The Killing Kind

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

March 22

The first one went down easy, the next one even easier. Tonight that normally harsh tequila burn tasted sweet. He welcomed the sting. Savored it. Reveled in it. He wasn’t normally the sort to wallow in pain or misery, but tonight felt like a good night for it. A good time to open up hidden recesses in his psyche and see what dark things lurked there.

Chuck rapped the empty shot glass on the bar and the bartender filled it again. He threw the shot back, screwing his eyes shut and wincing as the strong booze hit the back of his throat. It was cheap tequila. House brand. The place was too much of a dump to stock anything good.

Who cares? It’ll do the job.

The bottom of the glass hit the bar again and the burly barkeep-who hadn’t moved, and stood ready with the bottle-filled it to the rim again. The man had a bushy mustache, a receding hairline, and a ponytail. Faded jailhouse tattoos festooned his muscular forearms. A livid scar under one eye hinted at a violent past.

Chuck picked up the glass. “What’s with the scar? You get that in jail?”

“None of your business.”

Chuck laughed. “Yeah. You’re right.” He raised the glass again, but didn’t throw the shot back right away this time. He swiveled side to side on the stool, swaying, his head already buzzing pleasantly from the booze. “It always this fucking dead in here?”

The barkeep shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. Gets busy on the weekends.”

“Huh. Lots of weekend-warrior rednecks, right?”

“Yeah. You got something against rednecks?”

“No, man, not really. You know, other than just how fucking dumb they are. You know what I’m saying, right? Most of them don’t have more than two working brain cells to rub together.” He knocked the tequila back in one go again, whooped, and slammed the glass down. “Hit me again, Pedro.”

The big barkeep squinted at him. “My name’s not Pedro.”

No shit. Guy didn’t look even vaguely Hispanic. Where the hell had that come from? “Sorry about that, Hoss.”

“Name ain’t Hoss, either. It’s Joe Bob.”

It started as a snort. A helpless, reflexive expression of mirth. Then he thought about it again. Joe Bob! Another snort, followed by an almost girlish giggle. Fucking Joe Bob! It perfectly fit any number of country stereotypes, the kind of name that just screamed “lobotomized sack of backwoods monkey spunk.”

The barkeep didn’t look amused. “Something funny?”

The laughter boomed out of him then, making his whole body quake as the stool rattled beneath him. He laid his head on the bar and kept laughing until at last the fit began to release him, winding down to a last few quiet giggles and snorts. Then he raised his head and saw the murderous glare the barkeep was leveling at him.

“I think you’re done, son.”

Chuck reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off a hundred in twenties, placed the bills on the bar, and pushed them across. “I’m sorry, man. Seriously. I can behave. I’ve just had a rough night. That there’s a bonus on top of whatever booze I might buy from you tonight. Yours to keep. What do you say?”

The barkeep picked up the bills, leafed through them, and looked at Chuck again. His expression was a little less malevolent now. “One more.”

“Just for spite, right?”

A corner of the man’s mouth twitched, a near smile. “Yeah.”

Chuck pulled out the wad again and peeled off two more twenties. “You drive a hard bargain, man, but I’m willing to pay top dollar for the privilege of drinking myself blind in this fine establishment.”

He dropped the extra bills on the bar and the barkeep snatched them up. He filled the shot glass again and set the bottle in front of Chuck. “That one’s yours.”

Chuck grinned. “Appreciate it. Could you get me a pitcher of Bud, too? And maybe a plate of those nachos? But don’t spit in my food, bro.”

The barkeep shook his head. “You’re gonna feel like warmed-over shit in the morning, kid. And it won’t be ’cause of any spit in your nachos.”

Yet another shot of tequila hit the back of his throat and sizzled. “That’s sort of the idea, man. Wanna hurt so hard I can’t think.”

The barkeep chuckled. “Well…you’re on the right path, then. I may have to take your keys, though.”

Chuck squinted at him through bleary eyes. “Not necessary, bro.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m at the joint across the street. I’m a fucking pedestrian.”

The barkeep shrugged and served up the pitcher of draft Bud and a frosty pint glass. A plate of nachos showed up soon after. Chuck sat there and drank and ate the gloriously unhealthy food, which consisted of warm tortilla chips piled high with melted cheese and hot peppers. Time ticked by. He got woozier and woozier. He was aware of people coming into the bar and leaving again. He glanced at the clock on the wall now and again. It progressed from eleven p.m. to a shade beyond two a.m. in seemingly the blink of an eye.

