Tats Too

by Layce Gardner

  Thirty seconds later, I dunk the shot glass down deep into the beer mug, watch it boil and chug it down in one long gulp.

  “Need another?” the bartender asks.

  I throw a twenty on the bar and say, “Keep ’em coming.”

  For another twenty the bartender fetches me a padded envelope and some stamps. With a little help from the operator and Festus’s cell phone, I find the address for The Lion’s Den and scrawl it on the outside of the envelope addressed to Mikey, c/o Jerri. I drink the rest of my supper and write out a quick note: Mikey, thought you might find this interesting. You’ve heard the old saying, “the enemies of my enemies are my friends?” Looks like you and me are friends now. Tats.

  I put the disc and note inside the envelope and lick it closed. The bartender promises to give it to the mailman on his next run through.

  “Where’s the closest girl bar in town?” I ask him.

  “The Honey Pot,” he says, giving me directions.

  I pick up Festus’s phone and scroll through his contact list until I find Dillon’s name. I press the green button and wait with the phone plastered to my ear.

  Dillon picks up on the third ring. She’s not too stupid because she answers, “Okay, Lee, where the hell are you?”

  “Meet me at the Honey Pot,” I say. “Half an hour.”

  I hang up before she can reply.

  ***

  The Honey Pot is an old-school girl bar with all the butches on one side and all the femmes on the other, eyeballing each other across the expanse of the dance floor like they’re at a junior high school dance. The butches have all oiled their boots, pressed a crease in their black jeans, dusted off their hats, slicked back their hair and they strut and preen at the pool table. All the femmes hug each other and share lipstick and dance together, pretending they’re not doing it all for the butches.

  I stand at the bar for a moment soaking it all in, then I slough off all the stares and head for a table in the back that’s empty because it’s smack-dab in the middle, not in either butch nor femme territory, but against the wall.

  I tended bar in a place just like this when I was fresh out of prison. I worked the bar and every single lady who came in the door (I mean every one of them, not that they were actually single as in unattached). I was fresh meat on the girl scene and for a while there all of them wanted a slice.

  I was in hog heaven. Until I realized that once you slept with a lesbian they thought that meant you were married or something. I’d go home with them and the next day they’d be handing me the keys to their place and talking about getting a puppy.

  So I switched to straight women. They were more my speed. They didn’t want exactly what I didn’t want. They didn’t want to go out in public, they didn’t want to get married (because they usually already were), and they didn’t want it for very long.

  But all that was the old me who did whatever the voices in my pants told me to do. The new me puts my back against the wall and watches the front door, waiting.

  Dillon struts in ten minutes late, peers into the darkness, finds me in the shadows and walks over. She pulls out a chair across the table from me and eases down.

  “Nice place,” she says like she’s disgusted and has never been here before. She takes off her cowboy hat, starts to put it on the table, then thinks better of it and settles it back on her head. She moves all the time like a watch that’s wound too tight. She taps her toes or her fingers, eyes twitching around the room, coiled and ready to spring.

  Sharks move all the time, too. If they don’t, they die.

  “You never been here before?” I ask.

  “Why would I?” she asks, using her thumb to push the brim of her hat back further on her head.

  Um…because you’re a raging dyke and you love pussy? But, I just shrug and gesture to the cocktail waitress.

  “What d’ya want to drink?” I ask.

  Dillon licks her lips, and makes a big show of thinking about it. “Beer,” she finally says.

  A plump, perky waitress squats down at our table, earning herself a good tip by giving us an unobstructed view down her shirt. “Hi, Dana, been wondering when you’d come see me again,” she coos to Dillon. “What can I get you guys?”

  “A pitcher and two glasses,” I order. The waitress nods at me, gives Dillon a little wink and walks away.

  I don’t say anything about the waitress being on a first name basis with her. I don’t have to. Her face says it all.

  “I don’t like small talk, Dana, so let’s cut straight to the chase.”

  She leans back in her chair and hangs one arm up over the back. I lean forward with my elbows on the table and continue, “I know you all have Vivian.”

  “That took you long enough to figure out,” she smirks.

  “Why’d you tell me she was missing?”

  “I didn’t. You said it. I just forgot to tell you I’d found her.”

  “Poke is undercover?”

  She answers my question by not answering.

  “Where is Vivian?”

  “Safe.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “That’s all I’m saying,” she says. She puts one boot over her knee and picks an imaginary particle of dust off the black snakeskin. “It’s a secret.” She smiles and this time she winks at me.

  She makes my skin fucking crawl right off my body.

  The waitress comes back with our pitcher, puts it in the middle of the table and a frosted mug in front of each of us. Dillon stares at the waitress’s tits as she pours us each a beer. I guess she figures since I’m on to her secret life she might as well be herself.

  I watch Dillon’s eyes travel over the waitress, yank her skirt up and fuck her hard right on our table.

  Shit. She did all that with just one look.

  The waitress must feel it, too, because she gives a little shiver and whispers to Dana, “I get off at two.”

  She watches the waitress all the way back to the bar and I feel like I’m sitting on the back row of a porn movie and everybody around me is jacking off. I change my mind about Dillon. She’s not stupid. She’s a friggin’ snake. A snake wearing snakeskin boots.

