconsistently. One booth near the far wall had duct tape holding the leather together. The old pool table leaned slightly to one side like it had given up fighting gravity sometime during the Reagan administration. Even the neon beer signs looked exhausted.
Travis sat inside the cramped office, while an ancient ceiling fan rattled overhead like it was threatening to detach itself from reality. The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke soaked into old wood from decades ago. A faded Yankees poster hung crooked behind the desk while stacks of unpaid bills sat near an overflowing ashtray.
Wilbur Pittorino, aka Billy Pitt, leaned back in his chair, thick fingers drumming against the desk while he studied Travis with the same expression old street guys always used when trying to figure out whether someone was stupid or dangerous.
Billy Pitt looked older than the reports said. Prison and stress had carved deep lines into his face. His gray shirt stretched tightly across a heavy stomach while gold rings rested on his fingers like souvenirs from a better decade. The cigar between his fingers had already burned unevenly because he spent more time glaring than smoking.
"You know," Pitt muttered while narrowing his eyes slightly, "most people walk into this place wanting a drink. You walked in asking for ownership papers." He pointed the cigar vaguely toward the floor beneath them. "Makes me think you're either very smart or very stupid."
Travis sat comfortably with one leg crossed over the other. He looked completely relaxed despite the fact that two large men stood outside the office door pretending not to listen.
"Depends who you ask," He replied casually while glancing around the office. "My captain probably votes stupid at least twice a week."
Billy let out a rough laugh before taking another slow drag from the cigar.
"The bar pulls steady cash on weekends," he said. "Good location, loyal regulars... History." He spread one hand slightly. "One-fifty."
Travis almost smiled.
There it was.
The number already sounded weak coming out of Pitt's mouth.
Outside the dirty office window, Travis could see part of the neighborhood changing in real time. Old pawn shops were turning into overpriced cafés selling coffee that looked like chemistry experiments. Construction crews had already started working three blocks away. Another luxury apartment building was climbing upward like a parasite feeding on the remains of old Manhattan.
The Old Haunt sat directly in the middle of it all like an aging boxer refusing to stay down.
And it was bleeding money.
Travis leaned forward slightly and picked up one of the unpaid utility notices sitting on the desk. He looked at it before setting it back down.
"You've missed three electrical payments," he said calmly. "Liquor supplier cut your credit line two months ago. Your kitchen barely passes health inspections, and the investors are already pulling out. How long do you think you can last?"
Billy's eyes narrowed immediately.
"You dig around a lot for a cop."
Travis ignored that completely.
"Your staff's down to six people because half the neighborhood stopped coming after the subway construction started rerouting foot traffic." He tilted his head slightly while looking around again. "And based on the smell downstairs, your refrigeration system is about one bad summer day away from exploding."
Billy slowly removed the cigar from his mouth.
"You trying to buy my bar or bury me?"
"I'm trying to stop you from pretending this place still lives in 1987."
That landed harder than Travis expected.
Billy leaned back quietly after that, jaw tightening while the old ceiling fan kept rattling overhead.
The truth hurt because the old man already knew every word of it.
Travis stayed patient. Negotiations always moved better once silence started doing part of the work for him.
Finally, Billy spoke again.
"One-forty."
Travis immediately shook his head.
"The business itself is worth almost nothing right now." He rested his arms lightly against the chair while keeping his tone calm. "What I'm really buying is the liquor license, the location, and whatever sentimental value keeps you sitting in this office instead of cutting losses already."
Billy gave him a sharp look.
"You got balls saying that inside my building."
"Probably," Travis admitted casually. "Still doesn't change the math."
The old ex-con stared at him for several long seconds while smoke drifted lazily through the office between them.
Travis already knew how this would go.
Billy Pitt needed liquidity fast. His gambling debts were worse than public records showed, and the gentrification wave slowly strangling the neighborhood had killed whatever long-term hope remained for the bar. Another six months and he would either sell cheap to developers or drown alongside the building.
And beneath all of it sat the real treasure.
