Chapter Thirty-Six
Hunter
I can’t see you until real late. Working on the paper. Text you when I’m free.
Emily’s words sit on my phone. I scan them again, feeling both glad that I don’t have to lie to her about where I’m at, and, at the same time, wishing I were with her. This work has to be done, but there’s something that happens in my heart when I’m around her and Charlie. It feels like a hunger that I never even knew I had is being satisfied.
And when she’s not around, I feel an emptiness deeper than I’ve ever felt before.
Is this what love is?
“Stop staring at your phone. We have heads to break.”
Diesel’s words make me start, then shake my head. What am I doing? I have to keep my edge, because if I let my guard down, I’ll lose everything that’s made me happy. “You’re right.”
“Unless you’ve got some high score going on. If you’re making a run at Bejeweled or catching some Pokemon or whatever, I can wait a few. Important things are important.”
“I’m not gaming right now.”
“Then you need to focus. But, if you game later, let me know. I’ll get your screen name and we can connect.”
“Maybe later. But let’s get back to what’s important. You sure this is the place we should start?” I say, gesturing to the rundown bar in front of us. “The sign just says ‘Hole.’”
“A lot of the letters are broken, yes.”
“Looks like they’ve been broken a long time and no one’s bothered to fix them. All of this makes me think that, after you had a scotch or three at my place and said you were going out to recon, you wound up deep in some strange hole.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time, and you know that. You’ve been there for a few of those expeditions.”
“So tell me why we’re here looking at a strange hole. Why this hole?”
Diesel smirks. It’s a sideways grin that makes me want to punch him, but somehow, some women fall for it, think it’s charming. “Well, you’re right, I left your little domestic paradise in that abandoned house looking to get a little dirty, because I thought, why not mix work with pleasure? Nothing wrong with it. So I drove around until I found the shittiest bar. Had a few drinks there, made friends with the bartender and better friends with a waitress, and I asked them where I could find a bar even shittier than theirs. They all told me to stay away from this place unless I wanted my drinks to come with a chaser of syphilis and fentanyl. Obviously, I popped by and had a beer or two, chatted up a few people, and found out they’re right. It’s a real fucking dive.”
“And you think this is where we look?”
“They literally had a menu with drug prices on it. By the way, you want to score some crank? They’re having a two-for-one special tomorrow for happy hour.”
“Oh, fun, I’ll get blasted and hang out with my infant. Dad of the year material right here.”
“Nah, I think for that, you’d be acting out more of the ‘fun uncle’ role. At least, in my experience.”
“Your uncle often do meth while hanging out with you?”
Another sideways grin that makes me want to knock some of his teeth out. “Why do you think I enjoy hanging out with you so much? Reminds me of the good ol’ days.”
“Fuck you,” I say. “Let’s get in there and find out who Moretti has in town.”
With a shared nod, Diesel and I enter the hole together. First time that’s happened at the same time. Inside, the bar redefines what it means to be dirty. A cockroach the size of a mouse scurries out of the way as I step across the threshold and the chemical smell of a half dozen drugs assails my nose. A handful of mismatched tables sit scattered at random intervals across the floor, filled by a clutch of crooked men, some drinking, some smoking, some, impressively, doing both at the same time. The bartender stands leaning against the bar at the back of the room, a bar that looks like it was constructed out of rotted pallet boards, like some Pinterest fever dream.
He grins at us as he sees us draw close. There are at least four teeth missing from his smile, and those escaped teeth are the lucky ones — the rest are a tortured mix of brown and black. “Diesel, back already? You know Cindy went home already. Couldn’t walk straight after the time you and her spent in the walk-in.”
“Walk-in? It was the alley,” Diesel says. Diesel catches me giving him a strange look and grins. “It’s been a while since Brandy. I’m trying to move on.”
Move on, or move down? Because I have a hard time believing anything in this place could be associated with the word ‘recovery.’ But I keep my mouth shut; Diesel’s my friend, basically a brother, and now is not the time or place to see how he’s really doing recovering after Brandy’s death; I’ll have to ask him later, once we’re done in this place that makes my skin crawl and me crave a shower with a firehose and industrial solvent.
“Walk-in, alley, same difference here,” the bartender says. “Anyway, what can I get you and your friend?”
I scan the room, taking in the details. The air is thick with smoke and the acrid smell of chemicals. A few patrons glance our way with glazed, suspicious eyes before returning to their drinks or hushed conversations.
"Two beers," I say, keeping my voice low. "Whatever's on tap."
The bartender nods and shuffles over to a grimy tap, pulling two pints of something that looks more like dirty dishwater than beer. He slides them across the bar, leaving trails of foam on the sticky surface.
I’m not touching that.
Diesel picks his beer up and takes a long swig. He winces. “That’s sharp.”
The bartender shrugs. “Last keg went bad. Mold got in the lines. But I put that fresh keg in not too long ago. A month, maybe.”
“A month? Did you clean the lines at least?” I say.
“Does this look like the bar at the Four Seasons? Fuck, I gave you fresh beer. You got a problem with that?”
“It tastes like vinegar that’s been filtered through a jockstrap,” Diesel says.
“Vinegar’s good for you. You know how many health nuts drink that apple cider shit straight? Here, you get the health benefits and the alcohol all together. What the fuck’s wrong with you, Diesel? You come in earlier and you were all about what we do here, now, you suddenly got rich man airs?”
