Firepower, John Cutter [best summer reads .txt] 📗

Vince went around the corner of the bar and through the red metal door with its warning about serving minors. Inside, he was struck by the cigarette smoke first. He had grown used to Washington State, where smoking wasn’t allowed in bars. The air was gray with it here.

The bar was mostly taken up by the broad backs of hefty men, with a few women peppered in. The men wore sleeveless t-shirts and football jerseys; the Dallas Cowboys and the Atlanta Falcons and the Crimson Tide. To Vince’s left was an internet-based jukebox playing a Kid Rock song, something about “God knows why”. Pool balls clacked under a cone of light on the other side of the bar. A tall blond woman with big arms and wide shoulders and a mass of curled hair was tending bar at the near end; at the other end an Asian-American kid was bussing. The smell of barbecued ribs was in the air.

Vince had a weakness for pool, and he gave the tables one longing glance before going to the bar. He found the only open spot. The big lady drifted over, light as a cloud. She wore lime green pants and vest, and a white, frilly blouse, open to display her tanned, sparkle-sprayed cleavage.

Louder than Kid Rock, she said, “What can I get you, little fella?”

Vince grinned. “Miller draft.”

“You got it.”

She brought him the beer and asked, “What’s your name, hon?”

“Vince.”

“I’m Tina. I hear a little Texas in your voice?”

“Ya’ll ain’t wrong.”

She squinched up her lips in pretend disapproval. “We get trouble from Texas all the time! Well you’re in Alabama now, so you behave. I wouldn’t want to have to spank you.”

Vince laughed. “I’ll be good.”

She winked and went to pour someone a Jack.

Vince sipped his beer, looking around as the music changed to Toby Keith. He spotted one of the Brethren almost immediately; the short blond guy, Shaun Adler, now in a black hoodie and jeans, looking sullenly into a tequila sunrise.

On his right was an older, more muscular guy with a blond flattop haircut. He was wearing a cut-off sleeveless shirt, showing his hard belly. He had a cigarette in one hand and an empty glass in front of him that he twirled between two fingers as he muttered something to Shaun. Probably his brother. The older one was sniffling, twitching, talking on and on in the frowning Shaun’s ear.

Meth, Vince figured.

The tweaker brother suddenly slid off his stool and went almost at a run toward the men’s room. Shaun closed his eyes and shook his head.

A heavy-set, bearded man in a cowboy hat came into the bar, looked around, and made a bee-line for Shaun. He was a foot taller than the short militiaman and probably outweighed him twice over. He was pop-eyed, and his bare arms were crawling with tattoos, so many they muddled one another. The big guy sidled up to Shaun and prodded him with a thick stubby finger. Shaun twitched away from him. Cowboy Beard pressed closer, looming over Shaun, and shoved him into the bar, bending near him, snarling something. Shaun shook his head…

And Vince smiled to himself, thinking, This is my chance.

He walked over, stopped just a step away, in time to hear the bearded cowboy say, “Your brother is not going to pay me that money. So you got to do it.”

“I haven’t got it, Rendell!” Shaun said.

“He’s snorted four hundred dollars of my goody-goods up his nose and if I don’t get that money from him, I’ll take it out of your hide, boy—”

Vince tapped Rendell on the shoulder. “Hey.”

Rendell turned and jabbed a stubby finger at Vince. “Hey — back off, this here’s a private conversation!”

Shaun gawped at Vince, his eyes wide. “Uhhh… You?”

Vince said, “Shaun Adler, here, is a personal friend of mine… Rendell.”

Shaun seemed startled by that claim. Just then, as Vince went on, the song finished and another one wasn’t slated to come on. The place went quiet except for a few people murmuring. Vince sensed everyone in the bar was looking their way.

Keeping his tone polite, he went on, “I have this feeling that you’re threatening Shaun. If it weren’t for the fact that the debt in question relates to a poison you’ve been selling his brother, I might just pay it off. But I can’t give any money to a guy like you. So, I’m going to ask you to back off and leave the bar.” Vince smiled. “If you would, Rendell — please.”

Rendell was staring at him as if Vince had spoken in ancient Greek. Then he shook his head in amazement. He turned away, as if he were going to talk to Shaun — but Vince saw the hulking man’s right-hand bunch into a fist, saw the tension in his right arm. The guy was going to try a sucker-punch.

If a hard punch from a man that size landed, it could do Vince some serious damage. But when it came, Vince was already ducking under it.

He jabbed his own right fist up hard into a cluster of nerves on the underside of the bearded cowboy’s shoulder. Rendell yelped, his body swiveling past Vince with the momentum of his failed punch. Vince kicked his right boot into the hollow of Rendell’s knee, making the meth dealer’s leg buckle.

Rendell crashed down, his forehead catching a glancing blow from the edge of the bar, his hat flying off.

Vince took two steps back from the bar and waited for Rendell to get up. Shaking his head like a dog with fleas in his ears, Rendell got ponderously to his feet, then bared his teeth and reached into his coat with his left hand.

Gun, Vince thought — and as he formed the thought he spun on his left foot, kicked out with