Perversion (Perversion Trilogy #1)(17)

I down a shot of whiskey; the amber liquid barely burns my throat. It’s watered down cheap shit, but then again, the same can be said for the entire bar. Pieced-together furniture is strewn haphazardly around the two pool tables in the center of the room. Mismatched wall hangings, posters, and neon beer signs that either don’t work or aren’t plugged in litter the walls. No rhyme or reason for any of it.

I set the shot glass down on the side of the table, then glance around. It doesn’t take long to sort through the patrons and notice that who I’m looking for isn’t here yet. There are only a couple of dozen people in BB’s Bar tonight, but it doesn’t take a lot to make the small space feel crowded. The muffled sounds of conversation hum all around me along with the occasional burst of laughter. The smell of fried pickles, stale cheap beer, and cigarettes fill the hazy air.

“Three shots in a row?” Sandy asks, his mouth hanging open so that his jaw, if it could, might drag along the sticky ground. He snaps it back shut when he sees me looking at him. He ruffles his mop of reddish-brown hair which is a few weeks overdue for a cut. “Why do I even bother playing with you, Grim?”

“It’s gotta be better than playing with yourself all the fucking time,” Haze puts in. He holds his own pool stick in one hand while he uses the other to pretend to jerk it off. He bites his lip and humps the air theatrically.

“Fuck off,” Sandy replies, giving him a middle finger.

Haze sits on a high stool with his eyes locked onto the door. He turns his ball cap backward his long black beard in stark contrast to his otherwise all-American looks.

“Not here yet,” Sandy muses, following Haze’s stare.

“You don’t fucking say?” I ask sarcastically. “Staring ain’t gonna get them here any fucking faster, so do me a favor and stop. You look like a fucking pit-bull, waiting for someone to drop their steak.”

“Maybe, I am,” Haze replies.

“What’s crawled up your ass?” Sandy asks.

Haze blows out a breath. “Just got other shit on my mind tonight, is all.” He suddenly stands from his stool. He gives me a curt nod just as the bell over the door of BB’s Bar rings out. I don’t look over. Not yet.

I wait for Sheila, our usual waitress and part-owner of the bar, to finish refilling my shot glass. She does it slowly, bending over as much as possible to put her ample cleavage on display. I make a show of looking and appreciating at what she has to offer because if I don’t, she’ll only try harder to get my attention, and I don’t need her to try any harder right now.

I need her to leave.

I return her wink as she finally walks away. Only now do I allow myself to glance over my shoulder where I see Memo and Gil strutting up to the bar with their yellow Los Muertos bandanas in full view. Memo’s got his wrapped around his forehead while Gil’s got his hanging from his back pocket.

NOW, the night has truly begun.

I crack my neck, and Sandy stubs out his cigarette

When Haze pretends to be interested in our game for the first time all night, I know we’ve been spotted.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Bitches of Bedlam,” Memo sings as he approaches the table. His gold front tooth gleams under the yellow fluorescent lights.

“You know what would be awesome? If you could live up to your name. Los Muertos. The dead. If you could just really BE dead, that would be fab,” Sandy says, holding his pool stick in front of him.

Gil sneers. He leans over the pool table, scattering the balls around the table. “Heard you boys are missing a shipment,” Gil says with a knowing grin on his scarred-up face. “Shame you can’t keep better track of your shit.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Sandy asks, straightening his shoulders and walking around the table until his chest is almost touching Gil’s.

Gil places his palms up in mock surrender. He shakes his head. “Of course not, brotha. Haven’t you heard? There’s a truce between Bedlam and Los Muertos. Peace. As much as I would love to be the one who ripped you faggots off, we ain’t jacked your shit.” His lip turns up at the corner. “Well, not this time anyway.”

Sandy lets out a long whistle.

“Then, how come your boys were spotted selling weapons that looked an awful lot like the ones we were expecting in that truck?” I ask, re-racking the balls.

Memo shrugs. “Just because we got ‘em don’t mean they’re yours. Weapons all look alike.”

“Hold on there. No need to be racist about it,” Haze chimes in.

Memo snarls.

Gil shifts from one foot to another, sizing up Sandy, who fakes a yawn. “You ain’t foolin’ no one, homes. I can see in your eyes how much you want to throw a punch,” he taunts. “Go ahead. Do it.”

Sandy remains still with a knowing smirk on his face.

“Oh wait,” Gil jabs his finger into Sandy’s chest. “You can’t. That would be breaking the treaty. You can’t fucking touch me, white boy.” He spits on the ground. “Fucking puta.”

“Where exactly were you and your boys last night? I mean, since you weren’t jacking our shipment and all.” Sandy asks, his patience wearing thin. His eyes narrow on the shorter man in front of him as he leans forward against his pool stick.