I BRIEFLY CONSIDERED bringing a gun, but I’ve found that they only complicate things. The penalties for getting caught with an unsecured firearm are pretty severe up here in Canada, so unless you plan on using the gun, leave it at home. Sure, you can use them to intimidate, but let me tell you this: a big guy with wounds on his face and anger in his heart—that’s plenty intimidating. Especially if he’s wearing flannel.
I was wearing flannel today. It helped conceal the one foot piece of rebar up my sleeve.
I returned to Chandler’s Cafe, and it was early afternoon, so the parking lot was only half full of daytime drinkers. It was the same place as before, with the same broken jukebox, same bartender, same regulars—minus the ones arrested for nearly killing me the night before. I noticed new sawdust on the floor where I had been bleeding.
The bartender noticed me right away, but instead of a beer and a shot, he placed that good old mini Mossberg on the counter, with the barrel roughly in my direction.
It’s not so much the gun I was concerned about, but the hand that went to it. The moment I was within reach, I dropped the rebar out of my sleeve to my hand and swung it down hard on the bartender’s wrist. He shrieked and the other patrons jumped out of their seats. This time, however, they made better life choices and vacated the place like it was out of beer.
The bartender, with his elbows on the bar, cradled his broken hand while I removed and unloaded the shotgun. Pump-actions are great for this—everyone looks badass working a pump-action. 12-gauge shells clattered on the floor and burrowed into the sawdust. After I slammed the empty gun on the counter, the only sound was the bartender quietly whimpering while infuriating country music twanged in the background.
“Okay, buddy, I’m giving you a do-over,” I said. “I played nice yesterday, and all it got me was a beating. Now it’s your turn.” I picked up the rebar again and slammed it on the bar for good measure.
“W—what do you want from me?”
“You … and the entire crowd here …” I waved the rebar at the now empty roadhouse tables. “… seem to be on very good terms with Reece and Macey. On a first-name basis, to be sure. Normally, I wouldn’t give two shits about them, but they’ve kidnapped a girl. I need to know where they are.”
“I don’t—” I stopped him there with another smash with the rebar on the counter.
“No! I don’t have time for it! Let’s skip ahead to the part where you give me useful information. Pretend like I’ve already smashed your other hand.”
He gave me a good once-over and, realizing it was the next move, went along with my plan. “They’re in a house off Duke St. But they operate out of an industrial building out on the east end.”
“Are there any other places we might find them?”
“I don’t know, man! Honest!”
He looked like he was telling the truth. So I got the addresses from him and told him he was better off finding new friends. And that he should get some ice on that hand.
There were a couple of patrons in the parking lot. They weren’t waiting for me—not like yesterday. Rather, it looked like they were waiting for me to finish my business before they went back into their drinks. I laughed a little, then felt a little sad for them. And then I got weirdly introspective. I had just broken a man’s hand with a rebar. And I realized this case was affecting me more than I knew. I was getting wrathful. It could be the broken ribs, or the concussion, or that I was running out of time, but I needed to calm the hell down.
There is no virtue in viciousness. And I felt my virtue was getting a little too righteous for my own comfort. I discarded the piece of rebar in a nearby bush and walked home to regroup before resuming my search.