'Didn't you just hear what I said?'
'Can't say I did. What is that funny accent?'
I get remarks like that occasionally. Comes with being English. And northern to boot.
'Look, guys, you've caught me in an awkward predicament,' I said to Tats. 'You don't want me here; I don't want to be here. Truth is, normally I wouldn't sully myself by entering a shit hole like this. But here I am.'
My words had the desired effect.
I got a laugh.
Stepping forwards, I found they parted for me.
That should have been it. Playing on the paradox of self-deprecating humour, I should have got myself out of Shuggie's Shack without any injuries. The problem was two things got in the way.
First, Tats' question: 'What did that little freak hand you under the table?'
Second was the surly mood I'd been in when I arrived. Which wasn't helped by the bullshit Richard Dean had subsequently laid on me.
'None of your fucking business,' I told him pleasantly.
The jukebox was spitting out heavy rock music. Ear-jarring stuff, but expected in a place like this. It played on. If there'd been a pianist in the bar he'd have stopped at that moment.
'You're in my place,' Tats pointed out. 'That makes it my business.'
'Oh, so you must be Shuggie, then?' I swept my gaze around the barroom. Shook my head at what I saw. 'You know, place like this dump, you should be ashamed of yourself.'
'I ain't Shuggie, asshole. And that's not what I meant.'
'Yeah, I know what you meant.'
'I own this place. I own what goes on under this roof.' He stuck out his grimy hand a second time. 'Hand it over.'
I shrugged.
'OK.'
The SIG was between his eyes before the smirk had fully formed on his lips.
Chairs scraped and there was a chorus of shouts as just about everyone leapt to their feet, pulling out guns of their own. A couple of the more delicate customers headed for shelter.
It was like DefCon Five had just been announced and anarchy was the new world order.
It kind of matched my mood.
'This is how it's going to be,' I said. My words were for everyone in the room. 'Everyone relaxes, puts away their weapons and gets the hell out of my way. The alternative is that Biker Boy will be throwing his very own wake in the near future.'
'He's only one fucking pussy,' an anonymous voice shouted from out of the crowd. 'We can take him out.'
'One pussy with a gun at your stinking boss's head,' I reminded the shouter. Turning my attention to Tats, I asked him, 'How would you like things to go? Bit of a party animal, I guess. Should be a good turnout for your wake.'
'Put down your goddamn guns,' Tats yelled. 'Any of you muthas with itchy fingers, you're gonna answer to me!'
Smiling at him, I grabbed a handful of his denim cut-off.
'Me and you are going to walk out of here together,' I told him.
He was shorter than I was, but bulkier in the chest. Slightly awkward for getting a hold round his neck. Making do with bunching his cute little ponytail in my left hand, I stuck the SIG under his ear. That way we moved towards the door.
A man to my right maybe still had it in his mind that I was a cop. Cops will always warn before they shoot. He lurched at me, trying to grab the gun away from Tats' throat.
But I'm not a cop.
My sidekick found his knee. There was a tendon-popping twang and his leg now had a two-way joint. His face screwed around the agony, a good target for my elbow. He went down, but at least in his unconscious state he wasn't in pain any longer.
In the fraction of a second that it took to take the idiot out, the SIG had never wavered from its target.
'Any more of you assholes want to test me?' I growled.
They hung back like a pack of hyenas, wary of the lion in their midst, starving but too afraid to try to snatch away its kill.
Taking that as my cue, I dragged Tats backwards and out of the door. Arrayed along the road outside was a row of chopped and converted Harley Davidsons and other bikes I didn't recognise. I shot at a few of them, putting 9 mm ammo through their gas tanks. One of them went up in the air like the space shuttle, trailing fire and burning fuel that splashed most of the others. Rapidly I dragged Tats away from the conflagration, even as others began to spill out of Shuggie's. Suspended between their desire to get Tats free and saving their beloved bikes, there could only be one winner. I was able to bundle Tats into my Ford Explorer without anyone else trying to play the hero.
Screeching out of the parking lot, I pushed the SUV into the eastern lane approaching eighty miles an hour and gaining.
'Fuck, man!' Tats said from the passenger seat. 'You didn't have to go as far as blowing the bikes to hell.'
I smiled. The action had done my bad mood the world of good.
'Had to make it look real, Ron, otherwise they might've guessed you were a willing hostage.'
2
I'm not a cop. I'm not a bounty hunter. But I didn't mind the cash kicked back my way for taking Ron Maynard in.
He was grateful for the service, even thanked me for my help as I passed him over to his bail bondsmen on the outskirts of Tampa. I nodded at him, but didn't accept his hand. After all, he was a punk criminal who'd hurt too many people in the past. His only endearing quality — and the reason I'd agreed to the job of getting him out — was his desire to get away from the lifestyle and go whistleblower on his gang's activities. His testimony would put a shitload of his friends behind bars. Not as satisfying as if they'd been sitting astride their bikes when I blew them to pieces, but there you go. Still a good result.
It was the small hours of the morning but the sub-tropical heat was like a wet hood thrown over my head. An air-conditioned room and comfy bed seemed like a nice idea, but I'd arranged to meet with my friend Jared Rington first. Didn't matter what time it was, Rink would be waiting up for me.
Rink has a condominium up in the wooded lands north-east of Temple Terrace, but he keeps an office for his private investigations business in downtown Tampa. It was outside his office that I parked the Ford. Few people were out on the street, and what traffic there was in the area was reduced to the occasional police cruiser or taxicab. The blinds had been drawn on the window to his office and a 'Closed' sign was hanging in the door, but when I twisted the handle the door swung open.
Rink was sitting behind his computer tapping keys as I walked in and shed my coat. He just didn't look right at the desk. He should have been in a wrestling ring or octagonal cage. If he was a foot shorter and one hundred pounds lighter he'd have looked like the hero from a 1970s Kung Fu movie. He owed the blue-black hair and hooded eyes to his Japanese mother, while his size and muscular build had to have been passed down from his Scottish- Canadian father.
'Got a call thanking us for a job well done,' he said. He gave me a grin, his teeth flashing white against his tawny skin. 'Course, we might have to do a little damage control over the shit storm you left at Shuggie's Shack. Did you have to burn down the entire building?'
'It burned down?' I couldn't help the chuckle. 'Never mind, it was a pigsty. Shuggie will likely thank us.'
If things worked out with Maynard, Shuggie's wouldn't be getting as many customers in the future. The
