One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel Read Free Page B

witness would be enough to throw a monkey wrench into their plans.
    It didn't work. The guy on the door just leaned back, folded his arms.
    "Closed, pal. Take off."
    I looked at my watch, started walking. "Don't let them bluff you, bro. Last call is one-thirty."
    "You don't hear so well? It's my bar, and I said take off."
    I kept moving, hands loose at my belt loops to show I was harmless. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cowboy closing in on the drunk. "One beer, a look at Tina's tits, and I'm out of here."
    I was on him now, maybe two yards away. A brief, confused look crossed his face. "They ain't got any Tina."
    Cowboy popped the businessman who looked like Bud; hit him once on the jaw. The drunk went down in a heap. Cowboy was lifting his wallet before he hit the ground, maybe looking for credit cards. My guy went for something in the pocket of his windbreaker, probably a small gun. I feinted giving a kick to the nuts. When he raised his thigh and got off balance, I ran him into the door, slammed my elbow into his temple a couple of times. He dropped hard, but still breathing. I spun and sprinted for the cowboy. He was already up, crouched with his hands loose like a man who'd gone a few rounds.
    "This ain't smart," he said, not unkindly.
    I sighed. "I know."
    "Then don't throw down."
    I pointed to the drunk, who was struggling to sit up. "Give the man his stuff back, and then maybe we can talk."
    Cowboy studied me for a long moment. I saw him replaying how quickly I'd dropped his partner. He opened the wallet, took a twenty and held it up. "Figure I should get a few beers out of this. I walk away now, we straight?"
    I shrugged. "He'd just blow it anyway."
    Cowboy nodded. He went back towards the club, eyes on my face. He took the long way around, to avoid getting close. Picked up his friend from behind, under the arm pits, and half dragged him over to one of the trucks. They got in and drove away.
    The businessman that looked like Bud was back on his feet, leaning against the rental car. His suit was speckled with vomit and some blood from a cut just over his right eye. He glared at me.
    "Buzz off, man. I didn't ask for your help."
    "True enough." I raised my arm, pointed. "There's a Motel Six just down the road. Check in and sleep this off. Otherwise, a squad car is going to nab you, and you'll spend the night in a cell and lose your license."
    He wiped his nose and spat, turned to open the car, and then I heard him mumble something obscene.
    "What?"
    "I said . . . thanks."
    I nodded. "Try AA. It works."
    "Not for me."
    "Give it ninety meetings in ninety days. Keep at it. This is no way to live."
    "That so?" He got in, slammed the door and started the engine. Now he felt safe. "Yeah, well fuck you too, Mother Teresa."
    I watched as he backed out, clipped a metal trash can, and finally managed a U. He drove out of the lot onto Vanowen, then floored it to well over the speed limit. It was no surprise that he went the wrong way, down toward the next line of strip clubs. I crossed the lot.
    Some Rick James tune was thumping, scratching, and growling at the other side of the entrance. That tired old one about a girl being super freaky. I opened the dented metal door and went inside.
    Bud Stone was parked alone at the end of the bar, before a half-empty pitcher of warm beer, watching two bored girls pretend to have lesbian sex. He wasn't wearing a suit. The years hadn't been kind. Like the drunk, his hairline was trekking steadily towards Bolivia, and his massive chest drooped a bit. He still had huge guns straining his tee shirt; arms festooned with tattoos and clumps of thick, reddish hair. Bud Stone worked out harder than any man I'd ever known. And he was one of the good guys, even after two combat tours. I owed him. A lot.
    Bone saw me coming, and his face split into that familiar, toothy grin. "Well, if it ain't Mick Callahan his own self!"
    "Was last time I looked."
    We shook hands, palms slapping together, grips