With dark scruff and flat, expressionless brows, the man’s mouth appears to be permanently fixed in an imposing slant. “No.”
“Sorry. Can’t help you.”
The stranger dips his chin in a curt nod before venturing away from their table in search of others to question.
As much as I love my work, I also like to detach from it. Especially after the week I’ve had. If he heads on over, I’ll give him a business card and tell him to show up at my door bright and early on Monday.
Right now, I just want to enjoy my whiskey. And if I’m being honest, this is probably the most amusing entertainment I’ve had in a while, watching him go ’round and ’round with these guys.
“You’re lookin’ for who?” Two-Packs-a-Day Ted wheezes out the question loudly. Not because he’s trying to get attention, but because on top of having emphysema, he’s also extremely hard of hearing.
Which is a nice way of saying deaf as fuck. Many of the guys who’ve been working with the big machinery down at the paper mill have major hearing loss as a result.
“I’m lookin’ for a guy named Mac.”
The man’s voice floats over me like a layer of velvet, yet it’s easy to detect the trace of steel lurking beneath it.
A guy named Mac. Aside from the amusement flooding me, I figure he probably heard about my salvage yard being the best around…and automatically assumed it’s owned by a man.
Deaton pipes up first. “I don’t reckon I know this Mac gentleman. How ’bout you, Ted?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I do.”
“Wait a sec, now.” This comes from Boone, who—right hand to God—has rocks in lieu of a brain. “Don’t you think he might be talkin’ ’bout—”
“No!” Ted and Deaton yell in unison.
On and on it goes. One by one, the man asks if they know a guy named Mac. They’re having way too much fun with the poor guy, but I can’t say I blame them. A stranger walks into a bar with a Hispanic accent asking for the male equivalent of someone they know, and people tend to clam up.
I’m just biding my time. Eventually, the man will venture over here, and I’ll have my turn.
“A guy named Mac?” Randy busts out laughing.
It takes a moment before Randy finally manages to answer, and when he does, his voice is drenched with so much amusement, I’m surprised he doesn’t drown in it.
“Nope, never heard of ’im.”
16
DANIEL
I’m in fucking hee-haw hell.
A weary-looking jukebox sitting in the far corner of the bar just finished playing “Sweet Home Alabama” only to roll right into another song about loving a bar.
Men sit around, most with a beer in hand. Some are double-fisting bottles but only using one as a spittoon for their chewing tobacco. Others are drinking whiskey or scotch, by the looks of it.
Every single one of them whipped their heads around to gawk at me when I stepped inside. And I get it. I’m so fucking out of place, in a sea of sleeveless shirts—some purchased that way and others made that way by hand—and stained jeans.
Some have belt buckles the size of dinner plates. I’d bet anything they’re compensating for having a tiny dick, because no real man needs to draw that much attention to his fucking crotch.
This joint makes me think of that movie Deliverance. A few dozen total men are here, all with weapons of some sort; mostly sheathed knives clipped to their belts, but there are a couple who have holstered pistols. Tossed in the odd mix is a lone woman sitting at the bar, long hair spilling out from beneath a backward ball cap.
No other females are to be found, and the one at the bar didn’t bother turning around when I entered and hasn’t done so since. It’s like she’s on a mission to ignore her surroundings and concentrate on her drink of choice. Fuck…the dynamics of this place are weird as hell.
Seeking people out and interrogating them isn’t new to me. When necessary, putting them six feet under isn’t either. But this time is different. It’s not for my gang. It’s not to protect our community.
It’s fucking personal. Which is why I can’t go drawing my gun to speed up the process of getting answers.
Another reason I don’t is because the moment I stepped inside this place, the bartender reached a hand beneath the counter. He didn’t do more than that but sure eyed me like he knew I was carrying. I’d bet my last dollar he’s got a shotgun loaded and ready to roll for any fuckers daring to start shit.
I sure as hell want to, especially after hitting dead ends with the others here, and now trying to make sense of what these two drunk asses are yammering on about.
“Nope, never heard of ’im.” He busts out laughing uncontrollably.
“Wait. Don’t you me— Ow!” His friend reaches below the table, most likely to rub the shin where his buddy kicked him. “What the fuck, Randy?!”
I grit my teeth so hard my molars start to ache, and my fingers twitch yet again with the urge to reach for my Glock.
I’m about to walk away and just take a seat at the bar, because if anybody deserves a goddamn drink, it’s me.
Just as I turn, the fuckwit, Randy, who finally finished laughing at my question, pipes up. The lighting in this place might be dim, but I swear they highlight his disgusting-as-hell teeth. “You might wanna ask Little Miss Freak up at the bar there.”
I narrow my gaze on him. “’Scuse me?”
His buddy grins up from his seat, giving me a better look at his own Nicotine-yellowed teeth. He tips his head to where the woman sits at the far end of the bar. “Ain’t much to look at, but she might can help you out.”
Ain’t much to look at? The fuck? I give the woman I’d noticed earlier more than just a cursory look.
Long hair that’s a unique shade of silver falls past her shoulders. She doesn’t flaunt her body, that much is obvious judging by the plain navy-blue T-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. Her clothing is snug in all the right places, showing the slight flare of her hips and curve of her waist.
My attention snags on her no-nonsense black boots—steel-toed, if I’m not mistaken—that make me wonder what kind of work she does. And why the hell she’d choose this bar and to be surrounded by a bunch of drunken bastards.
When she shifts slightly, tipping her head back as she drinks, her hair shifts, and— Holy fuck. She has the smoothest-looking skin along sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and lips that can’t be classified as anything other than sensual. Ain’t much to look at? These assholes need their damn vision checked, because she’s beautiful.
“Whaddya want with Mac, anyway?” Randy frowns as he studies me. “You a Fed or something?”
I pin him with a cool glare. “Thought you said you didn’t know a guy named Mac.”
Beer sloshes over the rim as the other yellowed-teeth dipshit gestures at me with his beer. “Dressed like that, he’s gotta be a Fed.”
“Or one of those Mexican cartel dudes. I know, ’cause I seen that movie Sicario.” Randy scans me from head to toe with his glassy, drunken gaze. “Looks like one of ’em to me. Sounds like one, too.”