He thought about Zoe a lot during that time. Thought about their years together and the impending end of their relationship. More than once tears welled in his eyes, but he never let them spill. Couldn’t let these redneck fucks see him as weak. But keeping the mask in place wasn’t easy. His feelings for Zoe were deeper and more complicated than he’d ever suspected. He didn’t want to lose her. Not even in light of the impromptu tryst with Emily.

And holy fucking Jesus, how fucked-up was that? The bitch was supposed to be Zoe’s best friend. He couldn’t figure her out at all. Until tonight she’d never shown anything but total contempt for him. Then all of a sudden, she’s practically raping him. Yeah, nothing that happened was against his will, but she was so aggressive, and so blatantly taking advantage of his vulnerable state. Thinking about it made him angry, but he had a hard time seeing how it could have turned out any other way. He’d been in need of comfort and there she was. And it’d been good. Very, very good. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking of the way she’d laughed as he cried in her arms.

That was just…sick.

Evil.

The world went blurry. His head felt thick, almost like he was underwater. He was slumped over the bar, his face inches from the wood, close enough to make out the swirls in the grain. He shook his head and sat up straight. The clock on the wall behind the bar now read 3:17 A.M. More than a quarter hour after last call. Chuck swiveled on the stool and took a look around.

Holy shit…

He was the only person in the bar. The neon open sign in the main window had been turned off. Chairs were upside down on the tables. The overhead lights had been dimmed.

He frowned. “Where did everybody-?”

The words were cut off when someone behind him slapped something around his neck and cinched it tight. It felt like a strap of leather. A belt, maybe. Chuck gagged and clawed at the belt with fingers rendered sloppy by drink. His assailant yanked him off the stool, drawing the loop around his throat even tighter. His face flushed and his temples throbbed. His eyes felt like they would pop out of their sockets as he was dragged backward. He dropped to his knees in an effort to halt the journey to wherever his attacker was taking him, but the guy was just too strong and kept pulling him backward. Chuck craned his head back and saw the leering face of the barkeep. The scar beneath his eye looked bright red in the dim light.

Pure terror and adrenaline cut through the booze haze.

Oh, shit! I’m about to die.

Part of him knew it was his fault for being so careless. Shouldn’t have flashed all that green around.

Also shouldn’t have been such a dick.

These things he knew to be true. He also was pretty damn sure he’d never have a chance to benefit from these valuable life lessons.

I’m about to die! OH FUCK!

The barkeep dragged him through a door into a back room. The lighting here was brighter. He saw stacks of beer and liquor cases. He saw kegs and other bar supplies. There were two other people in the room. One was a sleazy-looking bottle blonde in a miniskirt and a black halter. And there was another burly guy cut from the same redneck cloth as Pedro or whatever his fucking name was.

He was dragged into the center of the room. The barkeep removed the belt from Chuck’s neck and tossed it aside. He had only a second to suck air into his lungs before Joe Bob slammed a powerful fist into his gut, sending him to the floor in an awkward heap. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the trio of ugly faces leering down at him.

He found his breath and uttered a helpless whimper. “Please…I’ve got money. Lots of money. You…you can…have it…all of it.”

Joe Bob grinned. “That’s mighty generous of you, Hoss. And we’ll be taking your money. But you ain’t getting off that easy.”

The other man grinned, too. “Hear you need a lesson in manners, boy.”

The woman placed the sole of a high-heeled shoe on his throat and pressed down hard. There was hate in her eyes. He sort of knew why Joe Bob was pissed at him, but what had he done to these other people?

He tried to think back over the night.

The long hours of drinking at the bar. Drinking and occasionally making snide comments to anyone who tried to strike up conversation. A blur of venom and negativity.

Fuck.

The woman sneered. “Gonna fuck you up, pretty boy.”

The men laughed.

“Got that right,” said Joe Bob. “And you ain’t gonna tell a soul how it happened, unless you want some of my biker buddies to kill your whole fuckin’ family. You want that, motherfucker?”

Chuck gulped. He didn’t doubt the threat. “No.”

After that, Chuck didn’t care.

They weren’t going to kill him, and that was all he needed to know.

They were true to their word, though.

They fucked him up.

But they were wrong about the other thing. A time would come when he would tell the truth about this night.