Marty's phone buzzed against the register at 7:43 AM, the notification sound splitting through the morning quiet like a gunshot. He'd been refreshing his banking app for twenty minutes, the screen lighting his unshaven face in the pre-dawn gloom of The Rusty Tap.
His neck brace creaked as he leaned forward, squinting at the display. The numbers didn't register at first—too many zeros, too much possibility for his brain to process before coffee.
DEPOSIT: $10,000.00
SOURCE: Cleveland Renaissance Initiative
STATUS: Available
"Holy shit," he whispered, the words echoing off empty bottles. "It actually came."
He screenshot the confirmation with trembling fingers, then zoomed in to verify each digit. Ten thousand dollars. Real money. More than he'd seen in his account since the card game that won him this place.
His neck brace loosened two notches as he poured morning whiskey into his coffee mug. The first sip burned, but for once it felt like celebration instead of medication.
From her corner, Stacy's lights flickered to life, launching into "We're in the Money" with suspicious timing.
"Yeah, yeah," Marty muttered, but he was grinning. "Show-off."
The overflowing drawer beneath the register surrendered its burden of unpaid bills—red notices, final warnings, shut-off threats arranged in archaeological layers of mounting panic. He spread them across the bar like a dealer laying out cards, sorting by urgency and humiliation factor.
Electric company: three months behind. Water and sewer: past due. Liquor distributor: credit suspended. The pile of shame that had grown taller than his hopes shrank to manageable problems with actual solutions.
The ancient desktop computer at the bar's end wheezed to life, its fan grinding protest after protest as he logged into account after account. Each payment confirmation felt like lifting weights off his chest. Numbers switching from red to green, balances zeroing out, warnings disappearing into digital heaven.
By 8:15, he was on the phone with Kellerman's Spirits, his voice stronger than it had been in months.
"Yeah, it's Marty Grissom from The Rusty Tap. I know, I know—but my credit's good now. Full payment on delivery." He leaned back in his chair, neck brace at its loosest setting. "I want the premium stuff this time. Real scotch, not the stuff that tastes like regret."
The order grew ambitious: top-shelf liquor, craft beer selection, actual food options beyond the stale pretzels that had been breeding behind the bar since the Clinton administration.
"Thursday delivery? Perfect. And Jim? Thanks for not cutting me off completely."
Footsteps on the stairs above interrupted his victory lap. Tasha descended like a shadow, her black hoodie and combat boots making no sound on the worn wood. Her eyes swept the bar, cataloging the scattered bills, the glowing computer screen, the unlocked whiskey drawer.
"It arrived, didn't it?" she said.
Marty gestured at his phone like a magician revealing a trick. "Ten grand. Digital deposit, cleared and available."
"Let me see the paperwork."
His celebration stuttered. "What paperwork?"
"The grant agreement. Terms, conditions, compliance requirements." Tasha's expression sharpened. "The document you signed to get that money."
Marty's hands moved automatically to his neck brace, tightening it a notch. "I filed it somewhere safe."
"Where?"
He rummaged through the register area with theatrical intensity, shuffling receipts and napkins like he was searching for buried treasure. "Must be in the office."
"You don't have an office."
"Behind the—no, that's cleaning supplies." His movements grew more frantic, more obviously performative. "Look, the money's real. That's what matters, right?"
Tasha studied him with the clinical precision of someone debugging faulty code. "You never read the full agreement, did you?"
"I read enough. Ten thousand dollars for cultural preservation. Seemed straightforward."
"Nothing involving that much money is straightforward." She pulled out her tablet, fingers flying across the screen. "Especially from municipal authorities with integration mandates."
Marty busied himself with organizing liquor bottles, avoiding her gaze. The bills were paid, the bar was saved—details felt like luxury problems for future Marty to solve.
Alone for a moment, his eyes drifted toward the basement door. Behind those stairs, tucked in a cardboard box behind paint cans, sat the actual grant paperwork. Thirty-seven pages of legal language that had given him a headache just looking at the headers.
He'd meant to read it thoroughly. Really meant to. But the money had been too urgent, the bills too threatening, the opportunity too rare to risk with overthinking.
The front door chimed—not the usual squeak of hinges, but an actual electronic sound he didn't remember installing.
A courier stood on the threshold, professional in his pressed uniform and clipboard authority. "Delivery for The Rusty Tap, Cultural Preservation Initiative."
The package was small, lightweight, wrapped in official brown paper with a city seal stamped in red wax. Marty signed the delivery confirmation with growing unease, the weight of consequences settling back across his shoulders.
Inside, nested in foam padding, sat a sleek black device about the size of his palm. A security camera, its lens reflecting the bar's fluorescent lights like a mechanical eye.
The enclosed note was brief:
Installation required for all grant recipients. Positioning near main entrance ensures compliance with cultural documentation standards. Thank you for your participation in Cleveland's future.
Below the text, a small city permit sticker was already attached to the camera's base.
Marty turned the device over in his hands, feeling its solid weight, the precision of its construction. Modern technology in his analog sanctuary, as out of place as a tuxedo in a laundromat.
The installation instructions were detailed but simple. Pre-drilled mounting bracket, self-tapping screws, standard electrical connection. Someone had made this very easy to comply with.
He selected a corner near the front door—the least intrusive spot that still satisfied the positioning requirements. His tools appeared from behind the bar: screwdriver, level, wire strippers worn smooth from decades of cable installation work.
The camera mounted easily, its bracket clicking into place with mechanical satisfaction. When he connected the power cable, a small red light blinked to life, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The lens adjusted with a subtle whir, scanning left and right before settling on a view that captured the entire front entrance and most of the bar's main floor.
Marty stepped back to observe his handiwork. The device was small, professionally installed, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. But once you saw it, you couldn't unsee it—a permanent reminder that someone, somewhere, was watching.
The red light reflected in the chrome trim of nearby barstools, in the mirror behind the bar, in Stacy's glass front. Suddenly the entire space felt observed, catalogued, measured against standards he didn't fully understand.
Stacy responded with "Somebody's Watching Me" at low volume, her lights pulsing in rhythm with the camera's red beacon.
"Very funny," Marty muttered, but his voice carried less conviction than before.
Through the front window, he watched ordinary Cleveland morning traffic: delivery trucks, commuters, the familiar rhythm of a city waking up. But now he was connected to that rhythm in a new way, broadcasting his small corner of existence to servers and databases and whoever monitored cultural preservation initiatives.
The money in his account felt different now—not stolen exactly, but borrowed against something he hadn't fully calculated. Ten thousand dollars worth of freedom, paid for with a red light that never blinked off.
Outside, a small drone paused near the traffic light across the street, its camera adjusting to focus on The Rusty Tap's front door with mechanical precision.
The red lights blinked at each other like old friends sharing secrets.