by Mike McCrary
Unfortunately.
Chapter 2
New night.
My day off as a princess. Only in a professional sense, never in spirit.
An older guy takes a seat at the bar.
It’s so-so busy for a Wednesday and most of the crowd is huddled into smaller pack-like groupings around the place, pausing occasionally to study a passing member of the opposite sex. Kind of a dead night. I can already tell there will be little progress toward my number. Basically it’s me and this older guy at the bar. He orders a shot of Jameson, a Stella back, and he never takes his brown eyes off of me.
He’s got a warm face. A nice smile.
Creeps me out a bit.
No idea if it is or not, but the suit he’s got on looks damn expensive. He’s this silver fox of a man who’s kept himself together well over the years. Pushing fifty, perhaps. Guessing yoga, treadmills and money have helped hold him together nicely. I don’t have a thing for older men, but I know a couple of girls who do, and one in particular is standing right over there.
“Sandy,” I say.
Sandy bounces over on cue, sliding up close to our new friend. He extends his hand before she has a chance to even part her freshly coated red lips.
“Gordon,” he says.
She barely gets the S out of her mouth before Gordon finishes her introduction for her. “Sandy, right?”
“That’s me,” she says, scrambling to remember if she’s done business with this guy in the past.
“Sandy, you are a stunning woman and I would love nothing more than to devote some time getting to know you. Some real time. Be more than happy to compensate you for that time in an honest fashion, but I’d rather not buy you an overpriced OJ and be taken for a fool. No hard feelings, you understand?”
“I’m on a no-bone night, love.”
“Of course, didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. Do you have a card or something? Maybe we can find a time when you’d consider being on a bone night?”
Flashing a boyish grin, he throws back his shot of Jameson. I think he’s done this before. Sandy smiles, pulling a pink card from her purse handing it to him along with a kiss on the cheek. I know she’s done this before. I know I shouldn’t be amazed by this sort of thing anymore, but sometimes I still am. I try not to show it on my face. Still just a girl from a small Texas town, I suppose.
He watches her leave then turns back to me. “And you are Teddy.”
“And you are Gordo the Horny.”
“Guilty.”
“Awesome. Never seen you around before. How’d you come to be so educated in our ways?”
“My education isn’t limited to this bar. Your name is Theodora, but you go by Teddy or, in some circles, Steady Teddy.” Now he’s giving me that grin. “I like it. Fits your style.”
“Wow, you’re a fucking warlock too?” I feel my shoulders tightening.
“Not done. Your parents were killed when you were a teenager. Home invasion, I think they ruled it. You were eighteen. Old enough to be a legal adult, but way too young to be left alone.”
Without thinking about it, I grip my bat under the bar. “Correct, sir. Now tell me, who the hell—”
“Am I? Me? I’m here with an offer. A mission of mercy. A chance for you. And, Teddy, it’s the best one you’re ever going to get.”
I’ve now picked the bat up and placed it onto the bar.
Doesn’t faze him. He doesn’t even blink.
He’s done this before too.
“The chance I’m offering? It’s a life changer, and I cannot discuss it here.”
“And why is that, Gordo?”
“There’s someone else who needs to be brought into this. Another party, an important party, who needs to be brought into the mix.”
“Sounds vaguely like complete bullshit.”
“It’s not. Please, come with me to New York. I have a plane.”
“What?”
“Look. You don’t know me, I understand that. I know it’s a lot to ask, but this is a limited-time offer and we’re on a clock. You’re not safe here.”
“Rather a big ask, Gordo.”
“Understood, but necessary.”
“You just tried to hire a prostitute in front of me and now you think I’m going to hop on a plane with you to New York? Gordo. Bubby. I should have said this at the start, but I’m on a no-bone night as well.”
“I have no desire to have sex with you.”
“You’re a charmer.”
“No, you’re very attractive, but it’s not like that. I know you have no reason to trust me. I know other things, too.” He leans toward me as if he’s letting me in on a secret. “I know you can’t sleep. I know you can’t remember anything before your parents died. Also happen to know you want to pay off your parents’ old house out in the sticks.”
My stomach twists.
Eyes start to fill.
Have to push that down, way down. I want to take this bat and destroy this man, whoever he is. Warmth is spreading through my body and the shakes are starting up. White globs forming in my vision. I need to pull it together. Closing my eyes and taking in a deep breath, like the therapist taught me, I open my eyes then breathe out as I release the death grip on my bat.
“Sir. Gordo. Really need you to get the fuck out of here.”
Gordon holds his eyes on mine. “Wish you’d reconsider. Like I said, it’s not safe for you around here. Not now.”
There’s some compassion behind those brown eyes of his. I’m not a genius, but I’ve gotten pretty good at reading people over the last few years. I’ve also heard how psychopaths are particularly gifted at manipulating emotions and conning people into dark basements.
So, ya know, fuck this guy.
I slide his tab in front of him, then take a step back, resting the fat end of my bat on my shoulder. It’s subtle, but I think he gets the message I’m sending.
He smiles and nods, giving off a hint of understanding. Laying some cash down, he writes something on his tab and leaves. After I make sure he’s out the door, I check the tab. He paid two hundred on a twenty-seven-dollar tab and wrote down a phone number, a smiley face and seven words.