“Get us something from a bottle,” I say.
“A bottle? Fucking fancy, you are,” the bartender says. “Drink your beer and be fucking happy with it.”
Diesel reaches into the waist of his pants and pulls out a gun, which he plunks down on the bar next to his glass. “I wanted to wait until after a beer before we got to this point, or maybe even not at all if you decided you didn’t want to be a dick, but you’re kind of talking me into it. You, me, and my friend are going to take a walk into the back office and have a conversation. Got it?”
“If you want to rob me, I’ll give you the money. I don’t give a fuck. This isn’t my bar.”
I shake my head, then show my gun, too, since this man seems like he gives so few fucks that he might be a problem. “Damn, man, don’t you have any loyalty?”
“Yes. To me, myself, and pussy.”
I scan around the room, note the moss — actual moss, thick, verdant, and surprisingly moist-looking — growing from the antennas of one of the bar’s TV’s. “Working in a place like this, you must be drowning in it.”
“It’s good enough for your mother,” he retorts.
“Diesel, buddy, a place like this, run by a popular bartender like this guy… how long do you think it would be before the police respond to a call?” I say.
“Oh, fuck, I bet they take a good long time. I bet they believe the talented, intelligent, handsome bartender can obviously handle himself.”
I heft my gun in my hand, keep it in a loose grip, but pointed at the bartender. To my unsurprised surprise, not a single patron in this dank hole has even said anything about the Diesel and me toting weapons. Is this just a regular night out to them? “Let’s go back into the office and have a chat. You give us the answers we want, and we’ll leave, no problems. Got it?”
“And two beers, don’t forget. Something from a bottle and something that doesn’t taste like piss. So, no domestic,” Diesel adds.
“Fine. Don’t shoot,” the bartender says, holding his hand. There’s a satisfying flash of fear on his face. “We’ll talk in the office. It’s this way.”
He leads us behind the bar, down a back hallway, and through a door.
“This is the fucking alley,” I say.
“Alley, walk-in, office, same difference here.”
“I feel like I’m in a version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory if it were written by Hunter S. Thompson," I mutter, looking around the grimy alley. Trash overflows from dumpsters, and the stench of urine and rotting food assaults my nostrils. At the end of the alley, hidden by a dumpster, there’s a man who may be masturbating. It’s hard to tell in the shadows, and I have no desire to get closer to find out the truth.
The bartender leans against the grimy brick wall, crossing his arms. "So, what do you want to know? And make it quick. I've got customers to poison."
"We're looking for some new players in town. Word is they're working for Moretti. Ring any bells?"
The bartender's eyes dart between us nervously. "Look, I don't know nothing about no Moretti. I just serve drinks, man."
"Bullshit," I say. "A place like this? You see everything that goes on. Talk, or things are going to get unpleasant."
The bartender's eyes dart between us nervously. "Look, I don't know anything. I just serve drinks and mind my own business."
"Wrong answer. Try again." I press the barrel of my gun against his temple. “Think real hard.”
“We kill you here. No one’s going to find your body in this mess for ages.”
“I overheard something earlier today. A new customer came in, a guy I’d never seen before, but he took a phone call from someone wanting to buy some guns. From what I heard, that deal was going down tonight. May have already happened, considering it’s late.”
Fuck, that must be them.
Diesel and I trade a conversation in a wordless look. If these killers are making connections to get weapons, that means they’re close to taking action.
We have to find out more.
I push the barrel of my gun into his temple, and he flinches. “I hope you have more than that. Think: what’s your life worth to you?”
He stammers for a second, incoherence babbling on his lips, before he swallows, tries to shake his head — wincing again as he bumps his head into my gun — and then says, “Look, the Twisted Devils keep this area quiet. Business ain’t like it used to be. Only other piece of news is the psychos who trashed the Meds the family I never expected to find may be just days away from being taken from me by the same monsters that killed my brother and my sister-in-law.
“We’ll keep them safe, brother,” Diesel says, as if reading my mind. “Whatever it takes. You’ve got me in your corner, and you and I have done tougher stuff before.”
I don’t answer.
We have walked through fire before, but it’s never been that easy. The faces of everyone we lost in the service flashes through my mind, and I know that the odds that someone I love die are higher than either Diesel or I are willing to admit. These battles are rarely won without a cost, and if it comes down to it, who do I protect if I have to choose: Charlie or the woman I love?
We exit the alley when the bartender calls out.
“There’s somewhere else you two should look.”
I stop. Turn. Raise my gun. “Tell me.”
“It’s an underground gambling hall. Called The Red Room. It’s a few miles west outside of town, built into an abandoned theater. Lots of shady characters go there to play high-stakes poker and make deals. If anyone knows about new players in town, it'd be the manager there.”
"Thanks for the tip," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Remember what my friend said about calling if you hear anything."
The bartender nods. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. Just... don't come back here, alright? I like my skull without bullets in it."
“No promises,” Diesel says.
“One last thing: there’s a reason the Twisted Devils haven’t run the owners of The Red Room out of town. They’ve got plenty of men and serious guns. They’ll have the answers you need, I’m sure of it, but if you make one wrong move, they will kill you and everyone you love.”
We leave the bartender there in the alley and walk back to our motorcycles. As I slip my leg over mine, I catch Diesel’s eye. He’s grinning.
I am, too.
“What about it, Diesel? You feel in a gambling mood?”