The morning after the chaos felt different. The Alibi was still standing, but the floor smelled like stale beer and spilled cigarettes. Kev was already behind the bar wiping down counters, hair sticking up like he hadn't slept. The neon light buzzed overhead, one letter out, humming like it was mocking them.
Frank Jr. came in with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He tossed it on the counter, unzipped it, and pulled out bottles. Not the usual bottom-shelf rotgut—real stuff. Liquor with labels Kev had only seen at weddings or in movies.
Kev squinted. "Where the hell you get that?"
"Doesn't matter," Frank Jr. said, setting them up in a neat line. "What matters is, this place doesn't just sell beer that tastes like piss. We're gonna mix. Cocktails, shots, the kind of drinks that get people talking. Get them bragging about the Alibi."
Kev stared, one hand on the rag. "This is a dive bar, man. You think Tommy wants a mojito?"
"No. But his girlfriend might. And if she drags him here for one, he's still paying." Frank Jr. cracked a grin, pulling out a shaker, ice, and a bottle of gin. "Watch."
He moved with a precision that didn't belong in the Alibi—pouring, measuring, shaking with quick, practiced motions. Kev's eyes followed, skeptical at first, then curious as the glass slid across the counter filled with something bright and clean.
Kev sniffed it, then sipped. His eyebrows shot up. "Holy shit. That's actually good."
Frank Jr. leaned forward. "It's better than good. It's profit. People get tired of the same beer every night. You give them something new, something that makes them feel classy while still paying dive prices… they'll come back."
Kev let out a low whistle. "Alright, teacher. Show me."
By noon, the bar looked like a classroom. Kev was lined up with another bartender from the neighborhood, both of them fumbling through bottles and shakers while Frank Jr. corrected their pours.
"Too heavy," he said, nudging Kev's elbow. "You're wasting liquor."
"Not enough ice, you'll water it down," he told the other guy.
Kev grumbled, "Christ, you're strict."
"Strict keeps the lights on," Frank said simply.
The next step wasn't drinks—it was the building. Frank Jr. walked through the bar like a landlord taking inventory. The booths were torn, duct tape peeling off the seats. The bathroom smelled like something had died in there a decade ago and never left. Ceiling tiles sagged with old leaks.
He stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, jaw tight. "This isn't a bar. This is a warning sign."
Kev leaned against the counter, sipping a new drink. "Yeah, well, people come anyway."
"Not enough of them."
That afternoon, Frank Jr. made calls. Not big contractors—they couldn't afford that. Just locals. A buddy of Kev's with plumbing tools. A guy from Lip's school who knew drywall. Even Tommy, bribed with free pitchers, came to help sand down the tables.
The work was slow, messy, loud. But it was progress.
Kev nearly gagged when Frank Jr. ripped the bathroom door off its hinges. "You sure you wanna see what's behind there?"
Frank smirked. "If it hasn't killed anyone yet, it's not gonna kill me."
Two days later, the Alibi had a bathroom that didn't smell like death. New paint covered the graffiti. The floors were scrubbed clean for the first time in years. Frank Jr. even replaced the flickering light with something steady.
When the regulars came in, they blinked around like they'd stepped into the wrong building.
Tommy grunted. "Huh. Don't stink as bad."
Kermit muttered, "Feels illegal."
Kev shrugged behind the bar. "Don't blame me. Blame the new boss."
Stan wasn't around to complain. After a final drunken rant about communists stealing his livelihood, he'd been carted off to a nursing home. The news traveled fast, but no one mourned. The Alibi felt lighter without him.
That left the upstairs room. Frank Jr. stood at the base of the stairs one evening, arms folded, staring up like the place was testing him.
Kev followed his gaze. "What're you thinking? Storage?"
"Maybe," Frank said slowly. "Or something that actually makes money. Rent it out. Poker nights. Could even set up a couple beds, charge weekly. Gallagher hostel."
Kev laughed. "Yeah, nothing screams classy like sleeping above a dive bar."
Frank didn't laugh. He was still thinking. Plans spun in his head—ways to pull every dollar possible from this building. The Alibi wasn't just a bar anymore. It was a chance.
By the end of the week, the place looked alive. The neon was fixed. The booths patched. The bar stocked with more than light beer. A few new stools sat in the corner. It wasn't fancy, but it was theirs.
Frank Jr. wiped his hands on a rag, standing back to admire it. For once, he didn't see collapse waiting at the corners. He saw possibility.
He pulled his phone out and dialed.
"Fiona," he said when she answered. "Come to the Alibi. You need to see this."
She arrived twenty minutes later, coat pulled tight, hair still damp from a quick shower. She pushed the door open, ready for the same old stink and smoke.
But she froze.
The smell hit first—not piss and beer, but lemon cleaner. The lights were steady, the floor shined. Even the bar looked organized.
Fiona blinked hard, stepping inside. "What the hell…"
Kev leaned on the counter, smirking. "Welcome to the new Alibi. Courtesy of your brother."
Frank Jr. came out from behind the bar, wiping his hands. "Well? What do you think?"
Fiona turned in a slow circle, disbelief all over her face. "Did I walk into the wrong place? This doesn't look like the Alibi."
Frank grinned. "It is. Just not the one you're used to."
She shook her head, walking toward the bar, running her fingers along the counter. "Jesus Christ. You actually cleaned."
"More than cleaned," Kev said. "He rebuilt half the damn place."
Fiona looked at Frank, eyes narrowing. "Where'd the money come from?"
He shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
He met her gaze, steady. "Don't worry about it. It's legit enough."
She didn't look convinced, but her voice softened as she glanced around again. "It's… nice. Really nice. I don't even know what to say."
Frank Jr. stepped closer, his tone even. "Say you'll help me run it. I can't do this alone. You know how to manage things, Fi. You've been doing it your whole life. Now you can do it for something that pays."
She bit her lip, eyes flicking from him to the polished bar, the patched booths, the smell of cleaner. It didn't look like a Gallagher scheme. It looked like hope.
Fiona sighed, leaning on the counter. "You're serious about this?"
"Dead serious."
Kev chimed in. "Serious enough to make me learn how to pour martinis. Ask my wrist."
Fiona laughed despite herself, shaking her head. She turned back to Frank Jr., studying him like she was trying to figure out who the hell he'd become overnight.
Finally, she nodded. "Alright. I'll help. But if this blows up, I'm not cleaning up after you."
Frank Jr. smirked. "Fair enough."
That night, the Alibi opened under new light. Drinks poured different. Music played louder. Regulars came in, confused at first, then curious. Some grumbled about the changes, but most stayed, drinking what Frank Jr. mixed, filling the booths that didn't collapse under them anymore.
And from the bar, Fiona watched it all. She caught her brother moving through the crowd, calm, steady, sure. He didn't look like the kind of Gallagher she was used to. He looked like someone building something.
And for the first time in a long time, Fiona felt something warm in her chest—like maybe, just maybe, they had a shot.