Kev's eyes did the slow blink he did when news had to travel a few extra inches to land. Then he scratched the back of his neck and let out a half-laugh that wasn't entirely a laugh.
"Wait—hold up. You wanna buy the Alibi? Like… for real-for real? From him?" He thumbed toward the couch, then the ceiling, then everywhere at once. "You got that kind of money? Licenses? Permits? Dude, not to be a buzzkill, but this isn't, like, a Craigslist bike."
Frank Jr. didn't move. "I'm not here to browse. I'm here to buy."
Kev stared a second longer, then whistled under his breath. "Man, okay. Bold. Super bold. I mean, I respect the energy. But 'I want it' and 'I own it' are two different planets, you know? There's paperwork. There's city dudes who love clipboards. There's insurance. There's… whatever the thing is where they check if the floor falls in."
"It's sorted," Frank said.
Kev squinted. "Sorted how?"
"Handled," Frank said, same tone, same eyes. "All I need is the right time to sit with him. I make my case. We do this proper."
Kev bit his lip, thinking in three directions at once. He glanced back at the lump under the blanket, then back to Frank. "Timing matters. You can't pitch him on a bad hour. Good hour, he hears every word. Bad hour, he hears none of 'em and the words he does hear turn into pizza toppings."
"Then you tell me when," Frank said. "I want the meeting where he's sharp. I want him to sign because it makes sense."
Downstairs, a stool scraped. A laugh rose and broke. Sr.'s voice slipped up the stairwell again—louder now, like he'd found fresh wind. "O! The usurper waits in halls of sickness to pluck the crown!"
Kev raised two fingers, not even looking down the stairs. "Two more minutes, Frank," he called. "You start a tab, you don't get a sermon."
A beat. A cough. A grumble. Then the jukebox. It worked.
Kev blew out his cheeks, nodded to himself, and faced Frank again. "Okay. Say he says yes. What about me?"
"You keep your job," Frank said. "You get a raise."
Kev's eyebrows went north. "A raise? Like… a real one? Not the kind where I get a free burger on Tuesdays?"
"Real one," Frank said. "You keep the bar running like you already do. I lift everything around you so it doesn't fight you back."
Kev rubbed his hands together slowly, thinking out loud. "A raise sounds… crazy nice. And my name stays on the day-to-day? I'm not trying to watch some guy in a suit show up and tell me to sell mojitos to Tony who drinks warm High Life."
"This stays the Alibi," Frank said. "We clean what needs cleaning. We fix what's broken. We keep what makes it home."
"Okay," Kev said, nodding, rhythm building. "Okay, okay. So we're talking… new lines on the taps. Maybe the cooler doesn't die on Fridays. Maybe a new ice machine so I'm not back there with a mallet like I'm tenderizing a glacier. Maybe the bathroom door locks so people stop holding them with a foot. And, like, a soft towel behind the bar that's not older than me? Is that in scope?"
Frank almost smiled. "Yes."
"And a bouncer on Saturdays," Kev added, warming up. "Not a scary bouncer, just a guy whose shoulders say 'nah.' Because last week Daryl brought his cousin who brought drama and I do not lift that much drama."
"We can do that," Frank said.
Kev paced one short loop, hands on hips, then stopped. "What about the kitchen? Not a full menu. Just… something better than peanuts that taste like bar."
"Small kitchen," Frank said. "Something hot, something fast, something cheap."
Kev nodded, eyes gone far like he could see it already. "Chili fries. Maybe sliders. People go crazy for little burgers they can count wrong."
"Good," Frank said. "Write a list. We'll do the list."
Kev snapped back to the room, studying Frank. He cocked his head. "Why us? Like, why put this kind of money and time here? There a reason?"
"Because this place takes care of people who don't have anywhere else," Frank said. "That's worth something. Also because it can make real money if it stops trying to sink."
"Facts," Kev said, half-grin slipping out. "Man, you're dangerous when you're calm."
