by Mike McCrary
Steady Trouble
Mike McCrary
Contents
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Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part II
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part III
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Part IV
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
COMING SOON
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Details can be found at the end of STEADY TROUBLE.
To the folks that keep me going. Not sure if that means you? It’s probably not you.
Prologue
Finally, the bodies are under control.
The yard is a damn mess though. There’s these fistfuls of churned-up dirt piled up near the barn, looks a lot like a blind dog buried some dinosaur bones. I’m a little embarrassed by how bad it looks. I’m better than that. It’ll have to do.
Souvenirs of a hard scrape between hard folks, I suppose.
Probably doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to see it out here in the middle of nowhere. Bumfuck, Texas, we used to call it.
I catch myself in the mirror. It’s as if I’m watching a movie of somebody else starring in the lead role. I’m jam-loading shells into my shotgun like SWAT. Like a boss. I look good. Not completely sure when I picked up this skill. Guess it’s part of my new hobby that I call “keep on breathing.” Comes with a new lifestyle that includes working a shotgun like a badass bitch. Setting the 12-gauge down, I run my fingers along the top of Mom’s old kitchen table. Every scratch marks a moment. Each gouged chunk holds a memory.
Be nice if I could remember any of them.
My shaking fingertips glide across the wood. I keep my eyes closed as I feel the battered table surface, trying to find some form of recall. A shred of something from before. Before it was removed from my memory. Perhaps my sense of touch can bring it back. I press my fingers harder. Come on, tell me the story Mom’s table has to tell.
It’s useless, I know.
Hoped maybe the surge of violence-induced adrenaline would shake something loose in this busted-ass melon of mine.
Nothing.
It’s damn hot this time of year in Texas. The AC works like a champ, but when your window has been blown out by a gun blast it does hamper the effectiveness of the unit, no matter the BTUs. Gunshots would probably draw attention in most spots, but not around here. The house is surrounded by trees, with some open land for the horses, cows and various other furry bastards that used to live here. The drive from the county road to the house is snakelike and measures about a half mile. Besides, people around here shoot shit all the time.
This is my home. The last damn thing I have. A nice home, great to grow up in. And worth fighting for. It’s also the only thing that holds the memories I can’t access anymore. Never thought things would end up like this—here in this house, standing in my childhood living room and armed to the teeth.
My plan?
Keep this house.
Keep on breathing.
Obliterate anything that tries to take any of that away from me.
Simple plan, really.
At least in this simple, country girl’s busted mind.
Part 1
“I'm not a mean person, but I have a capacity for it.” -- Tina Fey
Chapter 1
Tuesday night and I’m slinging sauce at the bar.
Bartender is my primary vocation.
My night vocation.
During the day I work part-time as a princess. Not a real princess. That would be silly—nobody is a princess part-time. What I mean is I work at a theme waterpark and dress up like fantasy royalty for an hourly wage and discounts on shit. It’s not the place you’re thinking of. It’s more like the ninth or tenth happiest place on Earth.
I also get flows off other supplemental income interests.
Far less noble interests.
Those interests all stem from this bar I work at inside a hotel. Pretty swank one too. Me and this bar are wrapped up in an entire underground network of sorts. Around here that network has come to life and it’s all moving in and around and circling this bar.
My bar.
My little eye of the storm.
Tabs open and close. Cards swipe. Bar cabbage hits the polished maple then slips into pockets with just enough of it going into cash registers to avoid problems. More importantly, enough to avoid questions.
Cocktails empty, fill and empty again. Over the murmur of patron chitchat and the clinking glasses Willie offers up the truth via a song piped in through high-end Bose. I’ve named the place the Redneck Riot House. It’s a take on a nickname of a famous hotel that rock stars used to trash on the Sunset Strip in LA during the seventies. My little joke to myself. I joke a lot. Been told it masks things. I use humor to cover up the things I don’t want to talk about. They’re right, I just don’t care.
Rather laugh than cry.
The real name of the hotel ain’t that interesting.
