BUD
business. The morning’s mist had turned to a regular downpour, and no one was coming into the bar besides a handful of the boys. They sat on stools drinking beer, chewing the fat, and half-interestedly watching a replay of last Sunday’s ball game. Bud polished his taps, running a soft chamois into every nook. There were few things more beautiful than a gleaming row of stainless steel taps. He’d cleaned the bar, too, rubbing in the polish until the wood glowed. The chips in the finish only added character, as did the stickers from various beer companies. He loved that bar. Just wished he were serving more drinks on it right now…
The bell above the door chimed, and Bud looked to the front room. Skull crossed the threshold, his Guns N’ Roses tee shirt speckled with rain and his spiked hair damp. He looked tired and sorely in need of a drink.
“Well, looky, looky!” said Tony, a wiry kid who could stride confidently in any direction with any number of feet stuffed into his mouth. “Where the hell you been, Skull?”
He slid onto a stool and rested his arms on the bar, the rose-and-skull tattoo he was known for in plain view on the back of his forearm. It was a gorgeous bit of work. Bud never let on he was jealous.
“My aunt was sick. Had to head out of town.” Skull nodded to Bud by way of greeting. “The usual.”
Bud pulled a pint glass from the shelf and filled it with Pilsner, eying Skull through slitted eyes. The guy didn’t have an aunt…
Tony didn’t know that. “Sorry to hear it, man. Hope she’s doing better.”
Skull nodded. “She is, she is. Thanks.” He nodded to the TV screen. “I missed that game. Who won?”
“Oh, my God. We creamed ‘em. It’s almost painful to watch, man.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Eleven to two, Brewers.”
“Ouch.”
“I dunno,” said Steve, a slouchy kid with a dopey face who somehow reminded Bud of Kung Fu Panda. “Cardinals still have a shot at Central.”
Tony scowled at him. “How you figure that?”
While Steve and Tony argued the fate of the season, Bud slid the beer across the bar to Skull. He nodded his thanks and took a thirsty pull. Sometimes when Skull was busy at work, he didn’t even have the chance to stop for a drink.
Bud leaned on the bar, turning his shoulder to the others. “So, where were you really?” He spoke low so no one but Skull would hear. “You told me you had five uncles, and not a girl out of the whole lot.”
Skull stared past him to the TV. “I could have been talking about my mother’s side.”
“But you weren’t, were you?”
Skull took another drink, saying nothing.
“Where were you?” said Bud.
“I had a job.”
“For who?” Skull only had one line of work, and the people who paid him paid dearly. Though to anyone who asked, he was a contractor who built agricultural sites—feedlots and the like. But he was never taking new clients. His schedule was full, but thanks for asking. That is, unless you needed the co-owner of the feedlot shadowed and his every secret revealed, business or personal. Then Skull had an opening. An opening that more often than not ended in the subject of his investigation turning up dead. But the dirty work was never Skull’s job. Sometimes it was Bud’s.
Skull remained silent, and that made Bud hot under the collar. Granted, in their line of work, you didn’t drop names unless there was a reason. But if this was a simple case of client confidentiality, why didn’t Skull just say so and tell Bud to buzz off? Why was he being so cagey?
“You’re not working for The Man still, are you?”
Skull sipped his beer. His lack of response was admission enough for Bud.
Bud leaned back but kept his voice low. The rest of the guys were having an animated discussion about baseball, anyway. “Aw, c’mon, how could you do that? How can you sit there drinking my beer and tell me you’re still working for him?”
“You and I were contracted independently. When you went outside the bounds of your agreement and closed down an entity The Man never specified, your contract was canceled.”
Closed down? He meant shooting Tommy Thomlin. Well, the bastard deserved it. He’d told the cops that Bailey had a black eye. Tried to get her taken away from him. Bud spread his hands. “I’m a freelancer. I can work my own gigs.”
“Not when it interferes with a contract. It’s all about making the customer happy, remember Bud?” Skull tilted his head and lifted his glass in a toast.
Bud leaned in and tapped the counter. “He tried to have me…” He struggled to come up with the metaphors as gracefully as Skull did. “Terminated. Don’t you know that? He sicced JB on me—” he jabbed his thumb to the dish room where Jimmy Beacon used to work “—with a freakin’ bomb!” He was out of metaphors—and patience. This game was stupid, anyway. “Firing me is one thing. But tryin’ to blow my ass to bits? What the hell?”
Tony looked back over his shoulder. He’d heard Bud’s tense tone and had a look of curiosity on his face.
Skull set the mug down and stood abruptly. “Come ’ere.”
“What?”
He beckoned vigorously, making his way toward the end of the bar. “Come ‘ere, come ‘ere, come ‘ere. C’mon.”
Bud glanced at Tony and Steve. They were both staring now. Bud followed Skull. Skull grabbed him by the elbow and steered him inside the walk-in liquor cabinet behind the bar. He closed the door behind them, then whirled on Bud. Bud braced. If Skull threw him a punch in here amongst all his best liquors…
But Skull merely braced his feet and squared up to Bud. His voice was low but tense. Bud could still hear the bar music above it. “These aren’t games we’re playing. You know too much. You’re a liability to The Man now.”
Bud jabbed a finger in Skull’s face. “Well, too frickin’ bad. He shoulda known better than to piss me off. Calling a hit on his hit man? No way. No one’s ever put a tail on me, no one’s ever got the drop on me, and no one’s ever had a hit on me. You got that? The Man’s in deep shit now, and he’s gonna pay.”
Skull glared at him. “What are you saying?”
“There are two things I’m good at—cookin’ and killin’. And he ain’t gettin’ my cookin’. You can tell him I said that, Mister Info Man.” He pushed past Skull and grabbed the door handle.
“You’re playing with fire, Bud.”
“I’m a chef. It’s my job.” He swung the door open and waved his hand. “Now get out of my liquor cabinet. In fact, you can get out of my bar.”
Skull glared at him, then brushed past and didn’t stop until he was out the front door.
Bud didn’t even care if Skull warned The Man. Once Bud decided someone was going to die…
They died.
His mind was made up.