Chapter Seven
Gabe walked into the Last Chance bar, no grill, just your basic shot-and-a-beer joint, and found the place surprisingly clean. Damn near tidy. He’d expected scarred paneling and chipped floors. What he got was freshly painted walls in a dark tan and gleaming hardwood. Even the brass fixtures on the bar had been polished. The few high-top tables were empty, probably because of the dinner hour and customers leaving to find food. In the back corner sat a pool table. Three guys wearing leather vests and looking like they hadn’t bathed in months stood around it. Two of them leaned against stools and held cue sticks while one bent to take a shot.
The guy took his shot and walked around the table, flashing Gabe the back of his vest. The upper rocker on the man’s vest read 12th Street Crew and the lower one California.
Right place. Bardin had nailed it. But, shit, aside from the bikers, it didn’t exactly look like the dump he’d expected.
One of the bikers leaning on the stool stared at Gabe, a hard, threatening stare meant to engage. Nice try, ace. Gabe met that stare long enough to let this asshole know he was aware of him and then squatted on a stool near the middle of the bar. Not too close, not too far from the three men. All he needed to do was nurse a beer and listen.
The bartender, a guy in his fifties with a long beard, more gray than brown, nodded at him. His dark hair was slicked back into a pony tail and he had the burned-out, ruddy-cheeked look of a biker. Well, a semi-cleaned up one. The crew playing pool? They were a mess. Long, greasy hair all over the place, stained T-shirts, and ripped jeans, and even from Gabe’s spot at the bar, he breathed in someone’s disgusting body odor.
A cardboard coaster landed in front of him courtesy of the bartender. “How you doin’?”
“Good,” Gabe said.
He ordered a bottled beer. The place looked more than decent but he wasn’t taking a chance on drinking from a tap. Who knew where the beer had come from and the last time the tap was cleaned. The bartender set the bottle in front of him.
“Thanks.”
“Sure. First time here? I haven’t seen you before.”
“Yeah. Figured I’d stop in. You the owner?”
“Yep. Name’s Gus. Been here three weeks. Totally remodeled the place.”
Gabe looked around, banged his knuckles on the bar. “Looks like it. Nice job.”
“You live around here?”
“Nah. Out East. Visiting my sister. She lives here.”
Whoops. This would be one of those less is more times when giving as little information as possible would only help. On the way over, he’d put together a piss-ant cover story that included Jo being his sister. If questioned too much, his cover story wouldn’t hold up. At all.
Telling these people he was from out of town though worked and explained why he didn’t know the area. DeFiore would shit if he knew the ESU guy was test-driving an undercover gig.
To Gabe’s left, one of the bikers threw some bills on the bar and Gus poured three more drafts. “You assholes better slow down. I don’t want no trouble in here tonight. You bust this place up and you’re paying for it.”
The biker, the B.O. one, reached across and smacked a hand on Gus’s shoulder. “Relax, man. We’re chill.”
Gus hefted a tray of dirty mugs and walked through a swinging door while Gabe took another slug of his beer. The mirror behind the bar gave him a nice view of the guy waiting for the next game eyeballing him. But Gabe? He’d sit tight and attempt to give Gus his wish and not have the place busted up. Three against one, even as a skilled operator, did not present good odds. He’d still rise to it, but he’d have to break a sweat and really, he wasn’t in the mood.
Someone slid onto the stool next to him and he glanced over, nearly pissing himself at the sight of Palermo.
Shit on a shingle. How the fuck? Gabe ticked back his conversation with Bardin. Maybe he’d somehow gotten Palermo’s name and number and called him?
Nah. How would that happen so fast?
Gabe took in Palermo’s same faded black T-shirt and jeans from earlier. He’d swapped out his sneakers for black boots, but with the high-and-tight hair and thrown back shoulders, he still screamed cop. “Hey.”
“You look surprised to see me.”
“Fuckin’ ay, pal. How the hell?”
Gus pushed through the swinging doors again, spotted his new customer, and offered up the “how you doin’?” star treatment Gabe had received. Palermo ordered a draft—brave guy—and as Gus poured it, he slid a sideways glance at Gabe.
“Friend of yours? I thought you were from out of town.”
Gee, thanks, Palermo, for loading the man up on suspicion. “I am. He’s seeing my sister. Just met him yesterday.” Gabe reached over, gave Palermo’s shoulder a squeeze that would have dropped a weaker man. “We’re gonna bond. Aren’t we, buddy?”
Gus snorted, apparently understanding the underlying message that Gabe was about to give Palermo the rules about dating his imaginary sister. All Palermo had to do was keep his mouth closed until Gabe could give him the cover story.
Two of the idiots at the pool table popped off at each other and Gus wandered to the end of the bar. Most likely, he had a bat—or shotgun—tucked under the bar to deal with these fuckers. Guys like them were too volatile, too unpredictable, too violent, and if Gus wanted to run a clean place, he needed to bust that shit outta here.
With the bartender occupied, Gabe spun to Palermo. “How’d you get here?”
Palermo held up his mug and grinned. “Jo called me. She read your texts.”
