Chasing China White, Allan Leverone [feel good books to read txt] 📗

else’s. Keeps walking. Life’s good, work’s gonna be good, he’s gonna get Carla back, he fucking knows it. She loves him or she’s already gone no matter what else is going on. That’s how women work.

How he works? There’s always someone needs a hand. If it sounds clean, he does it. Sounds messy, he says no. Agrees with Carla on that one—no time to serve time. He has a wife and kid to impress, and they can’t hate or ignore or have pity on him.

Morning’s gone and he’s still walking. He was with Eddie less than an hour. It’s three or four in the afternoon, breakfast has worn off. He steps into a pizza place.

“Pepperoni. Four slices.” Two at this place would be a large meal for most. Tommy’s always topped out at three. Sick as he’s been, he should probably stop at two. “And a large Coke,” he says when the slices arrive.

He takes a table for two, throws spicy peppers all over every slice. Don’t know what that shit’s called but it’s good. Late for lunch and early for dinner, the place ain’t crowded, no one sits near him. Good. Fuck people.

Almost done with the third slice, his phone rings.

“Yeah.”

“We gon’ meet before we work together.”

“Yeah.”

He gets a time, an address. He finishes his pizza.

“Tommy.” Skinny guy he don’t know sits at a back corner table outside, faces the street, the only way in. “Siddown.”

Tommy never saw the guy before but he sits, faces him. “What’s your name?”

“Not how this works. I tell you the deal. Take it, you know me. Don’t, you don’t.”

Tommy stands. “I’m gettin’ a beer. Need anything?”

Skinny taps the side of his coffee cup without looking at it. “I’m good.”

I’m not, Tommy thinks as he steps inside. Not even tryin’ to get good. More like a junkie, tryin’ to get well. Maybe a beer settles his rumbling gut. And if things don’t work out, get fucked up again.

Twenty feet inside the front door a fridge houses shelves of bottled beers. Tommy grabs one. He could use a couple slugs before he talks to this guy. He reaches the counter, eight people ahead of him in line. He angles his beer bottle and pops the cap off the edge of the counter, drinks as the cap hits the floor. No one says shit. People in a place like this don’t even wanna look at a guy like him.

The bottle’s half empty when he reaches the register. “Just the beer,” he says.

“Six bucks.” Bearded guy at the register has an opener in his hand. Tommy takes a drink.

“How’d you get that open?”

Tommy pulls six bucks from his wallet and hands it to the guy, walks out the door. Something inside him wants to burst, gotta be nerves from Carla or maybe he’s as sick as he feels. Like his gut could come out in any direction.

It’s dusk, sun still up a little. The place has outside lights but they ain’t on yet.

“Got a quick start on that,” Skinny says.

“Here to do business, not fuck around.” He sits. “What’s the job?”

“No details here.”

Tommy drinks. Guy talks like he’s a fucking idiot. Won’t be details at a place like this but the guy wanted to meet him, has to say enough for them both to decide.

“Just tell me what I gotta do. Ask me what you gotta know.”

No one sits near them. Skinny looks around anyway, talks soft. “It’s a bar, makes some book in back. Big day’s the Super Bowl but they bring security for that. And Sundays the bar’s packed, people watching games. But Saturday nights, regular season? Lotta money in back.”

“In a safe.”

Skinny shakes his head. “Not the whole time. They transfer it, don’t do payoffs at the bar. Take the bets one place, pay off another.”

“And you know when they pick up the money.”

Skinny nods.

“And this ain’t protected.”

“All private, no one behind ’em.”

“These guys nuts? Someone gets wind, they worse than dead.”

“Why the job’s safe.” Skinny looks around again. Still no neighbors. “Just need a couple guys with guns to do this.”

“How many guys they got? Including the driver. Cuz they all got guns. And no way I do this if they’re Chinese or black. Those people cut a white man’s balls off.”

“Two guys pick up from one.”

“So three. And there’s a driver. Four. And you said a couple of us. We need more guys than they got and you provide weapons. I approve the weapons before I do the job.”

“You ask the right questions,” Skinny says. “But I gotta know about you.”

“You know or you wouldn’t ask.” Tommy holds his empty bottle. “Be right back.” He stands. “Need anything?”

“Nah.”

Maybe Tommy’s drink count matters tonight but fuck it, he ain’t pretendin’ he don’t drink. Let ’em know this is who he is now. He stands in line, pays for his open beer when he gets to the register, goes back to the table.

Tommy sits.

Skinny’s palm is over the top of his coffee cup. He tips his head up then back down, like maybe he’s indicating Tommy’s new beer. “And I’m supposed to believe you’re fine.”

“Beer and a shot now. Follow me the last two years, that’s all you see.”

Skinny holds his coffee cup again, like it’s still warm enough to drink. “Whattaya do instead?”

“Instead of the highs?” Tommy shakes his head. “Work when it comes. Fight with the old lady. What’s anyone do?”

“You shot heroin?” Skinny asks it casual, like it’s a hobby.

“Everyone I knew did. Don’t know none of them now.”

“Ya want to?”

Tommy drinks, sets his bottle down. “Not guys you’d miss.”

“What about the highs? Miss them?”

“The shit near killed me. Maybe that was okay then.” He drinks. “Don’t wanna die no more.”

“So whydja fall down at the bar?”

Motherfucker Eddie. Business though. “Just sick. Don’t last forever.”

Skinny nods. “We leave here in separate cars. Prescott Motel, you know it?”

“Yeah.”

“We meet in the parking lot, right outside where you check in.”

Click here to learn more about Tommy Shakes by Rob Pierce.

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