Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)
Barry Eisler
1—NOW
Billy Barnett dug the Asian chick sitting next to him. She was slim and petite, but with a nice little rack shown off by a form-fitting, long-sleeve yoga shirt. He’d asked if she was coming from a late workout when he’d first sidled up next to her at the bar at Ray’s, dipping his head close so she could hear him over the music from the jukebox, and she’d told him yeah, a workout that had earned her a drink, and he’d laughed and asked if he could buy her one, and she’d said sure, a white wine wouldn’t be so bad. He’d been surprised by that—her hair was dyed peroxide blonde and she was wearing a lot of purple eye shadow behind a pair of oversized, horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and a chick with a look that wild would ordinarily be the type for tequila shots, say, or maybe a vodka martini with a twist if she was trying to play it more upscale. But hey, whatever.
So he’d asked her name, which turned out to be Sue, as though that mattered, and he’d ordered her the wine she wanted, with a Bulleit back for himself, and they’d bullshitted about how she’d just moved to Marysville because her ex-husband was here and they had joint custody of their kid, and now she had to get a job and deal with interviews and how was she going to find anything half as good as what she’d left in LA, personal assistant to some movie producer Billy had never heard of. But f*ck, he didn’t care about her story. What mattered was that she’d come to Ray’s all made up even after a workout, street clothes still in a big backpack so she could show off that sweet body in her yoga outfit, and wearing flip-flops like she couldn’t wait to get barefoot and jump straight into the sack. All meaning she was looking for a little action, right? Practically begging for it.
Ray’s closed at two—less than an hour away. Billy knew he shouldn’t think about that, shouldn’t imagine it. He was in Ray’s four, maybe five nights a week, his neighborhood place since being released from the Monroe Twin Rivers Unit the previous month. Hell, Ray, who was tending bar tonight and was himself an ex-con, knew Billy, even called him by his nickname, Barn. If this Asian chick kicked up a fuss, Ray’s would be the first place the cops would come looking. And they’d finger Billy just from the description: Big, solid-looking guy; long, dark hair; accent straight out of Beaumont; spends his time at Ray’s? Gotta be my man Barn. Let’s pick him up, bring him in for questioning. Send his ass back to Monroe and we never should have let him go in the first place.
But shit, the bourbon was giving everything that vibe, that great, invulnerable up feeling like he could do anything he wanted, take anything he wanted, get away with anything he wanted. He lifted his glass and drained it, closing his eyes for a moment to savor the sweet smell in his sinuses, the sting in his throat, the mushrooming impact inside his head, and he heard the crack of balls on the pool table, and felt the steady stomping beat of Bruce Springsteen’s “Spirit in the Night,” and he opened his eyes and looked at the Asian chick, and she was smiling at him, and he wanted to, he so f*cking wanted to.
And besides, Asian chicks put up with a lot of shit, didn’t they, rather than have to deal with public humiliation? It was why there were so many molesters on Japanese trains, it was too crowded for the girls to move away and they’d silently endure almost anything rather than draw attention to themselves. That’s what he’d heard, anyway, he’d never been to Asia but he’d always wanted to go.
Well, maybe you can take a little trip there tonight.
And even if she did go to the cops, there were a half dozen people in here, including Ray himself, who would attest that she’d shown up in that tight yoga outfit and the garish makeup, and eased out of her sweatshirt like a striptease, and flirted with Billy for hours, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm, letting him buy her drinks. How would she explain all that?
Of course, the real problem was more Hammerhead than the law. Not that the guys had any moral qualms about some slut getting what was coming to her, but a member drawing heat due to repeated sexual assault charges wasn’t particularly good for business, and Billy was already semi in the shit for just that reason. His orders were to keep a low profile following his release—stay clear of the gang, stay out of trouble, head back to Seattle when the weekly meetings with the state-appointed therapist were done and he was no longer being watched so closely.
But shit, the way he liked to play it, who would ever even know? He almost never needed to threaten, and only twice had he had to resort to the hunting knife he kept in a leather sheath attached to his belt. No, he knew how to do it right. Get the chick alone, start to get rough with her, and then, when she tried to stop him, accuse her of leading him on. His size and sudden anger always scared them, threw them off balance, chilled them right out. Yeah, this hot little Asian chick would give it up. Even persuade herself it was her decision, or at least her fault. And she’d know no one would believe her if she tried to claim otherwise.
He gestured to her nearly empty glass. “Like another?”
She shook her head. “Three’s my limit. Especially after a workout.” She smiled shyly, as though confessing something shameful. “I’m such a lightweight. I think I’ve already had too much. But you go ahead, if you want.”
He did want. He did indeed.
He nodded to Ray, then pointed at his empty glass. Ray picked up the Bulleit bottle and strolled over. “You guys good?” he said as he refilled the glass to three fingers. One of the benefits of being a regular—Ray didn’t stint on the refills.