Marty's pen scratched against the invoice as he tallied numbers that didn't add up. Nine-thirty in the morning and already the math looked wrong—twenty-four cases of beer delivered, but only seventeen paid for. The delivery driver waited by the door, clipboard tucked under his arm like a weapon.
"Short seven cases," Marty said, adjusting his neck brace to its most authoritative angle.
The driver shrugged. "That's what the manifest says. Take it up with accounting."
"I'm taking it up with you." Marty's paranoia kicked in, the familiar tingle that meant someone was trying to screw him. "You think I don't count?"
"I think you don't pay on time." The driver tapped his clipboard. "Company policy. Cash customers get full orders. Credit customers get what they get."
Marty wanted to argue, but the math was simple—he owed them money, they held the leverage. He signed the shortened invoice with unnecessary force, the pen nearly tearing through the carbon paper.
After the driver left, Marty stared at the beer cases stacked by the door like accusations. Not enough to last the week. Not enough to keep the lights on much longer.
He pulled the Cleveland Renaissance Initiative pamphlet from his back pocket, the paper now soft from handling. The smiling faces promised preservation, protection, cultural significance. Ten thousand dollars for qualifying establishments.
From her corner, Stacy hummed to life without prompting, the opening notes of "Money (That's What I Want)" drifting through the empty bar at conspiratorial volume.
"Nobody asked you," Marty muttered, but he didn't shut her off.
Sharp knocking interrupted his brooding—not the usual delivery knock, but the kind that meant business. Dress shoes clicked against pavement outside, a sound that didn't belong in this neighborhood of work boots and sneakers.
Marty peered through the blinds. A man in a tailored suit stood on the sidewalk, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting property. Clean-shaven, perfect posture, the kind of person who'd never spilled beer on himself.
The knocking resumed, patient but insistent.
Marty's neck brace creaked as he hesitated. Nobody dressed like that came to The Rusty Tap unless they were lost or serving papers. Maybe both.
Stacy cut off mid-song, the silence sudden and complete.
Marty unlocked the door, opening it just wide enough to block the entrance with his body. "We're closed."
The man smiled, extending his hand with practiced smoothness. "Elliot Crane, Cultural Liaison for the Cleveland Renaissance Initiative. I believe you've seen our materials."
The handshake was firm but not aggressive, the grip of someone who'd perfected the art of first impressions. Marty found himself stepping back, allowing Elliot inside before he'd consciously decided to do so.
"This is unexpected," Elliot said, surveying the bar with what looked like genuine appreciation. "The photographs in our database don't capture the authentic cultural aesthetic."
He moved through the space with deliberate attention, pausing to admire the duct-taped barstools, the collection of expired liquor licenses thumbtacked to the wall, the jukebox that hummed like a dying refrigerator.
"You took photographs?" Marty asked.
"Preliminary cultural assessment." Elliot produced a business card between his fingers without visible movement, the paper appearing like a magic trick. "We document significant community spaces for preservation consideration."
The card felt heavier than paper should, the surface unnaturally smooth. "Elliot Crane, Cultural Liaison" in raised lettering that caught the bar's dim lighting.
"Preservation of what, exactly?"
Elliot settled onto a barstool with careful grace, his suit managing to look tailored even in the shabby surroundings. "Authentic Cleveland culture. Places like this—genuine community cornerstones—they're disappearing. Replaced by chains, franchises, algorithmic optimization."
He gestured around the bar like he was indicating a museum exhibit. "The Rusty Tap represents something irreplaceable. Character. History. The kind of authentic experience you can't manufacture."
Marty's defensiveness began to soften. Nobody had called his bar irreplaceable before. Barely legal, maybe. Fire hazard, definitely. But never irreplaceable.
"How'd you hear about us?"
"Community outreach identifies culturally significant establishments." Elliot withdrew a sleek tablet, fingers dancing across the screen. "Local gathering places, neighborhood anchors, businesses that serve as social infrastructure."
Images flashed across the tablet—other bars, restaurants, community centers, all looking somehow cleaner, more organized, but recognizably similar to The Rusty Tap. Words like "revitalization" and "cultural preservation" scrolled past in elegant fonts.
"These are all grant recipients," Elliot explained. "The initiative provided funding to maintain their authentic character while ensuring long-term viability."
Marty leaned forward despite himself, studying the before-and-after photographs. The "after" shots showed the same establishments, but subtly improved—better lighting, newer equipment, customers who looked more diverse and engaged.
"How much funding?"
Elliot's smile warmed, recognizing the shift from suspicion to interest. "For establishments that qualify, the cultural preservation grant starts at ten thousand dollars."
The number hit Marty like a physical force. Ten thousand dollars. Enough to cover the beer order shortfall, the electric bill, maybe even fix the men's room door that swung both ways.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch." Elliot's fingers moved across the tablet screen, pulling up forms that looked deceptively simple. "Minimal administrative requirements. Basic operational agreements. The initiative wants to protect places like this, not change them."