From the couch, a small cough lifted. Kev went there in two steps, adjusted the blanket, checked the breathing, and came back. His voice lowered a tone, softer. "If you're serious—and it sounds like you are—then we pick your window for a sit-down. He gets tired hard around two. He's better late morning and right after a nap. You don't rush him. You don't crowd him. You make it sound like a favor you're asking from him, even if it's a gift you're giving."
Frank nodded once. "You say when. I'll be ready."
Kev scratched his jaw. "Today, you don't pitch. Today, you say you wanna help him rest. You let him see you're not here to grab. Tomorrow morning, if he wakes in a lane, I'll call you. You come back with papers—plain. Not a lawyer phone book. One page that says what it says."
"I can do that."
"And you promise me this," Kev said, pointing at the floor. "I don't wake up one day and find out you flipped this to some chain and I'm explaining sangria flights to a man whose teeth are older than the Bears' last playoff win."
"This stays ours," Frank said again.
Kev breathed out and finally smiled like it reached him. "Alright then."
He turned, opened the desk drawer, and pulled out a battered spiral notebook, the front cover tattooed with phone numbers, beer orders, and a crude drawing that looked suspiciously like a pickle lifting weights. He flipped to a blank page.
"Let's make your list," he said. "Lights. Taps. Ice. Bathroom lock. Bouncer. Chili fries. Towels that don't feel like they were sanded on a porch." He wrote as he spoke, blunt pencil moving fast. "Oh—and the neon. The N flickers like it owes back rent."
Frank leaned in, watching the pencil scratch. "Inventory system," he said. "We stop guessing. We start counting."
Kev clicked his tongue. "Counting. Bold concept for a bar. Add it."
He scribbled, then paused and looked up, more serious. "You tell Fiona soon. Not as a surprise. As a choice. If she's going to be manager which I know that's what you are aiming for her, she chooses it. She doesn't get told it."
"She'll choose it," Frank said.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
Kev held his gaze a second longer, saw whatever he needed to see, and nodded. He tore the page out, folded it twice, pressed it into Frank's palm like a handshake made of paper.
"Cool. Then go downstairs and don't punch your dad," he said. "I'll sit here until he sleeps. You keep the peace until he does."
As if summoned, Sr.'s voice flared again from below—richer, newly aggrieved. "—and then the boy declares himself king of the beer swamp! A monarch of mildew!"
Kev winced and chuckled at once. "He's got a way with words. Mostly the wrong way."
"I'll handle it," Frank said, turning for the hall.
He took the stairs down steady, each creak answering the last. The bar's light spread up to meet him—warm amber, a low glow that made bruised wood look like honey. The woman behind the counter caught his eye and flicked a glance at the door like: if you're taking charge, start small, start now.
Sr. spun toward him, arms open wide again. "Have you come to kiss the ring? Or to steal it, O Caesar of Cans?"
Frank walked past him to the bar and tapped two fingers on the wood. "Water," he told the woman. She poured it, slid it. He set it on the table in front of Sr.
"Drink it," he said. "Then go home, oh you don't have one."
Sr. squinted at the glass like it had betrayed him. He scoffed, took it anyway, and tossed back half with dramatic suffering. "Mmm. Delicious. Notes of tyranny. Finish is regret."
"Finish is you on your feet," Frank said.
The regulars watched the exchange like a ballgame with no score. One of them snorted into his sleeve. Another nodded, slow, like a metronome.
Sr. set the glass down, leaned in, voice dropping to something almost human. "You think you're different than me. You're not."
Frank looked at him, and for a beat there was, no witnesses. "I know," he said. "That's why I'm stopping now."
Sr. blinked. The show hiccupped. He looked away first.
The door breathed cold air when a courier came and left. The neon buzzed its lazy hornet buzz. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard shifted; rest found the man on the couch.
Frank stood there and let the room settle around him, the way a mechanic listens to an engine find idle. The woman behind the bar put a coaster under Sr.'s glass. Kev's notebook list warmed the pocket over Frank's heart.
"Tomorrow," he said to no one and everyone, and the Alibi seemed to hear him.