There’s a convention in town, along with a spattering of UT kids looking to get a little loose early on in the week. Always a good time watching the middle-aged Cattle Farmers of America trying to fiddle their way into the panties of the twenty-one-year-old college girls. They, of course, will gladly accept their expense account drinks, sans the panty access. I can respect all of that on some level. Try not to judge any of it. Think of it more as wants and needs. People using what they’ve got in order to achieve something they want. As long as nobody gets hurt, so be it. However, watching the old farts try to screw much younger girls does still kinda irk me from time to time.
It passes.
Circle of life, I guess.
Bubba slides me a fiver tip on a ten-dollar drink for the lady. I take the tribute with gratitude. Maybe too much gratitude; I laugh too much when I’m shining it on, but that’s all part of the show.
The old-timer—I really have no idea if his name is Bubba or Eisenhower, but I’ll go with Bubba—wants to show off his money for
the young college girl. It’s really the only play he has here. The man can only suck in his gut for so long and needs to let his money help ease the load.
The girl isn’t exactly playing it straight either.
Oh no.
The young college girl is actually thirty, and she’s on the clock.
Meaning she’s a prostitute.
Meaning she screws old, fat bastards for money.
She’d rather her clients be young, clean-shaven and hot, but those don’t usually pay for it here in A-Town. She will not be doing any screwing however. Not tonight. She’s on a no-bone night, she tells me. The old girl is resting, she tells me. Girl needs some downtime, she tells me. But that doesn’t mean she can’t make a dollar off the flash of a smile and nudge of the chest. She’s got skills to pay the bills.
I’ve known her for a year or so and we have a system down. I’ve got several systems around town with various professionals of the night. Whether your itch is women or men, I can help find you a scratch. We’ve worked it all out around here.
There’s a pipeline of cash that flows at night in most towns, large and small. Girl at the front desk, the bellboy, cab driver gives me a hot tip of what just checked in or is on the way and I, in turn, grease them with a bill or two or six depending on the lead. I call in my troops, who are interested in earning a little, then stir and let simmer. I run a fair rate in exchange for hot leads at the hotel and around town. This hotel is a cool spot for out-of-towners coming to Austin, not to mention it’s a class joint, which means loose money has hit town and that loose money likes to party.
I’m an agent of sorts.
You could go with pimp, if it makes you feel better about yourself.
Also run a high-end poker game three nights a week out of the hotel kitchen after hours. Worked that out with a night manager, who has a slight pill and hooker fascination. His issues are his own and he will have them regardless of me, so, as I see it, his issues are aligned with my business model. Don’t feel great about it, but at the same time we’re all adults here, right?
I have a goal.
A target.
A number in mind.
Her name, the girl, the prostitute, is Sandy, so she tells me, and we’ve done this before. I give her a call when a male-dominated convention is rolling in. She does the UT act by dressing up like a twenty-something. She slips on a tee from the campus bookstore two sizes too small, then works up a smile that plays likes she’s not too bright and is looking for love in all the wrong places. She makes sure that eyeballs are on her as she slinks through the place, then chats me up at the bar—waiting for friends—then strikes a pose and waits for the boys.
The Bubba is a couple of drinks deep and is starting to feel like he’s back in college. Feeling strong, he makes a move on our hot, blonde young lady (Sandy), whose big, fake boobs are framed like a Picasso in that burnt-orange micro shirt. She giggles like a dumbass (she’s not), tosses her hair, makes with some eyes (not too much now), and works the shit out of the old man.
He doesn’t stand a chance in hell.
She takes an interest in the old man. The type of interest the old man hasn’t experienced in a long, long time. A touch on the arm. More giggling. A mild sex joke with some faux embarrassment—I didn’t just say that out loud, did I?—and, presto, he’s a puddle of goo with a wallet vomiting cash and credit.
She’s pretty irresistible when she’s on. Matter of fact, there’s only been one man so far, that I’ve seen at least, who wasn’t interested in Sandy. This dude, late forties, maybe fifty, came in about six months ago and sat at the bar every night for a week and just wanted to talk.
Wanted to talk to me.
He never gave Sandy more than a slight glance. He was polite and kind, lonely maybe, but he wasn’t really interested in her. He didn’t strike me as gay. I’m usually pretty good at figuring out that kinda thing. It comes with the job, and besides, the guy wore a wedding ring. Talked about his kids some. I know that doesn’t mean a damn thing these days, but the dude gave me slight hope that men aren’t complete shit.