  “She’s a regular hellcat, ain’t she?” Dillon says, still leering at the waitress’s ass.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  She turns her cold eyes to me. “I meant Vivian.” She sips from her mug. “I like ’em with a little spit and vinegar.”

  She’s baiting me, but I’m not biting. I straighten up, giving myself a little extra space. “Did Vivian sign your witness protection papers?”

  She shakes her head. “Refuses to sign. Won’t do it unless you do.”

  I cross my arms defiantly and lean back in my chair. “If Vivian doesn’t want to sign, I don’t either.”

  “That would be a really bad choice. I’m the only one who can save you from the Mafia.” She drinks half her beer and licks the foam off her upper lip.

  I laugh. Now she’s my self-appointed savior? Where the hell was my savior when the Goodfellas caught up with us in Heaven? Or at the Lion’s Den for that matter.

  “She’ll end up signing without you. We’ll get her a new identity. And you’ll never see her again.” Dillon says coldly.

  “No, she won’t. She’d never leave me.”

  “Oh, yeah? I know her better than you think,” she hints with a flavor to her words that I don’t like the taste of.

  “You don’t know the half of her.”

  Dillon smiles. “I know she’s not half bad in the sack. No wonder you kept her around.”

  “What?”

  Dillon takes a long drain of her beer, then says, “I only fucked her a couple of times.” She licks the beer off her lips and adds, “So far.”

  “She’d never fuck you,” I say a little too loudly.

  She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter to her if I believe it or not.

  “There’s no way in hell I’m believing that,” I say again.

&
nbsp; “I don’t give a shit what you believe,” she shrugs and downs the last of her beer.

  “You’re a real bitch, you know that?” I say way too loud.

  But Dillon just smiles, gets up and struts away.

  I burn holes in her back all the way to the restroom. When the door closes behind her, I get up and follow.

  I throw open the bathroom door only to find her leaning against the opposite wall with her arms crossed, like she thinks she’s Billy Jack or something. I shut and lock the door behind me. I don’t want anyone coming in and interrupting the ass-kicking I’m about to give her.

  “You’re going to tell me where you’re hiding Vivian,” I say, pulling Festus’s gun out of my pants and aiming at her.

  “You must’ve liked prison an awful lot,” she says, smirking. “Since you’re so dead set on spending your life there.”

  “Festus said the same thing,” I say. “Right before I chained his naked ass to a drain pipe.” I turn the gun over sideways like how I’ve seen gangstas do it in the movies. I waggle it right in front of her face, saying, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” I know that’s a cliche, but it’s the first one that popped into my head and I’m so pissed off right now I don’t care about originality.

  “Well, if I have a choice,” Dillon says, stepping into my space like I don’t even have a gun, “I always like it hard first and easy later.” She reaches out and, with a practiced hand, pops open the belt holding up my pants.

  “Cut the shit,” I say. “Where is she?” I push her away from me with my left hand, but before I know what’s happened, she has the gun in her hand and me by the wrist. She spins me around, yanking my right arm up behind my back and slamming my face into the tile wall.

  That only takes about one and half seconds.

  Shit.

  “Don’t move,” she says, pressing the business end of the gun right into my ribs. “We’re going to do it the hard way.”

  She turns loose of my wrist and pulls my pants down around my ankles. She traces the gun from my ribs to my now-bare ass and digs the nose of the gun far enough in between my cheeks to make me worry about what’s next.

  “Don’t,” is all I can think of to say.

  The sound of her cold laugh makes my ass pucker.

  “This is the hard way. The easy way is signing the fucking paper. Your choice.”

  “Did you do this to Vivian, too?” I whimper.

  She noses the gun in a little too far and whispers into my ear, “Yeah. But she liked it.”

  I jerk toward her, but she slams my face into the wall with the heel of her hand and sparks of fire burn their way from my nose into my brain. Once my vision clears, I see a big smear of blood on the dirty tiles.

  I snort the blood back up my nose and manage to utter, “Fuck…you.”

  “Five seconds,” she says. “Or you will be fucking me.” She presses the gun harder into my ass for emphasis. “You sign into WitSec, then she’ll sign. You can testify and start a new life together.”

  “I’ll sign.” I give up. “I’ll sign your fucking paper. Just get the gun out of my ass and let me see Vivian.”

  “Too bad,” she actually has the balls to whisper in my ear. “I was looking forward to the hard way.”

  Much to my relief she pulls the gun away and sticks it back into my ribs. Thank God. My ass can breathe now.

  She slaps a piece of paper and pen against the tiles, saying, “Sign.”

  I do.

  She pockets the paper and pen and backs away from me. I stagger away from the wall as she throws open the bathroom door and says, “She’s all yours. She signed.”

  She leaves as Festus crowds into the bathroom, wearing new clothes that look a lot like the ones I’m wearing and a bandage on the side of his head. He looks at his pants down around my ankles and says, “I see you met the real Dillon.”

  I’m thinking of something smart-ass to say, but he interrupts me with, “Now meet the real me.” He coldcocks me so fast and hard, I’m out before I even hit the floor.

