Devil With a Gun

by M. C. Grant

  He also holds his head at a 45-degree angle with his left ear practically stitched to his shoulder, which makes meeting his gaze unnervingly difficult.

  “I’m looking for a girl,” I say. “Twenty years old, possibly blond, called Roxanne.”

  “She black, chink, or vanilla?” the man asks. A nametag on his shirt reads Hello, my name is Warrick just in case some customer gives a damn, which I’m guessing most don’t.

  “Caucasian,” I say.

  “Cock Asian, that’s a new one. You mean chink she-male?”

  He grins. I don’t.

  “She’s white,” I say.

  “And who’s asking?”

  “I am.”

  Warrick grins again, the upper half of his mouth opening wider than the lower half to form a toothy comma.

  “And who are you?”

  “A friend of her sister.”

  “I like sisters,” he says.

  “Yeah, who doesn’t?” I snap impatiently. “Do you know her or not?”

  Warrick moves his head from side to side, but because of the angle of his neck, I can’t tell if he means it be a shake or a nod.

  “What room is she in?” I press.

  Warrick shrugs. “I take the money and hand out keys. I don’t peep.”

  Which tells me straight away that he’s a peeper.

  “So you have cameras in the rooms.”

  He looks horrified. “No!”

  Which means yes. I lift my chin to indicate the door behind him. “You keep the monitors and video equipment in there?”

  “NO!”

  “Good to know. Thanks.”

  He begins to panic. “I didn’t tell you anything.”

  I smile cruelly. “That’s exactly what I’ll tell Red Swan when I’m talking to him.”

  If it is possible for his face to become any paler, it does. “I-I-I didn’t say anything,” he insists.

  “Not a thing,” I agree, but my eyes say different and he’s reading my eyes.

  He looks away and begins chewing his fingernails. It’s not a new habit. “What do you want?”

  “Just one girl. You’ll hardly even miss her. Is she here?”

  His eyes flash around the lobby as if he’s expecting an army of ninjas to drop from the ceiling or spring from hidden cavities in the walls. I’m guessing he’s been watching too much Scooby-Doo.

  “Which room?” I ask.

  He glances down at a small computer monitor on his desk, which tells me he’s not as thick as he’s letting on.

  “She’s in the bar.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turn to head for the connecting doors to the bar but stop and turn back before I push through.

  “Is she still blond?” I ask, since the only photograph I’ve seen of her was when she was around five years old.

  “Pink,” he says. “This week she’s pink.”

  The bar is noisy and filled with enough testosterone to make me worry I’m about to sprout hair on my chest and start scratching my balls.

  A few heads turn my way, and I suddenly feel thankful that my breasts are discreet and I decided to wear a bra today. I just hope the manly pheromone stench doesn’t make my nipples pop out to say hello, because I have a feeling that would be like taking a match to a tinderbox doused in white gas.

  I try to remember how it is that Sam can enter a room and make everyone instantly aware that she’s a butch lesbian who won’t put up with any homophobic shit. But when you love someone as a sister, it’s difficult to see her through anyone else’s eyes.

  Instead I channel Clint Eastwood with hard cowboy eyes and an unfriendly scowl. Pity I don’t have a cigarillo and a poncho to complete the look.

  I make my way to the bar, since standing still is attracting too much attention. I ignore the first hand that lands on my ass; the second is more difficult, as it’s eager to explore and I’m forced to quicken my pace; the third makes a pinching move, catching a piece of flesh between finger and thumb.

  I spin, grab the offending finger, and force it in a direction it was never designed to go. The jarring snap of bone is like a gunshot that silences the room. The finger’s owner—a gristly longshoreman with bad teeth and overgrown mutton-chop sideburns—screams in agony before jabbering in a long string of Polish that, even to untrained ears, has the meaty weight of profanity.

  None of the men at his table move an inch as Mutton Chop fixes murderous red-rimmed eyes on me and I wait to see if he wants to take it further.

  Unfortunately, he does, and it’s too late for me to explain that I hadn’t actually planned to break the offending digit; I was aiming for a dislocation or serious sprain, but I’m still learning. However, as Pinch has been teaching me: If you have to put a man down, make sure he doesn’t want to get up again.

  I hear Mutton Chop’s chair scrape backward as he prepares to rise, but I don’t want him to get to his feet and make this a fairer fight. As his knees begin to straighten and he’s in that awkward, top-heavy and unbalanced state between sitting and standing, I blindside him with a straight-armed strike containing all the strength of my shoulders and back.

  This time I connect with the back of his skull, the heel of my hand sliding into the nerve cluster where bone meets neck; my fingers dig through greasy hair to latch onto his scalp. In the same instant, I yank his supporting arm to one side and lift off my feet to focus all my weight behind the head slam.

  Mutton Chop doesn’t even have time to scream again before his remaining support buckles and his face crunches into the table with enough force to crack the wood. His companions push away from the table in the nick of time to save their beers and avoid most of the blood spray.

  I hold my breath, tense and more than a little afraid, but none of them rise in defense of their friend as he turns his head to the side to blow blood bubbles through his nose.