Actually, to be fair, with all I’ve seen, we’re all pretty shitty no matter the genitalia you’re packing.
The game with Sandy is she talks him up with sexy sweetness, telling him to take care of me. Tells Bubba that I’m a good girl going through a tight spot and I need the tips. I’m going to law school, she tells him, and I got stiffed by a bunch of frat boys earlier in the night. She puts on the sad girl eyes and tells him I have to eat the two-hundred-dollar tab those unfeeling, insensitive young boys ran out on. The old man puffs his chest out like as if wearing a cape, feeling he’s better than those young bastards. His age, money and worldly experience with women are finally paying off.
All complete bullshit, of course, but it works.
The Bubba way, way overtips me. Feels good about himself. Sandy orders fancy mixed drinks that run about fifteen – twenty bucks a pop. Like a high-end juice thing or whatever the fuck mixed with whatever the fuck. I charge the twenty, but only serve her an OJ that runs for five. I kicked a few bucks up to the manager for the code so I can alter the tab in the system later.
This way Sandy doesn’t get into a dicey situation because she’s hammered out of her skull sucking down booze all night, but still gets paid. Not to mention she gets her vitamin C. She also doesn’t have to fuck some old saggy-balled bastard. At the end of the night she and I hack up the cash. It’s not lotto money, but on a good run it’s a few hundred, maybe a grand if you play it right on the right night.
Easy green, she tells me.
She’ll also run the same game on the trust fund, frat boy dickholes. They’re a different touch. I have to stay on those a little better. Pay more attention. Work tighter. When she needs a Bubba to go away, all Sandy has to do is ask if they have daughters or a wife back home and that usually kills everything. The men slip away feeling poorer, guilty as a motherfucker and perhaps grateful they have a family instead of doing this shit all the time. With frat dickholes you’re dealing with young bravado, ego and high levels of T.
If they get rejected it’s an indictment of their penis and that never goes well, especially when booze is part of the thing. When a frat boy gets aggressive I usually have to get involved. By involved I mean with a baseball bat. Boys don’t usually take women as a serious physical threat unless they’re armed, I’ve found.
Sometimes I use it.
Almost always enjoy using it.
I take it outside, of course. Back alley type stuff. Try to keep it private. Cameras and phones everywhere these days. Not proud of any of this, but it happens.
I have a goal.
A number.
A number that’ll pay off my parents’ old place and get me right for a bit. Got this silly dream where I can live a nice, modest, quiet country life getting by working odd jobs. Cost of living out there is near dirt so it won’t take much. Don’t need much, never had much. I could read—I love to read—and watch TV and cook and have some pets and, more importantly, I could just be. A chance to just be, man.
I’m not a lesbian, but I did get snot-slinging drunk last night and got Sandy to go down on me. It was free, thank you for asking.
I’m kidding.
It wasn’t free.
I’m kidding.
None of that happened.
I don’t sleep much.
Seriously though, I did get drunk last night, bashed in the heads of some Sigma Fucksticks and then rode an old cattleman until he had a heart attack.
Still kidding.
It’s hard to see all that I see and not think of diving into the middle of it. Dealing in sex and booze night after night tends to take hold of your head after a while. From afar it seems sexy and fun. Upon closer inspection, it has some cracks, some rough spots to be sure. I’ve thought about joining in. You know, some casual sex here and there, some drugs, but then I get nervous. I get scared. Actually, I get grossed out and just go back to being a part of the
machine rather than a grinding gear. Which is to say I end up going home.
Alone.
Alone but not lonely.
My princess gig helps balance me out. Kids love me.
I get hugs, not drugs.
I’ve got an issue or two. Been told I have sudden rage issues coupled with an anxiety-based sleeping disorder and trauma-induced memory loss due to an unfortunate incident when I was eighteen.
Not kidding.
Not about that. Never about that.
That stuff? That’s the truth.
They call me Steady Teddy, and after work I’ll go home, take a bath, cry, read some Jim Thompson, write some words in my journal, scratch them all out, start over, watch two episodes of Mr. Robot, get pissed off about crying earlier, jog three miles, work a heavy bag until my knuckles bleed, and make myself breakfast while the sun comes up.
These are the facts and they are undisputed.
Unfortunately.