  ***

  What the hell is it with my nose? It’s like some kind of fist magnet.

  I wake up in the backseat of that same damn Nissan. My hands are cuffed behind me and my arms and shoulders are screaming worse than my nose. I roll myself into a sitting position and shake my head like it’s an Etch A Sketch.

  Festus is driving and Dillon is sitting shotgun. Dillon looks over her shoulder at me and smirks, “You look like you been rode hard and put away wet.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I grumble.

  Her eyes drop to my lap and she says, “Your fly’s undone.”

  Bitch. She is one psycho bitch. And by that I mean she is psycho boil-your-pet-rabbit nuts.

  I lean my shoulder against the door and press my cheek against the cool glass window. Downtown goes by in a blurry haze of steel and concrete and spray-painted graffiti. My breath comes out in short puffs that make little steam clouds of condensation on the glass.

  I want a Dr. Pepper.

  I want to see Vivian.

  I want Georgia back in my arms.

  That’s all I want. I’ll gladly give up everything, diamonds, money, tits, everything, if I could just get my baby back in my arms and feel her fat little hands in mine again.

  This time last week I was happy. I was happy and I didn’t even know it. I used to think happy meant being rich or famous or when I was laughing. But now I know happy means lying in bed with the woman you love who’s snoring real loud, and your baby is curled up beside you making sucking sounds on her thumb and you can’t get to sleep for all the damn noise. That’s happy.

  “Are you fucking crying?”

  “No,” I mutter, brushing my wet cheeks against my shoulders. “It’s allergies. I’m allergic to assholes.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Dillon says under her breath. She looks at Festus and smirks. “She’s back there crying like a baby.”

  “Fuck you,” I snarl.

  She laughs. “You had your chance and you blew it.”

  I snort the snot and blood back up my nose and resolve to move Dillon to the top of my most hated list. I’m going to wait patiently until I can get even with her, and when I do I’ll make it slow and painful.

  She’ll wish she never fucked with me.

  Chapter Nine

  Back to the same beige room I was in just a couple of hours ago. Festus and Dillon open the interrogation room door and shove me inside, closing and locking the door behind me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see something very big coming at me very fast. I hit the floor just in the nick of time.

  A plastic chair bangs into the wall over my head and kerplunks onto the linoleum behind me. I peek between my fingers.

  “Vivian?”

  “Lee, oh my God! I thought you were that bitch coming back!”

  Viv runs to me and kneels down beside me on the floor. I grab her by the neck and pull her lips to mine. I kiss her like it’s the first time.

  She pulls away a little, grinning, “You know we’re on camera, right?”

  “Yeah,” I grin back. “I know.”

  I pull her on top of me (it’s fast becoming my favorite position) and lay another kiss on her. I slowly lift my hand in the air and raise my middle finger to the camera.

  Vivian pulls away and smiles deeply into my face. She’s wearing a red plaid flannel shirt and some green plaid pajama pants and even I can tell those Garanimals aren’t mixing and matching. And no bra.

  “You didn’t get hurt in the crash?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “A few bruises is all. Thank God for all the cheerleader training. When I saw that Peterbilt coming, I stood up on the pegs did a black flip off the bike, two cartwheels to the left and a forward lunging roll, popped up ready to yell ‘Go team!’ and saw the semi plow right over you. But before I could get to you, that bitch grabbed me. They hog-tied me and took off. I didn’t know if you were dead or alive until late that
night.”

  Okay, somehow I don’t think all that is exactly how it happened, but with Vivian who knows? She may have dismounted off the moving motorcycle like it was the top of a cheerleader pyramid.

  “I was fine,” I say. “Thank God for all the times you’ve knocked me in the head. It toughened my skull, and all I got was some sore ribs and bruises.”

  “You didn’t sign the papers, did you?” she asks, getting up and helping me to my feet.

  I avoid the question by picking up the thrown chair and sitting in it at the table, asking, “Where they been keeping you?”

  She sits next to me and holds my hand. “Different stinky houses. They keep blindfolding me and driving me from one smelly house to another. And this is all they’ll give me to wear!”

  I laugh. “Poor baby. Making you dress in Walmart pajamas.”

  “And all they’ll give me is fast food. They put a bucket of chicken in the fridge and expect me to eat on that for two days. Cole slaw even. You know how I hate cole slaw.”

  “Barbarians,” I mutter, smiling.

  The door opens and Dillon walks in. And she doesn’t look too happy. She slams the door behind her and slaps the paper I signed earlier down on the table. “You think you’re so fucking funny?” she asks.

  “A little, yeah.”

  “Lucille Balls?”

  “You didn’t think I’d sign my real name, did you?”

  Vivian laughs out loud.

  Dillon sits at the table, staring me down. She waits until Vivian is finished laughing before she says, “I take it that neither of you will sign yourself into witness protection?”

  “That’s right. We won’t,” Vivian says. I nod in agreement.

  “Then I have no choice but to put you both under arrest,” she says.

  “For what?” I say.

  “To begin with you faked your own deaths.”

  “Nu-uh,” I protest. “Our house exploded and we drove off. It’s you people who assumed we were dead.”