The question was: Would he kill for it?
I spent the next three hours wrestling lines, reels and the nearly indecipherable cable connections.
Rich’s bow was lightweight and shorter than mine. With the extra equipment attached it seemed heavier and infinitely more awkward. Reeling in the spent arrow was time-consuming and cumbersome. I imagined with the drag ratio of the water—if one actually hit a moving target—it wouldn’t take long to build some impressive biceps. I was happier practicing shooting at a bale of hay in my backyard while swigging a beer. I was even happier yet to dock the boat, store the equipment, hop in my car and go home.
I wasn’t looking forward to telling Rich he’d wasted his three hundred bucks. His suspicions about Cindy Jo—and this case in general—seemed dead in the water.
****
On the drive back into town I considered my evening entertainment options after I checked in with the answering service. No word from Kevin. No potential clients needing our expertise. Depressing that my cell phone showed I hadn’t missed any calls or texts during my six hours at the lake.
My main squeeze, Martinez, had Hombres business to attend to tonight, so I knew he wouldn’t be home until late—if at all. I’d spent enough time alone today and wanted to go out. My usual pals had deserted me. Kevin was gone on a skip-trace—that motherfucker took all the fun cases. Yeah, it gave me an ego boost that Kevin trusted me with the business while he was out of town, but he’d been gone a lot lately, and I missed him.
My pool-playing buddy Jimmer wasn’t answering his phone, but I left him a message anyway. My former BFF Kim had become my meet-for-coffee-in-a-kid-friendly-place kind of friend instead of the wild type who’d hole up in a dive bar with me, knocking back tequila shooters until we passed out. I missed those days.
I needed booze. I needed conversation. I probably needed to get my fucking head examined for driving to Fat Bob’s, the biker bar Martinez owned. Over the years I’d been banned from the bar, tossed out on my ass into the parking lot, and locked up in the back room. Fun times—none of which I wanted to repeat. So why was I here?
Loneliness.
But I justified my choice; at least I hadn’t chosen Bare Assets, the strip club Martinez also owned, because guaranteed I’d get kicked out due to my...issues with the management. And the staff. The strippers kind of liked me however, so there was that. Life was never boring when you’re involved with the International President of the Hombres motorcycle club, although Martinez would argue that I caused more than enough trouble on my own. Maybe in the past, but it’d been ages since I’d ripped it up—not that I was looking for trouble tonight.
I barked a mental “fuck off” to the smarmy voice that reminded me every time I went out in this kind of mood, a fight usually found me.
As I turned into Fat Bob’s empty parking lot, I wondered if they’d closed for the night. The place was always jammed, even on weeknights. But the neon sign flashed OPEN.
Weird.
After parking in my usual spot at the back of the building, I shouldered my purse and hoofed it to the main entrance. No bouncer manned the front door—not even a lowly Hombres pledge. Inside I stopped and stared across the space. A half a dozen people milled around. That was it? Had the cops made a bust? It’d be a first; I’d never seen cops at either of the businesses Martinez owned and I never asked why.
Big Mike had his back to the door as he flipped through channels on a TV screen behind the bar. Huh. I’d never seen anyone turn on that TV; I’d always assumed it was broken.
Reena, the only cocktail waitress I could stand—or rather, who could stand me—jerked her head at Big Mike to get his attention as I approached the bar.
Grinning, he grabbed a bottle of Coors Light out of the cooler, twisted off the lid and meandered over to me. “What’s up, trouble?”
I slid onto the barstool and pulled out my smokes. “What makes you think anything is up?”
“Because you never sit at the bar. Especially not alone.”
“That’s because out here there are too many men trying to get a piece of me. Makes Martinez twitchy and violent, and ain’t nothing good ever comes of that.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“Anyone lurking in the back office?”
Big Mike shook his head and set the beer in front of me.
“There’s your answer as to why I’m gracing you with my presence up front.” I held my cigarette out for him to light, which he always did; he was a gentleman that way. I inhaled and blew out a stream of smoke. “Why’s it so dead in here tonight?”
