by Andrew Nette
She always felt like things were on the verge of getting sexual with Nikki, and she’d have done it. She owed him that much, she decided. Besides, life since Tommy had been one long dry spell. Good men were as few and far between out on the prairie as skyscrapers and ocean beaches. Guys who put away a case of beer a week, who drove trucks as old as their mothers and changed their underpants as often as the oil in those trucks were easy to find. They’d sweat over you and scratch your face and inner thighs up with their three day stubble and then expect a plate of ham and eggs in the morning. Michelle could do without a Montana courtship, as she called it. She honestly thought more and more about finding a high school senior and popping his cherry. Maybe do a little classroom activity of her own. But all that took a backseat to the drug trade and her new role as CEO.
This new deal promised to be a huge boost to her business. Moving product out of town, all the way to New York. With the local crowd and the oil workers her business could only grow so much. Then Nikki arrives and he’s like a venture capitalist for crank. She needed money to expand—he gave her money. She needed a way to get more customers—he offered her a contact back East. When Nikki found out how cheap she could make the stuff using four different trailer-home labs out on the Cheyenne reservation, he said she could mark it up three hundred percent and it would still be cheaper than what they buy and sell in New York.
A partnership was born. And so far, she hadn’t had to sleep with him. Each day it went on without him asking, she started to think it may never come to that. His soft body like uncooked dough on top of her. She’d let him do it from behind so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She could imagine anyone and as long as he took a little blue pill, a stiff dick was a stiff dick. In her head, though, her plan was to get him to marry her so when he did kick off—which was going to happen sooner rather than later—she could get half of his mysterious reserve of cash, the amount he never discussed.
Tommy’s inheritance had been quite the surprise. She wanted to know what she was getting next time around.
She opened one eye and checked the clock on the bedside table. Early still. Sun barely cresting the horizon. Their phone call to this guy Darren in New York wasn’t for a few more hours. She closed her eyes. Smelled coffee. Drifted back to sleep.
3
Shaine read the note once more. Sounded like Lars needed a break from her.
She often wondered how much he really liked living with a teenager. He seemed to enjoy teaching her to shoot. They were happy, squirreled away in their jungle hideout. But everyone needed some change.
Shaine had been thinking of it too. When she turned twenty, she told herself. Maybe try the mainland…and do what? Being a trained assassin, even if you’d been trained by the best, wasn’t exactly great résumé material.
They had money to last them a few more years at least. And here in their island shack, they didn’t live in fear of the past coming to kill them. The outside world wasn’t only unfamiliar—it was dangerous.
So Lars needed to go off and find a lady every now and then. Shaine had been thinking the one thing missing in her life was a guy. There weren’t many to meet where she lived, especially since she and Lars mostly avoided interacting with people. She could easily go a few miles down the road to one of the resorts and meet a guy, give him a vacation fling he’d tell his friends about. But she wanted more. She wanted to try a real relationship with commitment and feelings and other things she’d only read about.
It could wait.
She folded the note and left it on the counter. She checked out the door and looked at the waves. Decent sets, tide moving in. She went to the fridge for a yogurt and a mango. She’d eat. She’d surf. Read a book. Maybe a little target practice later.
Why did she want to leave here again?
4
Lars slept most of the day. Jet lag, he told himself, but he also had to admit he didn’t expect this side of fifty to take such a toll on his body. A trip like this and he would have been able to bounce back from much easier in his thirties. Now, he lay on the cheap motel bed and had to do some serious self-convincing to get to his feet.
But his hand, laying slack on the bed beside him, urged the day on. A slight tremor in his finger—a pulsing of the muscle like the finger was ready to get the day started and move on with the task of finding and killing Nikki—twitched urgently at him. Lars had to smile as he thought, the proverbial itchy trigger finger.
He’d driven to this place in his rental compact, stopped when he saw a Vacancy sign and a marquee advertising rooms for $49.95 AND FREE HBO. It also happened to be the first motel he’d seen in fifty miles and he didn’t figure on too many more cropping up.
