Fatal Justice (Jack Lamburt #1)(3)
I sat down on a stool, my back against the wall, and watched the two ball-smacking grandfathers engage in teenage banter while they took turns missing shots. I love math, and after a few minutes I calculated that they each averaged seven missed shots before they sank a ball. My quarters were going to last me a long time tonight.
In between the errant shots, I glanced over the pool table, across the sawdust-covered dance floor, and into the far corner of the room. That’s the real reason I was sitting here. Playing pool was fine and all, but if I measured that up against sitting at the bar and chatting with Debbie all night, I’d pick ogling her every time. But not tonight. I needed to watch someone, and this was the perfect position to observe without being noticed.
I spied on the three middle aged men at the corner table for a while, and as the night wore on, I felt a bad feeling grow in my gut that our long run as a sleepy little town was about to end.
3
If you counted the two-inch heels on his ostrich cowboy boots, he probably topped out at five foot six. Slicked-back hair, pinky rings, flashing cash, gold chains parting his half-unbuttoned silk shirt that hid his potbelly. It was the complete wise guy costume, straight out of a Goodfella’s wardrobe closet. Throw in his NYC accent and he stuck out like an honest politician.
As soon as I’d walked into the bar, I’d found him. It was too easy. One of the habits I’d formed from being in law enforcement was scoping out every structure I entered, even while off duty. Whenever I walked into a room, my eyes went right to the corners. Also known as the power seat, it’s a location where you could see everyone and where no one could sneak up on you from behind. There I’d find cops, military folks, or bad guys. Sheepdogs or wolves. It was easy, even for a novice, to distinguish between the two. Tonight, it was the wolves who were setting up camp in that corner.
But tonight wasn’t a normal night. Earlier today I’d received a heads-up, and now I was doing recon for my third job. The secretive one that I do for free. I smiled and took a sip of beer.
Ostrich Boy’d been holding court with two of his hammerhead associates at that table for a few hours, and the three of ’em looked to be tying a good load on.
They were boisterous, with exaggerated table slapping and hand movements, and when the fatter of the two underlings stood up and worked his way over to the restroom, I saw the outline of a pistol under his shirt. He might need that to fight off Frances, but I doubted he knew about her male molestation practices, so I was confident he’d had other things in mind when he’d strapped it on.
Fatty returned a few minutes later, none the worse for wear after his transition through Frances’s fun land, and when he sat down, the other man rose up to make his trek to the restroom. He was thinner than Fatty, and the outline of the pistol wasn’t as clear under his loose-fitting shirt, but it was still visible for microseconds at a time to the trained eye.
With each round of drinks, Ostrich Boy got a little hands-on friendlier with Mary Sue, who unfortunately got stuck waiting on their table, and with each passing refill, he became a little louder and his jokes more colorful.
When the latest round was delivered, he’d put his arm around Mary Sue’s waist and pulled her in close to him, resting his ear against her stomach, the top of his greasy head nestled tight against the bottom of her breasts. His fat tongue wagged like he was a hungry dog about to be fed. I thought he was going to start drooling.
“Hey, someone do a selfie of me and my wench,” he said.
The two underlings guffawed and fumbled with their smartphones while Mary Sue, eyes wide as saucers, looked horrified. She was just a college kid who waitressed part-time, and she probably didn’t have much experience with handling clowns like him. I thought she was going to whack him with her serving tray—that’s what I would have done. But to her credit, she stayed cool. She pushed his arms open, freed herself from his unwanted pawing, and walked away while brushing the germs from the front of her blouse.
Ostrich Boy’s friends laughed at him and smacked the table with childlike glee at her rejection. Sure enough, he took Mary Sue’s reluctance to share in his Kodak moment personally, and got all pissed off. He stood up from his chair and shouted towards her, loud enough for everyone to hear. “What, I’m not good enough for ya?”
She kept walking, the scowl of disgust on her face so obvious that even drunken Bobby noticed it and stopped his conversation with Debbie to look at her. At least something good came out of Ostrich Boy’s juvenile tantrum. I made a mental note to thank him.
Fatty tugged at Ostrich Boy’s belt, waving him to sit back down. “Jeez, Sammy, take it easy, we’re only messin’ with you. Besides, she’s just a kid, young enough to be your daughter.”
His words fell on deaf ears. I’d read enough reports and eavesdropped on enough witness protection candidates to know that guys like Sammy lost their temper fast, and took abnormally long to regain their composure. Small penis insecurity, no doubt.
He smacked Fatty’s hand away. “Don’t ever fuckin’ touch me. She needs to learn some respect.”
Wow, tough guy. I yawned.
He shot daggers in Mary Sue’s direction one more time before sitting down. He took out a cigarette, flipped open a gold lighter, and inhaled deep. He exhaled so hard that the smoke traveled across two tables before being sucked up by the smoke eater that hummed from the ceiling. You didn’t need to be Dr. Phil to see that this guy had deep anger issues, which made sense since he was a suspect in twenty-eight missing people cases. Missing, as in dead. Just that their bodies haven’t been found.