“Poker run and a Rob Zombie concert up in Deadwood.”
“Hombres providing security for the event?”
He nodded. “So why aren’t you hanging and banging the bossman?”
“He had ‘shit to do’ as he so lovingly informed me this morning.”
“Jesus. I thought that meant he was doin’ you.”
I muttered, “I wish.”
Big Mike’s eyes narrowed. “You two aren’t fighting again?”
“No. In fact, things are going along swimmingly.”
“Swimmingly?”
“You know...As in peachy keen. Fine as frog’s hair. Two sweet peas in a pod. Happy as fucking clams. All that sappy shit.” Which was true for the first time ever in our tumultuous relationship. Part of me waited for the other motorcycle boot to drop and for everything to go to hell. But that was a small part of me.
“I figured as much.”
“Why? Did he quit listening to the police scanner for mention of my name or something?”
“You wish. Just because you’ve been without conflict doesn’t mean you won’t be in the thick of shootin’ up cars or starting bar fights again. Sooner rather than later is my guess.”
“Been pretty damn boring all around, hasn’t it?”
He laughed. “Maybe that’s why things are going along swimmingly—you haven’t done anything to piss Martinez off or to put yourself in danger.”
Now my eyes narrowed. “Speaking of putting himself in danger, why don’t you know where he is? You’re his damn bodyguard.”
Big Mike snorted. “I’m one of his bodyguards. I also got the same ‘shit to do’ response you did but, unlike you, I ain’t allowed to ask questions. I just do what I’m told, which tonight, is tend bar.”
“Who’s on duty with him?”
“Cal is handling security for the concert. Buzz is tasked as his personal security. Before you ask, Martinez ain’t been in tonight and I don’t know if he’s coming in.”
“Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t planning on waiting around for him.” I knocked back a mouthful of beer.
His gaze moved over my bare arms. “Looks like you got some sun today. Taking time off to play?”
“No. A new case. I actually got to leave the office for a few hours and do some investigating.” Although, I still wasn’t convinced Rich Barber even had a case, even if JC Bettleyoun was most likely dead. I’d found enough dead bodies—and caught enough hell for it from local law enforcement—that I wouldn’t exert myself trying to find the missing man. At some point in the last year my curiosity had become more manageable, which is why I hadn’t found trouble recently.
But, as usual, the case got me to thinking about other things. Friends and family crap I’d put out of my mind. Wondering why I wondered—or even cared—whether my father had ever taken my half-siblings fishing, when he’d never taken me.
“Julie? You all right?”
“Yeah.” I flicked an ash. “Lemme ask you something. Did you ever go fishing as a kid?”
Big Mike didn’t bat an eyelash at my abrupt subject change; he was used to it with me. “A couple times. Never liked it much.”
“So you don’t have happy family memories where your dad, grandpa, or uncle taught you how to bait a hook and then blathered on about life lessons as you cast a line?”
“Hardly. Last time I went, my pops and grandpops got liquored up,
passed out drunk in the boat and I was stuck in the middle of the fuckin’ lake for four hours until the assholes sobered up.” He cocked his head. “Why? You taking a...poll?”
I groaned at his pun. “No, I just don’t get the fascination with it. Why some guys like to sit in a damn boat all day surrounded by stinky bait. My partner Kevin likes to fish so much he parks his ass on a frozen lake in the winter,” I scoffed. “Who does that shit? Then there’s fly fishing. Bow fishing. Sport fishing. I found out that some guys actually get paid to fish. That’s their fucking job.”
Big Mike rested his elbows on the bar. “What’s all this got to do with anything? You fishing for information on bossman?”
“Christ, stop with the puns. I’m serious. I had no clue Martinez was an avid snow skier. Does that mean he water skis too? What’s to say the man isn’t hiding a rod and reel and he’s planning to spring that hobby on me?” I sucked in a lungful of smoke and exhaled.
“Worried he’ll try and lure you in and you want me to help you tackle the problem?” He laughed when I growled at him. “I’m done baiting you with puns. So what’s this really about?”