Please think about it. This is real.
Chapter 3
I try not to think about the strange encounter with the man named Gordo or his talk about an offer.
It’s later now. I’ve moved on and am working my Wednesday night after-hours game. Started this game up about a year ago as a way to grind out some money with the hopes it would grow into a cash cow of sorts.
It has.
A modest cow, mind you, but it’s earning me dollars and shortening the distance between me and my number.
In the beginning it was just me raking pots off of hotel employees and local restaurant and nearby bar staffs, then it expanded to my workers of the night friends, and now it’s blossomed to a private game made up of local whales and high-dollar degenerates who are visiting Austin with deep pockets.
Business is good.
There’s even a waiting list some nights.
To ensure I have some players on my side, I stake another bartender at the hotel named Yates, and I’ve also got Sandy. We have an arrangement. I’m her bank and I also throw her a few bucks for helping me lower the testosterone in the room. Any pots she or Yates takes down we hack up with a sixty–forty split that tilts my way.
They’re both pretty good players and provide a little life to the game. Yates is a typical Texas, broad-shouldered, man-child, good ol’ boy. He’s also funny, a raging drunk and can rake in a pot or two. Sandy, when not working the male species into a lather, is a brutally honest woman who truly enjoys the game and takes it very seriously. Every once in a while one of the local whales will try something with her. Never ends well. She’s at the game to play cards and would prefer not to be pawed at while trying to earn a non-sexual living. All in all, the degenerates like having them around. I serve up drinks and keep my bat handy. Never had to use it in t
his setting, but it is a nice thing to have.
The game is Texas Hold ‘Em.
Simple.
Buy-in is two grand.
Simple for some.
Usually run two games and a third table for blackjack. Taught some busboys how to deal, and I work a table every now and then for giggles and shits. We use the kitchen after hours, part of my previously-mentioned deal with management. If he ever leaves, I’m fucked.
That older guy from the bar, the silver fox, Gordo, keeps worming himself back into my head. Having a hard time shaking him out. I’m trying, but he continues to pop in there. His offer. His chance. I’m not safe.
What the hell was all that?
Who the hell was that guy? Good guy, bad guy? Pervert or savior?
Hard to tell these days.
Sandy just pushed all in.
Big, messy pile of chips spilling all over the center of table one. Hard to work an exact count on the amount of the pile, but quick math has me thinking it’s a low-end Lexus.
Jesus.
This is the biggest one I’ve ever seen. I take a quiet breath and slowly release it through my nose. Also take a drink. I don’t want anyone to see that my nerves are bouncing like a coked-up monkey.
Everybody’s gone quiet.
Pin-dropping quiet.
Yates breaks the silent tension. He claps his hands loud as shit. “Hell yeah. Let’s play some cards, people.”
The group at the blackjack table have all turned around, watching on as well. I decide to get Sandy a drink ready, a real one, none of that Bubba fake-juice shit. My girl Sandy likes her whiskey neat. If she takes this pot down, that’ll be a very respectable single-coma payout coming my way. That’ll make a healthy dent in that number of mine.
Step by step.
Building my empire brick by brick.
Sandy stares down the local whale across the table. She’s forgotten how to blink. That pile is probably a day’s pay for him, but for us it’s a potential game changer. Life changer.
Gordo said he had a life changer.
Stop.
Said I wasn’t safe.
Stop it.
This whale should just walk away from the pot, but I know he won’t. He doesn’t need the money, not like I need it. He’s such a prick. Not to say all rich people are pricks or all pricks are rich people. However, in my experience the wealthy class tends to lean toward prick more than most. It’s a case-by-case thing, but let’s make no mistake here; this guy, he is one grain-fed, USDA-certified prick.
She’s got something, I just know she’s got some damn fine cards over there, but the whale’s face is as blank as can be. He could have anything. He’s drunk and confident. Dangerous combination if ever there was one. My hope is that the drunk part is fueling the confidence, not the cards he’s holding.
He raises his drink to her, showing a toothy, shit-eatin’ grin.
I hand Sandy a fresh cocktail. She follows his lead, raising her glass with a wink and blows a kiss to the air.
They drink.
Cards flip.
Two masked men storm into the kitchen holding shotguns.
Time seemingly hits pause. My heart skips a row of beats. Air leaves me. Black masks with big guns have just rushed in from out of nowhere and they are yelling for us to get on the floor. I helplessly grip my bat as I get down on the tile. Still manage to keep an eye on the pile on the table. One of them kicks my bat away from me. I can only watch and listen to it roll away. A faint, dull clank sounds as it hits the door of the walk-in freezer.
I can feel my anger taking hold. Wrapping around my brain like a snake, squeezing the rational thoughts out of me.
My phone buzzes.
The local whale refuses to get down. Dumb prick. His heroics earn him a fist to the snout with a crack, dropping him to the floor. He flops to the tile with blood spraying from his face.
I steal a quick look to my phone.
There’s a text. Like me to stop this?
The masked men are taking the money. All of the money. My money.
My number is spinning in the wrong direction fast.
