CHAPTER TWELVE
Arthur Bishop felt exceedingly ridiculous at a quarter past ten. He lounged against the wall near the Seven Tribesmen's preferred billiards table. His eyes constantly trekked to the door every time it opened. The woman hadn't texted him back. It was possible Stella wouldn't show up. Why would she? They were on opposite sides of the law, and she was sure his club had something to do with the crack market in the area. Conflict of interest would be putting their situation lightly.
He wasn't even sure why he invited Stella to the bar. He muttered a few excuses to his men about “keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.” Coyote had nearly howled with laughter after Bishop said that. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Bishop heaved a sigh. This was ridiculous. His palms itched with excitement, his lungs felt like they were going to explode, and his nerves felt utterly shot.
The smoky, noisy atmosphere of the Rusty Bear didn't help much. For the umpteenth time that night, Bishop's eyes trailed over the bar. With wood the color of ash, a thick cloud of nicotine smoke, and yokels of all shapes and sizes, the bar was like any other small town bar. All the patrons knew one another, and the staff knew all the patrons. It was cozy, warm, and raucously perverse.
A few feet away, the rest of the Seven Tribesmen were playing a three player game of pool. Bishop had opted out after his seventh missed shot in a row. Every so often, Qwerty or the newb would glance toward him with thinly veiled worry. Their distraction was Ruse's advantage.
“You look like a girl stood up at prom, boss,” green-eyed Coyote sidled up to him, a cockeyed grin on his lips. He handed Bishop a cold bottled beer, which the man accepted. After a swig of his own bottle, Coyote pressed the issue, “What's up?”
“Just frustrated 'bout what happened with Howler and Crow.” Bishop lied, wanting to delay the confession. Irritably, Bishop took a swig of his beer, hoping his right-hand man would drop the conversation.
“She got under yer skin, dinnit she?” Coyote slurred, his grin twitching a bit at the corners of his lips. At least the man had the decency to be discreet about his curiosity.
Bishop sighed, heavily, “Yes, she did.”
Coyote threw him a sidelong look. His grin dimmed a little, and Bishop could see his VP consider what implication this development could have on the club. “What'cha gonna do about it?”
“What's there to do?” snorted Bishop, rolling his eyes. The door opened again, his eyes involuntarily flicking to the entrance. Two elderly men shuffled in, trucker hats cocked at odd angles on their head. The Seven Tribesmen president shrugged his shoulders, covering up his already dashed hope with a false sense of bravado, “She had a tight little ass, thought she'd like another ride.”
Coyote snorted derisively, but didn't say anything. Bishop cocked an eyebrow at his vice president, but the green-eyed man refused to add further comment.
The two of them fell into silence while chatter bubbled around them, punctuated by the clack of the billiard balls. At the far side of the bar, some of the local boys huddled around the only television. Every so often, groans or whoops would shoot up from the TV viewers. Competing for airspace, the ancient jukebox belted out classic rock. It was a comforting cacophony, despite the agitation in Bishop's mind.
“Hear anything from the lawyer?”
“Says possession laws are an utter bitch to deal with,” Coyote muttered, his nose wrinkling. A glint of rage sharpened his gaze, “It'll cost us, but he'll get them off. Especially if the actual runners are found.”
Bishop fell silent, a curious thought licking at his mind. He shifted his footing, his voice dropping another octave, “You think firecrotch could be involved?”
“Maybe,” Coyote growled, drowning his anger with another gulp of his beer. That was a definite yes. Bishop's stomach churned at the thought of Delilah now under police protection. If she was to blame for Howler and Crow being behind bars, if she planted the cocaine in their bedrolls, their enemy was a lot closer than Bishop realized.
The boom of a gunshot echoed outside, followed by four more ricochets. Everyone in the bar came to a standstill. Only the television and the jukebox continued to burble on. In the silence, even the lights buzzed loudly overhead. A few of the patrons glanced at the Seven Tribesmen, either placating or worriedly checking to see their reactions.
Qwerty and Ruse already began putting their pool cues to the side, while Newb clutched his tightly. Coyote and Bishop exchanged glances before pushing off the wall. They quietly made their way to the exit, silence following them in their wake. The kutte weighed heavily on Bishop as all eyes turned to him. He could almost suffocate under the responsibility as he stepped over the threshold.