“Tony’s birthday is coming up. I have no fucking idea what to get him.” I pointed at Big Mike with my beer bottle. “And no, I wasn’t thinking about buying him a bait bucket and a pole. After hearing that some guys have become professional fisherman, it just got me to thinking about when hobbies become jobs. Like my nosiness led Kevin to hiring me part time and now I make a living as a PI. So, did Martinez always love bikes? After he scored his first Harley did he get into it so much that he sought out a motorcycle club and became entrenched in the lifestyle? And now he’s international president? He never talks about that.”
Big Mike’s friendly expression had vanished.
Annoyed, I said, “I’m not asking you for club secrets or specifics on how Martinez came into power. I’m just thinking out loud.”
He answered me with silence. Then he grabbed me another beer. Probably to shut me up.
So maybe I had been pumping his bodyguard for information because I wanted to do something special for Martinez’ birthday. Even when it wasn’t one of the big “number” birthdays that people make such a big deal over with ages emblazoned on coffee mugs, black balloons and headstone-shaped cakes.
“What ideas have you come up with for his birthday, so far? Because he don’t like surprises.”
“No shit? So jumping out of a gigantic cake wearing nothing but frosting during an Hombres meeting at the clubhouse isn’t a good idea?”
Big Mike muttered, “You’re such a smartass.”
The chair seat next to me whooshed and I turned, startled to see Jimmer. How the hell had I missed his entrance? The guy was ogre-sized and I’d only had one beer.
“Hey little missy. You rang?” He swiped my fresh beer and guzzled it. Setting the empty on the bar, he signaled Big Mike for another.
“Thirsty?” I said sarcastically.
“Yep.” Then he belched.
I have such classy friends. Now I was sorry I’d called him.
No, you’re not. This man has saved your ass and your sanity on numerous occasions. And he is here. He’s the only one who’s here.
“Where’s Martinez?” Jimmer asked.
I shrugged. “We live together, but we don’t have a color-coded chart on the fridge listing our whereabouts 24/7.”
“Be easier if you did.”
Big Mike dropped off two Coors Light bottles before he took Reena’s drink order at the other end of the bar.
Now that we were somewhat alone, I said, “So why’d you send Rich Barber to me?”
Jimmer’s heavy eyebrows squished together when he frowned. “I didn’t send him to you. I sent him to Wells.”
“Kevin is out of the office. Which means I dealt with him.”
“Fuck. That wasn’t supposed to happen. That’s why I told him specifically to ask only for Kevin.”
“Because you don’t think I have the investigating chops to help him since I don’t have a dick?” I said sharply.
“Back off on the attitude. You’re a bad ass with steel balls, okay? Make you feel better?”
I fired up another cigarette and blew the smoke in his face.
He treated me to his I’ll-break-you-like-a-twig-if-you-do-that-again stare and I waved the excess smoke out of his face with a murmured, “Sorry.”
“You are helping Rich, aren’t you?”
“I said I’d look into his concerns.”
Jimmer swigged his beer. “As tough as you think you are, little missy, sometimes you are a soft touch. I sent Rich to Kevin,” he emphasized, “because Kev would’ve listened, told him this supposed suspicion had no merit and sent him on his way. But you didn’t do that, did you?”
“No. How do you know Rich?”
“Pawn shop. I also know he ain’t playing with a full clip.”
That seemed harsh. Then again, this was Jimmer. “Did you know his buddy JC that went missing?”
“Yeah. Fuckin’ prick. Tried to pawn some shit that wasn’t his to pawn. I banned him from the store after that.”
Another check mark in the JC is an asshole column. “After talking to JC’s wife Cindy Jo...she hinted that Rich might’ve had a hand in JC’s disappearance.”
Jimmer shook his big head. “The guy ain’t smart enough.”
“Even when Rich stood to inherit JC’s fifty-thousand -dollar fishing boat if something happened to him?”