  No other errant hand makes an attempt to molest me when I continue to the bar and order a draft beer and shot of Jack Daniel’s.

  I keep my back to the crowd as I down the Tennessee whiskey in one gulp so that only the bartender witnesses the tremor in my hand. He refills the shot glass without being asked.

  “On the house,” he says. “Gerek’s an asshole.”

  “Think his friends will let me walk out of here?” I ask.

  The bartender shrugs. “I wouldn’t go to the john alone if I were you. Too much privacy is never healthy.”

  I down the second shot and take a sip of beer. I have to stop myself from spitting the beer back out; it’s cheap and wet, but that’s the only good thing I can say about it.

  I leave the glass on the bar and surreptitiously scan the room. I spot a young girl with pink hair standing near the jukebox. A slobbering ox has his hand up her short skirt while an imposing bouncer stands nearby awaiting word that an exchange of money is needed to go any further.

  Abandoning the liquid insult to craft brewers everywhere, I move around the edge of the room until I’m beside the jukebox with the drunken ox between the helium-filled bouncer and myself.

  “Roxanne?” I ask.

  The pink-haired girl looks over at me, and I instantly see the family resemblance to Bailey. Despite being five years younger, her face wears similar scars. If I had to say who looked older, Roxanne would win hands down.

  “Can we go somewhere?” I ask.

  The ox’s hand is still moving under her skirt, but his eyes are so glazed he doesn’t appear to be in the same room.

  “Don’t usually get that request from girls,” she says. “Not in this dump at least. Used to when I worked the classy joints.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Oh shit! What are you, a social worker? Cop?”

  “Neither. I’m a friend of your sister’s.”

  “Bullshit. She’s gone.”

/>   “She’s back in San Francisco. She wants to see you.”

  Roxanne snorts. “Get lost. I don’t have a sister anymore.”

  “She misses you,” I press.

  “Now I know you’re lying. Bailey can’t miss anyone; you need to have a heart first.”

  “Maybe she’s changed?”

  “Yeah, and maybe ducks will shit rainbows.”

  I smile at the crude expression. “That would be something to see, wouldn’t it?”

  Roxanne surprises me by smiling back, briefly exposing the young girl within.

  “You’re an odd one, but I like how you handled Gerek back there. None of these Polish freaks can get their rocks off unless it’s anal and you’re in pain. What the fuck is up with that?”

  I shrug and try to make sure I’m not cringing.

  “Can we get out of here?” I ask.

  “I’m working.”

  “I think you might be in danger.”

  “What? Why?”

  I tell her about my meeting with the Red Swan and her face glows livid.

  “You stupid bitch! Why would you go looking into that?”

  “Don’t you want to know what happened to your father?”

  “No! I don’t even remember him, and that’s the way I like it.”

  I notice that people are starting to pay attention to us, and that’s never a good thing.

  “Look at your life, Roxanne. Is this really what you want?”

  “Fuck you!” she explodes. “You don’t know me or what I want.”

  “I can help,” I push. “I know some great people who can get you back on your feet.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and off my back. I’ve heard the sermons before, sister.”

  “Damnit. Listen to me: you’re in danger here.”

  “No.” Roxanne shakes her head. “The only one in danger here is you.”

  I look beyond the ox and see the bouncer moving in toward us. I glance over my shoulder and see a second bouncer coming from behind the bar.

  “Please, Roxanne.” I hold out my hand. “Just come with me. Give me a day. We’ll see your sister.”

  Roxanne’s eyes are hard and dry as millstone. “You really think I have that choice?” she says. “Don’t be so fucking naive.”

  The first bouncer pushes past the ox, telling him to back off or take it upstairs, and advances on me.

  All I have is my boot knife, Lily, but I know it won’t do me any good. A smart fighter knows when a brawl is lost before it’s even begun.

  I raise my hands to show they’re empty and that I’m willing to go peacefully.

  Thirteen

  “The exit is back that way,” I say as the two bouncers lead me in the opposite direction. “My friend is waiting for me outside. She’ll probably be getting worried. Wouldn’t want her calling the cops simply because you have a lousy sense of direction, would you?”

  “There’s nobody waiting,” the first bouncer says. “Think we don’t have eyes on the street?”

  I try a different tactic: “So are you two lovers?” I ask.

  “Fuck you, bitch!”

  “Kinda quick to anger there,” I press. “Strike a nerve? One-way love affair maybe? He’s straight, you’re—”

  I yelp as my arm is twisted behind my back and the bouncer’s thumb presses into the existing bruise on my wrist.

  “You don’t have to hide your feelings with me, boys,” I groan. “I’m a live-and-let-live kinda gal.”

  “Shut your mouth,” the bouncer snaps.

  At the end of a short, dilapidated hallway, we reach the rear of the hotel and a room labeled Storage. The first bouncer opens the door and flicks on the overhead light; the second one shoves me through the doorway.

  The room is mostly old boxes, forgotten luggage, stained mattresses, and dusty stacks of wooden chairs. I’m just happy that it’s not a torture chamber, complete with dentist chair and crazy Nazi with a drill à la Marathon Man, which I watched on Netflix last week.