New buzz. New text. It’s Gordo BTW.
One of the masked men picks up Sandy by her shirt while jamming the barrel of the shotgun under her chin. He peels off his mask. He’s trash. Dirty. Looks like he’s taken a beating in the DNA fight and lost huge. His yellow eyes take her in as she fights to not show him any fear. He’s enjoying her struggle, sneering, as if he’s eyeing a slab of marked-down beef. His eyes don’t read as lust to me. This doesn’t seem sexual to him, at least not in the usual way. More like he’d rather watch her hurt.
I think of childhood.
I think of my parents’ house.
My thoughts go dark. There’s hurt. A taste of bile.
I feel something inside of me unhook. The beast hasn’t been released, the chain is still on, but it’s getting really, really tight.
I don’t want to kill this masked man.
Rather, I’d like to watch him hurt.
I spin around on my hip, slamming my foot on this asshole’s kneecap. As my heel reaches impact, the force pushes harder and harder and his knee pushes farther and farther the wrong way.
There’s a crunch.
There’s a chicken-wing snap.
There’s a scream.
His shotgun has cleared out from under Sandy’s chin. Only by an inch or two, but it’s enough. I bounce up off the floor, grabbing the shotgun with both hands. Working, fighting, twisting it away. Sandy grabs the asshole’s face with her fingernails, pulling him back so I can wrestle the gun away. It works. I’ve got the gun.
I spin to find the other asshole.
Feeling the coldness of steel pressing against my cheek, I realize he’s found me. Sandy stops clawing off the other asshole’s face and takes a step back with her hands raised.
“Give ‘em the gun back,” the asshole with the shotgun on my face says.
There’s a twinge of condescension in his tone and I’d really like to remove his teeth from his mouth with my bat, but I realize I don’t have a play here. I hand the shotgun back to the other asshole as he limps over to me. He grinds his teeth, sucking in hard breaths of air. He’s hurting like hell. At least I can feel good about that.
“You Steady Teddy?” asks the asshole with the gun on my face.
I nod.
The limping asshole laughs.
I don’t.
My phone buzzes from across the room, again. Wonder what Gordo has to say now. If I could use the force on my phone over there I’d reply, Yes, I’d like this to end.
The limping asshole sets his gun down on the poker table and pulls out a knife. The asshole with the shotgun removes the barrel from my face and says, “We were told to make a scene that would discourage people.”
“From?” I ask.
“From doing whatever-the-hell you’re doing without permission, girl.”
“Sounds a little, I don’t know, un-American.”
“Don’t give a shit what it sounds like, bitch,” says the limping asshole with a thick hillbilly accent.
“Cool, bro. Tell’s ya what. Why don’t you toss me a knife and we do this proper. Fair fight and all. Winner gets what they want,” I say matching, actually mocking, his accent.
“Don’t think so, sweetie,” says the limping one.
He’s closer now. In my face. His breath stinks of barbeque and beer, both probably from a gas station. Placing the knife close to my skin, he has that same look to him that he had earlier with Sandy. Nope, this is not a sexual thing at all. Hell, maybe it is. He just wants to watch me hurt. No matter how much it hurts, I will not give him the satisfaction.
“Hillbilly,” I say, “I know it’s been hard for you, parents being related and all, but I believe in you. You can still make something of yourself. Now take that knife, put it to good use, and cut your own throat. Do something with your life. Let doctors examine your tiny, tiny brain. It might help us prevent f
uture generations of dumbasses.”
He smiles big.
A warm spray of blood shoots across my face.
His body drops, landing inches from my feet.
Half a second later, there’s a whisper-whizz. The other one slumps to the tile in a big, sloppy heap of dead asshole. A man big as a bear with the face as friendly as a middle finger stands at the door holding a gun to his side.
He tells me, “Gordon’s outside.”
I walk over to the freezer door, grab my bat. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 4
Outside, I find Gordo leaning against a silver Yukon Denali.
“Too cool to reply to my text?” he asks.
The bear-man—he actually looks a little young for bear-man, bear-boy perhaps—walks with me toward Gordo. I know that Bear Boy will step in and step on my skull if I even consider using my bat on Gordo, but I still hold it as if I could still slam it in his melon. It really does comfort me.
“Little done with your bullshit,” I tell Gordo. “Now. Who are you and what in the fuck was with the little brutality show tonight?”
“As with anything illegal that makes money, there are bigger fish that don’t like smaller fish taking bites. Even if they’re only nibbles.” He smiles as he takes in the expression on my face.
“You knew they were coming?”
“Obviously.”
“How?”
“I get paid well to know things. Get paid even better to take care of things,” he continues, walking around to the back of the Yukon. “Older male criminal overlords frown upon girls armed with a baseball bat skimming money off their operations.”
“I wasn’t skimming shit.”
“Not intentionally, no, but you were.”
“I’m not a criminal.”
“Of course not. But for the sake of clarity, maybe we should flag down a police officer and ask him or her where their ideas fall on someone who profits from sex-worker scheduling, late-night gambling contests and, oh yeah, makes a few bucks off defrauding business travelers who visit this fair city. Whatcha think?”
With eyebrows raised, he waits for my response.