Travis could almost picture the hidden stash below the foundation walls from his past-life memories. Crates of ultra-rare Prohibition-era scotch sealed away during federal raids nearly a century ago. Collectors in 2009 would kill each other over one once authenticated properly.
Billy didn't know it existed.
Travis leaned back comfortably again before speaking.
"One-twenty."
Billy laughed immediately.
"No chance."
'Yeah, that's all the money I can afford right now with all the fixing costs of this place. Maybe I should hit a casino,' Travis thought. The thing is, he invested most of the money he got from his undercover mission. Right now, he has around 200 grand in his account. Let's just say, he won a lottery back when he was in the cartel, undercover.
Travis shrugged lightly. "Then keep it." He reached into his jacket slowly and pulled out a folded property assessment sheet. "Because this place already owes enough money to collapse under its own weight."
Billy grabbed the paper roughly and scanned it. The deeper he read, the less amused he looked.
Taxes.
Repair estimates.
Projected neighborhood valuation shifts.
Operational losses.
Every ugly number sat there waiting for him like a firing squad.
"You came prepared," Billy muttered bitterly.
Travis gave him a faint grin. "I hate losses. So, if I were to make some money out of this place, I'll have to restore this place, and it ain't cheap."
Billy tossed the paper back onto the desk and rubbed his jaw hard enough to make it creak.
"One-thirty-five."
Travis shook his head again without hesitation.
"One-twenty cash. Clean transfer and fast closing." He tilted his head slightly while holding Billy's gaze. "And you walk away before the city buries this block under frozen yogurt stores and luxury gyms."
Billy actually looked offended hearing that.
"They already opened one of those yoga places down the street," he muttered darkly.
"Exactly my point."
Silence returned again.
Downstairs, muffled laughter echoed through the old bar while somebody played badly on the jukebox. Glasses clinked. A pool ball cracked loudly somewhere below them. The Old Haunt still had life left inside it.
Just not enough.
Billy looked around his office slowly, like he was seeing the place properly for the first time in years. The unpaid bills, cracked walls, and then there were those old photos hanging behind the desk showing younger versions of himself standing beside men, either dead or locked away forever.
The city had moved on while he stayed behind guarding a ghost.
Finally, he looked back at Travis.
"One-twenty-five."
Travis stayed quiet for a second like he was considering it seriously.
Then he stood up slowly.
"One-twenty," he repeated calmly while buttoning his jacket. He looked directly at Billy now. "That's the best offer coming through that door before the developers arrive with bulldozers and fake smiles."
Billy cursed quietly under his breath. Then he pointed the cigar at Travis again.
"You drive people insane on purpose, don't you?"
"Occupational hazard."
Billy stared for a few seconds before finally exhaling hard.
"…Fine. One-twenty."
Travis extended his hand immediately.
Billy looked down at it like signing a peace treaty with an enemy.
Then the old conman grabbed it firmly.
The deal was done.
..
The next few days turned into a bureaucratic knife fight wrapped inside piles of paperwork, signatures, inspections, and city officials pretending they actually cared about public safety.
Billy Pitt stayed true to the agreement, though he complained through every stage of the transfer like a man watching somebody tow away his favorite corpse.
The liquor license caused the bigger headache.
Apparently, the city disliked transferring ownership of bars attached to decades of complaints, unpaid violations, health citations, and old organized crime rumors. One inspector tried delaying the approval after discovering missing maintenance records dating back to the late nineties. Another suddenly became very interested in "structural concerns" after ignoring the building for nearly eight years.
Travis solved that problem with one phone call.
A lawyer named Vincent Moretti stepped into the situation like a shark smelling blood in shallow water. Three days later, paperwork that should have taken months somehow received signatures overnight. Missing forms appeared from nowhere. Inspection delays vanished. A licensing supervisor suddenly decided the Old Haunt represented "historical business value" worth preserving.
Money moved.
Favors moved faster.
By the end of the week, everything was done.
The Old Haunt officially belonged to Travis Wilson.
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