“Old nickname,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Come on.” He dropped his playful tone, and I almost wished it back. I followed him up the dusty, rickety staircase to the shoebox-sized office that existed on the second floor, above the stage and bar. When I stepped inside, next to Max, the sight sent my organizer brain into hyper-mode. But I wrestled it into submission so I could beam at Pop.
“Hiya, Fi,” he grumbled, standing up. “It’s nice to see ya.”
Pop was white, bald, and covered in faded blue tattoos. He commanded a huge amount of respect in this community. The Hand Grenades wouldn’t have gotten their start without small music venues like this one. Until now, the thought that this place was facing a financial disaster had been a nebulous one. The reality was much more painful.
“Hey Pop,” I said, swooping in for a hug. He patted my shoulder awkwardly, coughing a little when I stepped back. “You must be happy to have Max home for a little while?”
“Yeah, I don’t mind him.” He shrugged. On his desk was a haphazard pile of papers and mail and documents. My fingers itched to put them into some kind of order. “He gets me bagels in the morning.”
Max hooked his boot around a folding chair, dragged it over, and sank back into it, long legs stretched out. “They say the love a parent has for their child can’t be described in words. I don’t mind him really packs a punch, Pop.”
I pulled up my own chair, smiling to myself at Pop’s quasi-stoic grouchiness. His vibe was actually a comforting one—he was so similar to the range of punk musicians that used to hang at our house when I was growing up. My parents always stood out due to their effusive affection and cheery attitudes. But I knew a little bit about Max’s mom—knew that she and Pop were divorced and Pop raised Max on his own with a dedication my parents were always quick to praise.
When I got myself situated and glanced back up at Pop, his nerves were on full display. I gave Max a small smile. “So Max told me there might be some legal issues going on with The Red Room I could help with?”
He handed me a piece of paper that looked crinkled and smoothed over countless times. I scanned it quickly, noted the familiar language. He was, as Max had said, being sued for back rent in the amount of $48,295, owed within fourteen days or he’d be expected in court and facing eviction. The amount owed on this sheet of paper was minuscule compared to the elite clients I worked with, who tended to be Manhattanites leaving behind estates worth millions of dollars. But this amount was absolutely exorbitant for a club barely scraping by in a neighborhood growing more expensive by the day.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. He kept his eyes trained on the floor. “I’ll still have some colleagues examine this to ensure there’s nothing illegal happening. But, technically, this is New York City law when it comes to eviction notices. I’m guessing it’s been a few months of not paying full rent, right?”
He nodded. “It’s been tight. I’ve been trying to move some cash around to do some interior upgrades and push the landlord to do some outside work. I know it’s a little dated or whatever.”
I cast another glance at Max. “Yeah, it’s a little dated,” he chimed in. “But I think the biggest priority is whether or not you’re gonna have to find another place to rent. And owe money that we don’t have.”
He wasn’t going to find another place to rent—that was the issue. Not in this city and not right now.
I took out a pen and my legal pad and began taking notes, jotting down some lawyer friends who could help. “Do you have your previous rental agreements with this landlord? Evidence of what you’ve been paying? I’ll make copies and provide them to some colleagues immediately. I’ll let them know the deadline and make sure they don’t delay.”
Max cleared his throat, and I deciphered the question on his face.
“Pro bono, of course,” I said quickly. There was no way I was going to force them to pay legal fees on top of this.
“Yeah, I can probably find it, uh… well, it’s somewhere in here.” Pop looked sheepish, rubbing the top of his head. I bit my lip, made a sweeping glance of the dusty mayhem in this office.
“We’ll find it,” Max said.
“I’ll help,” I said, surprised at the gratitude on Max’s face. “My future brother-in-law mentors small businesses and helps them develop plans to increase their revenue. He might be a resource. Running a business in Manhattan can be confusing and expensive, even for the savviest folks.
“I’ve never been savvy,” Pop said, smiling a little.
“It’s overrated,” Max said. He nudged my chair with his foot, catching my attention. “The amount that Pop could owe, should we have the money pulled together in case we need to pay it?”
Fourteen days, $50,000. A sick feeling spread in my stomach as I stared at the letter in my lap.
“Yes,” I said firmly. Gray areas and nuance weren’t going to help this situation. “It is extremely likely Pop will need to pay the back rent in full in two weeks so he’s not evicted.”
Max looked ever-so-briefly devastated—which yanked at my heartstrings so fast I was startled. But he smoothed it over with a casual shrug. “That’s good to know, thank you.”
I tapped my pen, tapped my foot, running through a few potential solutions. “Do you mind if I ask you how business has been in general? Busy? Slow?”
“Could be busier,” Pop said, mumbling a little.
Max looked up sharply. “Why didn’t you say anything? You always tell me things are fine here.”
“They are fine.”
“Could be busier is your code for things are shit,” Max said.
Pop shifted in his chair, crossed his arms tighter. “It’s not shit. But we’re down on days we’re at capacity, down on bookings. There are bigger, fancier venues people are flocking towards. I notice it.”
Max’s brow creased but he stayed silent.
“Things change in this city all the time,” Pop said.
This was a dinner table conversation I was used to in the Quinn house. Both of my parents were born-and-raised, fought against things like gentrification and the tearing down of historic buildings and cultural spaces like this one.
“Yeah,” Max sighed, rubbing that crease from his brow. Plastering on a smile that didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “Either way, sounds like we need to find some paperwork and scrounge up fifty grand while we’re at it.”
There was a large buzzer sound that made me jump but Pop and Max didn’t even notice.
“That’s the beer delivery for the week,” Pop said. “I’ll go help unload. Maybe we could get those documents for Fiona before she leaves?”
Pop went to walk past me. Stopped. Patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just you talking to me today was really helpful, Fi. You don’t need to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. Or obligated.”
“I’m a Quinn. We don’t say things we don’t mean,” I said. “If I felt obligated, I would have ignored Max when he called.”
“Would have probably served him right,” Pop said soberly—but with a twinkle in his eye.
“I get no respect in this establishment,” Max called over his shoulder, already hauling open drawers.