The room was what he expected for fifty bucks. The carpet worn, the furniture outdated the day they made it. He didn’t see any cockroaches but he assumed they were sleeping it off during the day and would make themselves known after sundown. What other kind of bugs they had in Montana he didn’t know, but if they lived around here he assumed they’d be his roommates tonight.
He unwrapped a plastic-covered cup, let the water run in the bathroom sink for a full minute before filling it and drank some surprisingly clean tasting water. Then he’d climbed into the bed after a thorough check of the sheets to make sure nothing was already sleeping in there, and fell asleep so fast he was dreaming of Nikki within minutes.
Morning came quick and he jolted awake, disoriented with the new surroundings. His reason for being in Montana came to him quickly and Lars exhaled in his practiced deep yoga breathing as he sat on the edge of the bed. He wanted nothing more than to reach into his bag, arm himself with his trusted Beretta and head off to find Nikki’s address, but modern air travel made that impossible. He had to find a new gun.
With a tip from the kid behind the desk of the fifty-buck motel he made his way down the road “a spell,” as the kid put it, to the Buffalo Head Saloon, a roadhouse with a weathered-wood exterior and a neon beer sign in every window. The parking lot was dirt and filled with pickup trucks, SUVs and rusted workhorse vehicles at least twenty years old. This was a place where men didn’t rush to replace what could be fixed.
Lars parked his compact car between two pickups and it looked like a bright green plastic fork laid in a drawer of steel cutlery.
Inside, country music played on the jukebox, more neon beer signs buzzed and two dozen customers were settled in for the evening’s drinking. There was a pool table in back and a long shuffleboard table where two guys shoved old hockey pucks back and forth to land on hand painted numbers. Over the bar hung a namesake buffalo head mounted on a plank, the fur mottled and missing in patches and someone had stuck a cigarette in the animal’s mouth.
Lars found a seat at the bar. He’d allow himself one drink. Normally drinking on the job was a no-no, but he couldn’t exactly come into a place like this and just start asking about buying a gun. He had to act the part a little bit.
The bartender spotted him and wandered over, laughing about something the crowd at the other end of the bar had said. He wore a scruffy beard, twenty extra pounds around his middle and his left eye drooped either by birth defect or some long ago fight.
“Welcome to the Head. What can I get you?”
“Bottle of High Life.”
The bartender nodded and Lars continued to take in the scenery. Nobody else in the bar seemed to notice him at all. When the bartender returned Lars admired the mother-of-pearl buttons on his western-style shirt. Seemed half the people in the bar, women included, wore the same style shirt. The other half in flannel. Lars fit in that way, at least. He’d dug out a ragged flannel to bring with him because he assumed Montana would be cold. Colder than Hawaii anyway. So far it hadn’t been too bad, except for the constant wind.
The bartender set the beer down in front of him, not bothering with a coaster. The bar top was chipped and worn from years of use, and more than a few people had carved their initials into the wood.
“Thanks,” L
ars said.
“New around here,” the bartender said. Not a question, he knew it. “You working out at the Exxon?” One of the new shale fracking fields Lars heard about.
“Me? No. Came out to do some hunting.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your game?”
“Whatever you got.” Lars hadn’t done any research on what kind of animals lived around here. He hoped he hadn’t talked himself into a corner in the first ten seconds. “Deer. Elk. Bison, maybe? You got any of those around anymore?”
“A few.” The bartender smiled at him. “Do a lot of hunting, do you?”
You don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Lars knew better.
“Nope. Not much.” He took a light pull on the beer. Hunting, no. Time to do some fishing though. “In fact, I’m not going to do any unless I get my hands on a new rifle. Airline lost mine.”
“That right?”
“They make you check it, right? All this bullshit with the TSA and declaring firearms. I had to fill out a form, had to have a hard shell case for my rifles. Then they go and lose them. How’s that for you?”