“Even then.” Jimmer got right in my face. “Let it go, Jules. JC hooked up with some bad dudes in the last year and you don’t wanna go poking into their business. Martinez won’t be happy either, because it puts him in a tricky situation with said bad dudes.” He pointed at me with the beer bottle. “Which is yet another reason I had Rich ask for Kevin, not you.”
Shit. Pride had made me take the case. Would my pride allow me to drop it?
You don’t think there is a case, remember?
Still, I’d have to stop over and talk to Rich tomorrow and bow out, now that things had gotten complicated.
“Come on. Let’s play some pool. Same ol’ rules; shot for shot. Miss a shot and you drink a shot.”
I sent him a dubious look.
“You’re the one who called me, remember? Said you were lonely and wanted to get your drink on.” Jimmer leaned over and looked at my crotch. “Show me them steel balls, little missy.” His eyes met mine with a full-on challenge. “Or didja let Martinez borrow them?”
“Fuck that. And fuck you. Rack ’em up.”
Julie Collins, Impulsive be thy name.
Big Mike grinned at me and set a bottle of Don Julio tequila on a tray with two shot glasses. “Like I said, if you don’t go lookin’ for trouble it finds you anyway.”
“Now you just jinxed me. Anything that happens is on your head, Big Mike.”
“Like that’s anything new.”
****
After laying claim to the primo booth in the back room that unofficially belonged to the Hombres, Jimmer and I played three games of pool. I’d missed a dozen shots, but hadn’t knocked back more than eight shots of tequila. Jimmer had six misses, but since he outweighs me by a hundred pounds, he wasn’t feeling nearly as loose as I was.
That’s when they walked in.
They—meaning three couples in full biker poseur mode. From the looks of it, they’d finished the poker run and hopped up on Harley fumes, decided to stop into Fat Bob’s—a “real” biker bar.
Jimmer waited menacingly at the end of the pool table for them to pass by. None of them made eye contact with him.
Or with me for that matter.
Good friend that he is, Jimmer listened to my birthday ideas for my man without too much sarcasm. Before we could get the details squared away, he received a phone call and lit out without so much as a goodbye, leaving me in the company of my good buddy Don Julio.
Within ten minutes of Jimmer’s departure, I realized the three couples were eye
ing my booth.
Eventually douchebag #1 sent his girlfriend/wife over. The far-too-classy-looking-for-a-skanky-biker-bar brunette scanned me and my half empty bottle of tequila, but couldn’t quite conjure up a smile. “Is your boyfriend coming back?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Fine. Is your friend coming back?”
“Probably not.”
“Then you won’t need this much space. Would you mind swapping tables with us?”
“Yes, actually, I would mind.” I made a shooing motion at her.
She teetered away on stiletto boots that no real biker chick would be caught dead wearing, especially on the back of a bike.
The group conferred. I smoked. It seemed instead of having a good time where they were, they were more interested in booting my ass out of the booth and having a better time over here.
Yeah, good luck with that, motherfuckers.
A tiny blonde, around my age, proud of her big rack from the obvious way she displayed it, sauntered over. Up close she was one of those flawless makeup, perfect hair types. She checked out my sunburned skin, windblown hair, sleeveless T-shirt, jean capris and rhinestone flip-flops.
Instead of a sneer, she smiled. “I’d offer to arm wrestle you for this booth, but there’s a wild look about you that guarantees I’ll get beat. So how about this?” She placed her palms flat on the table. “See the guy in the leather jacket with the black and gray scruff?”
My eyes cut in that direction. Tall guy. Skinny. Probably fifty. Not bad looking. I’d guess a white-collar guy dressing down to blend in. “What about him?”
“He’s my date. I just met his friends a few hours ago and tonight has sucked ass. The guys talk amongst themselves and the wives are snarky when they’re not ignoring me completely. It’d help me out a lot of if you’d share your booth.”
“Why should I help you out?”
“Because ever since your friend left, you look as if you don’t wanna hang out by yourself, and I don’t wanna hang out with them. Plus, you look more like my type of person anyway.”
“What type is that?”
“The fun, shootin’ tequila type that doesn’t take any shit from anyone.”
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