  “This your secret love nest?” I sniff the air. “Smells like it.”

  The lead bouncer shakes his massive head and I can see his muscles tense with rage. “The boss’ll want me to hurt you. I look forward to it.”

  “Deny, deny, deny,” I fire back bravely. “It’ll eat you up inside.”

  The bouncer makes a move to rush me, but his partner holds him back, cluing me into the fact that they’re not allowed to do anything until the boss shows.

  They both retreat into the hall before slamming the door closed, leaving me alone inside the windowless room.

  I allow a small smile to break through my secret terror, knowing that if I hadn’t made them so angry, they might’ve engaged their brains and searched me. As it is, they couldn’t wait to get out of earshot. Typical.

  I touch the pearl-handled switchblade in my boot to reassure myself it’s still there before studying the room in more detail. The wooden chairs are old and uncomfortable, built in an age when craftsmen wanted them to last.

  I lift one off the stack, lay it on its side, and kick at a point where one of the legs meets the seat. The ancient glue crumbles into powder, and two more kicks reward me with a skull-crushing club of solid oak.

  Next I check the abandoned luggage, cutting through any locked straps with my knife. Unfortunately, I don’t find anything of interest except for an antique hand mirror in a solid silver frame. If I was up against a vain werewolf it could be a lifesaver, but my enemies appear to be human, if just barely.

  With my club and knife at the ready, I move to the door and study the hinges. All three hinges are on my side. I slip the blade under the bottom hinge pin and wiggle it up and down. The pin creaks and lifts about an eighth of an inch before stopping. I flip the blade over so that its thicker, stronger edge is now resting under the head of the pin and ease it up with both hands.

  It takes some muscle and sweat, but eventually the pin pulls completely free.

  I move to the middle pin.

  When the handle turns and the door starts to open, I leverage the opposite side with my wooden club to knock it off its hinges. The heavy door falls into the room, yanking my captor with it and eliciting a startled grunt.

  Standing on a chair beside the now-open doorway, I capitalize on the confusion by swinging my club toward where I expect the first bouncer’s head to be, but I misjudge. The club smashes into the doorjamb instead. Wood splinters and the vibrations send a shockwave of pain down my arm, causing me to drop the club.

  I leap off the chair and instantly make a dash for freedom down the hallway, my knife ready to slash anyone who gets between the exit and me. But as I run, I see the two bouncers slumped on the floor.

  And just as I realize that they’re both unconscious, I hear my name being called by a familiar voice.

  “Dixie! Wait up.”

  I skid to a halt and turn to see Pinch brushing wood splinters out of his hair. He grins as he says, “You just about knocked my head off.”

  I smile in response, realizing that the only reason my plan didn’t work was that I was expecting a taller man.

  “So I take it we’re not getting that beer?” he says as he closes the gap between us.

  “Beer’s lousy here anyway. I couldn’t even finish mine.”

  “Good to know,” he says. “They don’t do karaoke either, and jam night is sea shanties only. Pitiful.”

  I can’t help myself as I rush forward and wrap him in a hug, fighting not to collapse onto my knees in a fit of sobbing. Pinch squeezes me back until I feel my strength and resolve returning.

  When I’m ready, I let him go and wipe my eyes.

  “How did you find me?” I ask.

  “You left a message, remember? And when I found myself being stood up, I asked the bartender if he’d seen you. Man was nice enough to
point the way.”

  I glance down at the unconscious bouncers.

  “And these two?”

  Pinch shrugs. “Nap time.”

  “I shouldn’t have called,” I say. “But I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Let’s find a nicer bar. You can buy me a drink to say thanks.”

  “I can’t leave yet.”

  “Oh? It would seem like the prudent thing to do.”

  “I know, but I need to take someone with me.”

  “Who?”

  “A young girl with pink hair.”

  “I didn’t spot her in the bar.”

  “Then she’s in a room.”

  “No shortage of those.”

  “The guy at reception will know which one.”

  Pinch raises an eyebrow. “Will he tell you?”

  “I can be very persuasive.”

  Pinch grins again and gestures for me to lead the way.

  Unfortunately, the only route I know to get to the lobby is back through the bar.

  “This could get ugly,” I tell Pinch.

  “I’ve been in there.” He smirks. “It already is.”

  Despite everything that’s happened, I burst out laughing just as I push open the door.

  The roomful of men turn to stare, but when they see that it’s me, they all swivel back around and instantly find the interior of their beer mugs fascinating. All, that is, except one.

  Pinch squeezes my shoulder and whispers, “You leave a lasting impression.”

  The one exception is a Polish dockworker with a swollen and discolored finger, flattened nose, and blood-encrusted muttonchops.

  Pinch winks at the dockworker as we move past, and while scarlet blooms in every burst blood vessel in his cheeks and nose, Gerek makes no attempt to stop us.

  In the lobby, Warrick holds up his hands and mutters, “I didn’t do, do— I d-d-don’t know nothing.”

  “What room is she in?” I ask.

  “Uh, uh, uh.”

  “I don’t have time.” I jab my thumb in Pinch’s direction. “Tell me now or my friend will remove your fucking spleen through your anus.”