“Sucks.”
Lars lifted the bottle and wet his lips. “So, you know where a guy could get his hands on a new firearm?”
The bartender let the smile slowly drip off his face. He sized up Lars, unsure but not unreceptive. A rube from back East, sure, but was there something more to this guy?
To keep playing his part Lars sat and took another sip of beer, not pressuring the guy. He concentrated on not lifting the bar stool and running screaming across the floor to slam it into the jukebox to stop the damn country music from playing. When he got back to the car he’d have to dial up some of the tunes Shaine loaded into his iPhone for him—some AC/DC, Steppenwolf, The Sonics. Like an antidote to this ear poison.
“What are you looking for, like a twenty-twenty? Thirty-ought-six?”
“I’m easy. Beggars can’t be choosers, right. Something decently long range. Medium-fire power, unless you still have some of those buffalo around.”
“You could do cash?”
“Cash, yeah. I’d wait it out on the airline, you know, but I’m only here a few days. By the time they get my case back from Miami or wherever they sent the damn thing, I’ll have missed my chance.”
“Where you out from? New York I wanna say.”
“Exactly right. Damn, do I still have my accent?”
“It’s slight. Say, what do you do for work?”
Lars knew he was in. The question was coded. If Lars was a cop, he’d have to say so, otherwise this was entrapment. “Retired,” he said.
The bartended rapped his knuckles twice on the bar like he was making a decision. “Okay, New York. Hang tight. I’ll go make a call.”
Lars raised his beer bottle in a salute of thanks and watched the bartender walk away down the bar. He swiveled on his seat and watched the other patrons for a while. Men and women hung on each other, then the women would push away. They all looked like tanned leather. Razors seemed to be in short supply around here. Beer was the drink of choice and when they stopped gabbing to take sips, half a glass or bottle would disappear in a single tilt of the elbow.
The music changed from one three-minute suck-fest to another. They didn’t even have the decency to play Merle Haggard or Johnny Cash—country music Lars could hang with for a short time. For the first time in his life Lars found himself actually wanting the sweet sounds of .38 Special or, God help him, Lynyrd Skynyrd.
“Hey, New York.”
Lars looked up to see the bartender waving him over. He left his beer and waded through the crowd.
Standing next to the bartender were two men in their late twenties. One went the flannel route, the other pearl buttons. Neither had shaved in a while.
The bartender pointed at the flannel shirt. “This here is Roadrunner.” He pointed at the pearl buttons. “And this here is Squirrel.”
Lars shook hands with each man in turn. “Are those, like, Indian names or something? I thought it was all Standing Bear and Little Hawk.”
Squirrel gripped his hand tighter. “We look like Indians to you?”
“No. You look white. I’m just asking.”
Lars didn’t squeeze any harder, but didn’t look away either. He knew this was his first test. Immediately he recognized the type of men these were. He’d dealt with their kind before.
Squirrel let his hand go. “What’s your name?”
“Call me New York. I’m feeling like I fit in around here already.”
The bartender backed away. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“What do I owe you for the beer?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get my cut in whatever you boys settle on.”
Lars said to Roadrunner, “Probably beats a three-dollar beer, I’m guessing.”
“Depends on what you’re in the market for.”
“Why don’t we see what you’re selling first and then you can overcharge me later.”
The two locals traded a brief look, then Roadrunner jerked his neck toward the back. “Let’s go then.”
Lars followed them, wishing he had a gun already on him in case things went the way he thought they might, but damned grateful to get away from the shitty music.
Click here to learn more about The Devil at Your Door by Eric Beetner.
Back to TOC
Here is a preview from Second Story Man by Charles Salzberg…
Francis Hoyt
“Where’s my fucking money?”
“Francis, these things take time, man.”
I pounded on the table. Ice clattered against the sides of glasses.