Movement upstairs caught Marty's peripheral vision—a shadow crossing the landing, then disappearing. Tasha, probably watching from the stairwell. Her warnings about systems that helped people echoed in his memory, but ten thousand dollars echoed louder.
"Protection from what?"
"Future development pressures," Elliot said smoothly. "As the city modernizes, properties like this face increasing pressure to conform or close. The initiative provides a buffer against those forces."
He swiped to a new screen showing newspaper headlines: "Local Institution Closes After Rent Increase," "Neighborhood Landmark Demolished for Mixed-Use Development," "Family Business Shutters After 40 Years."
"These establishments didn't qualify for preservation," Elliot explained. "They couldn't adapt to changing community needs."
Marty's paranoia connected with his genuine fear. The Rusty Tap existed on borrowed time, surviving through inertia and luck rather than business acumen. How long before his landlord found a more profitable tenant? How long before the health department stopped accepting his explanations?
"The paperwork—"
"Minimal." Elliot turned the tablet toward Marty, stylus appearing in his hand like another magic trick. "Digital signature, basic information, operational preferences. The technology handles the rest."
The contract filled the screen in dense paragraphs that blurred together when Marty tried to focus. Terms like "cultural preservation parameters" and "community engagement optimization" swam past his attention, overwhelmed by the simple fact of immediate financial relief.
"Funds transfer within forty-eight hours," Elliot added, sensing Marty's hesitation. "Direct deposit. No waiting periods or bureaucratic delays."
Marty's grip tightened on his coffee mug, knuckles going white. The math was simple—sign the form, get the money, keep the bar open. Don't sign, watch everything collapse in slow motion.
"There's gotta be strings attached."
"Only the string of mutual benefit." Elliot scrolled to highlighted sections of the contract. "The initiative preserves authentic cultural spaces. You maintain the character that makes The Rusty Tap special. Everyone wins."
The stylus felt warm in Marty's hand, the tablet screen responsive to his touch. He started to read the fine print, but the legal language twisted into incomprehensible knots. Words like "technological integration permissions" and "behavioral analytics optimization" slipped past his comprehension.
"What's this part about integration?"
"Standard language about updating infrastructure while maintaining cultural authenticity." Elliot's explanation sounded reasonable, professional. "WiFi improvements, digital payment systems, basic modernization that doesn't compromise character."
Marty glanced toward the stairs again, but Tasha remained invisible. Her warnings felt distant compared to the immediate pressure of unpaid bills and dwindling inventory.
The signature line pulsed gently on the screen, waiting.
"Forty-eight hours?" Marty asked.
"Guaranteed."
Marty signed, the stylus moving across the screen with surprising smoothness. His signature started confident but trailed off uncertainly, the final letters barely legible.
From her corner, Stacy suddenly erupted with the opening chords of "Deal with the Devil," the volume loud enough to rattle beer glasses.
Elliot stood immediately, mission accomplished with professional efficiency. "Excellent. You'll receive confirmation within the hour, funds within two days."
He extended his hand again, the handshake briefer this time, more like sealing than congratulating. "Someone will be in touch to discuss implementation details."
"Implementation of what?"
"The preservation protocols." Elliot moved toward the door with the same deliberate grace he'd entered with. "Nothing dramatic. Just ensuring the cultural significance is properly maintained and documented."
He paused at the door, turning back with what might have been a smile. "Other establishments in the area haven't qualified for preservation status. The Rusty Tap is fortunate to meet our criteria."
The door closed with finality, leaving Marty alone with the weight of his decision and Stacy's accusatory musical commentary.
He stared at Elliot's business card, the raised lettering somehow more prominent in the bar's dim lighting. The paper felt too perfect, too smooth, like it had been manufactured rather than printed.
His phone chimed with an email notification. Grant approval, fund transfer authorization, technical specifications for "integration requirements" that read like instructions for something he didn't understand.
Footsteps on the stairs announced Tasha's approach. She appeared in the doorway, laptop tucked under her arm, expression carefully neutral.
"Was that them?" she asked simply.
Marty's defensive posture activated automatically, shoulders squaring despite his neck brace. "It's just money. Ten thousand dollars to keep this place running."
"It's never just money."
"Sometimes it is." But the words felt hollow even as he spoke them, the business card growing heavier in his hand. "We needed this."
Tasha studied his face, seeing the conflict he was trying to hide. "What did you sign?"
"Preservation agreement. Cultural significance protection." The official language sounded less convincing when he repeated it. "Standard stuff."
"Standard for who?"
Marty didn't answer, couldn't answer. The deed was done, the signature submitted, the money promised. Whatever came next would have to be dealt with when it arrived.
"Forty-eight hours," he said, more to himself than to Tasha. "That's when we'll know for sure."
Tasha nodded, but her expression suggested she already knew exactly what they'd learn, and none of it would be good.