“It’s been three fucking weeks, Artie. Are you running a business, or what? I want my fucking money and I want it now.”
I moved my chair around until I was sitting right next to him and then I got all up in his face, so close I could smell his cheap after-shave. Old Spice. I hadn’t smelled that since I was a kid and my old man used to pour it on to cover his nauseating stink of alcohol and cigarettes.
“Listen,” I whispered, “you do not want to fuck with me. I can be nice and I can be not so nice. Trust me, you do not want to deal with the not so nice Francis Hoyt. That would be a very big mistake, my friend.”
We’re sitting at a table by the pool at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami. Artie’s wearing one of those obscene-looking, loud Hawaiian shirts and a bathing suit to match. He looks like he’s some fucking fat tourist from Iowa on vacation for the first time. I’m dressed like a human being: khakis and a pale blue polo, Gucci loafers. One of us looks like a complete asshole and it’s not me.
I’m not registered at the hotel and I doubt Artie is either. I’m the one who can afford it. He’s not. But this is where he hangs out and this is where he likes to act like a big shot by conducting business by the pool surrounded by a bunch of old, overweight, greased-up Jews spread out on chaise lounges, staring up at the sun while they bake. Guys like Artie don’t have offices. They just exist somewhere in time and space. But they wouldn’t exist at all if it wasn’t for guys like me.
Artie is a fence. I’m a thief. Not just a run-of-the-mill, knock-you-over-the-head-and-steal-your-wallet thief, but the best damn thief in the whole goddamn world. Artie owes me money for goods delivered. The good stuff. Only the good stuff. Antique silver. Three heists’ worth. I figure I should clear at least a couple hundred grand after Artie takes his cut. That sounds like a lot but it’s only a fraction of its real value.
“Francis,” he whines, “I don’t think you understand how my business works. You bring me high-end items like what you give me and I have to find unique buyers. And it ain’t here in the States. It’s much too risky to dispose of that kind of stuff here. I have to reach out to my European contacts. That takes time. You want me to get the best price, don’t you?”
“Listen to me, Artie,” I raised my voice a little, just enough to raise the stakes slightly. Just enough to let him know I meant business. “Because I’m n
ot going to say it again. I’m leaving town soon and I need that money. I’m not interested in your business problems. You’re a fucking fence. Do your fucking job. If you can’t, I’ll find someone who can.”
Artie loves to look like a big man so he’s ordered lunch for us. Pastrami sandwiches on rye. I don’t want lunch, I especially don’t want a pastrami sandwich because I don’t eat meat. Artie would have known that if he’d bothered to ask, but he didn’t. He just wanted to look like a fucking big shot. I don’t care about his fucking lunch. I just want my fucking money. Besides, it’s hot, so hot I’m starting to sweat through my shirt, even though I hardly ever sweat. As it gets closer to one, it’s getting hotter. I look up and see why. There’s not a fucking cloud in the sky. Just the sun. A big, yellow ball in the sky, suspended in an ocean of blue. That’s why people come down here. For the sun and the heat. So, they can jump in the pool to cool off. Makes no sense to me. You want to cool off stay the fuck where you were up north. Or stay in your air-conditioned room.
“Whoa, Francis, we go back a long way. I don’t want to lose an old client like you. Besides, you’re more like a friend than a client.”
I laughed. I don’t think of myself as a client and I certainly don’t think of myself as Artie’s friend. I break into people’s homes and take what I want. Artie sells what I take. We have what they call a symbiotic relationship. It’s as simple as that. Only Artie isn’t making it as simple as that. He’s making it difficult. It’s my job to get him back on track. To remind him who the fuck he is and why the fuck he exists.
“I’ll give you two days. You understand? Two fucking days. No more. You either come up with the dough or you give me back the goods. I’ll find someone else to fence it or I’ll fucking melt it down and sell the shit myself.”
“Don’t do that! Please. Some of those pieces are part of history, man. American history. They go way, way back.”