Gabe cocked his head, twisted his mouth and replayed his discussion with Jo. The bathroom. When he’d gone into the bathroom, he left his phone on the table and sneaky, brilliant witch that she was, she read his texts. All along, she’d known exactly where he was heading and had probably decided to call Palermo before they’d even argued.
Gabe laughed. “She is brilliant. A pain in the ass, but brilliant.”
“Yeah, well, you two can fight about it later.” Palermo leaned in, kept his voice low as not to be overheard. “She’s worried about you. What are you thinking, doing this by yourself?”
Gabe shrugged. “Hey, I didn’t think you’d be interested in a sneak-and-peek. You could get yourself a rip for being here.”
“I know. Thanks for that, asshole.”
But, would you look at that? Tight-ass Palermo grinned. The guy was having fun. Maybe he wasn’t the King of Douche-Bagery Gabe wanted him to be. Which sucked. Royally.
Palermo scanned the place while sipping his bear. “What have we got?”
“Not sure yet. Those three are part of the 12th Street Crew. My story is I’m from out East. Here visiting my sister.”
“Jo’s the sister and I’m the boyfriend? I like that.”
Refusing to rise to that obvious bait, Gabe grinned. “My DEA contact says the guy in the sketch looks like some asshole named Jimmy Jax. He sells counterfeit cigarettes.”
“Which was why he was in the store that day.”
Gabe rang an imaginary bell. “Ding, ding. Jimmy Jax has a skull tat on his left arm. The goal here is to see if he’s hanging around any of the normal haunts. None of these guys are even close. Figured I’d wait an hour, see if he shows up. Or maybe I’ll hear something from these mopes.”
“Heads up. Company on your six.”
Meaning he had one of said mopes coming their way and needed to put his acting skills to work.
“Yeah,” Gabe said, raising his voice. “None of this bullshit of not showing up when you’re supposed to. I’ll kick your sorry ass.”
The biker—not the smelly one—shoved the stool next to Palermo sideways and rested one arm on the bar.
Palermo spun around, his back to the bar so he could scan the room while talking. “What’s up?” he said to his hovering guest.
“You a cop or military?”
Dammit.
“Military. Retired Marine. Got a problem with that?”
Whether or not Palermo was actually a Marine was anyone’s guess, but he had the look so why not? Gabe took another slug of his beer just in case he might have to waste it by cracking the bottle over someone’s head.
The biker nodded. “Nah, man. No problem. Thanks for your service.”
He stuck his hand out—well, holy shit—for Palermo to shake. This was one crazy-assed scenario.
“Thank you,” he said. “Appreciate that.”
The guy nodded, started to turn away, but Palermo wasn’t done. “Hey, listen, I’m looking for a guy who runs with 12th Street. Name’s Jimmy.”
This information was met with a cold stare that gave Gabe the ah, shit feeling just as his phone buzzed. He grabbed it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. Jo. Not now, honey.
Palermo obviously didn’t get the ah, shit feeling because he dove right in. “Someone told me he sells wholesales cigarettes. I’m up for buying a few cases, see if I can make some fast cash.”
“Who’s your buddy?”
“He’s not a buddy. I’ve seen him around, talked to him a little bit. Guy named Dougie.”
“And how does he know Jimmy?”
“Do I look like the Internet? How the fuck do I know how he knows him? Is he around or not.”
And…here we go. Gabe set his beer on the bar, ready to hand out some ass-kickings. He spun around, checked on the other bikers, two of whom now moved closer. If Palermo wanted to nuke the place, he could have at least waited until they’d gotten out.
“Hey,” Gus yelled. “I don’t want no trouble in here!”
Gabe held up his hands. “No problem, Gus. We’re good.”
The biker Palermo was jawing with turned back to his buddies. “Get Jimmy on the phone. Tell him there’s a guy here, wants to talk to him.”
Jimmy showed up twenty minutes later carrying two good sized boxes in each of his beefy arms. Counterfeit cigarettes, most likely, since Palermo had told him that’s what he was interested in. Gabe sure hoped Palermo had cash. He’d been so pissed at Jo before he’d left that he’d forgotten to grab extra cash. Forty bucks was all he had to offer to this transaction. And Jimmy didn’t look like he took credit cards.
Jimmy did, however, resemble the man Jo described and Gabe glanced at his forearms where a long-sleeved T-shirt covered all skin to his wrists. Crap.
“You Jimmy?” Palermo asked.
“Yeah. You the guy looking for me?”
“Sure am.”
Jimmy set the large boxes on the bar and Gabe slid a sideways glance at the other bikers.
“Here you go.” Jimmy tapped the box with one knuckle. “You got twenty-five cartons here. These are my best sellers. Give me $300 for all twenty-five.”
Gabe swallowed. Yeah. He hoped Palermo had cash.
“Three hundred? Steep, isn’t it?”
“You’ll sell them for twenty a carton. That’s an eight dollar profit on each.”
And then Jimmy made Gabe’s little heart go pitter-patter by hiking up his shirt sleeves and revealing one very large skull on his left forearm.
Game over. Mission accomplished and all that shit. All they needed to do was either follow Jimmy out of here or get someone from the PD to tail him and haul him in for questioning. Bam. Hello, vacation with Jo.
Gabe stood, dropped a twenty on the bar and waved at Gus.
Palermo glanced up at him. “You good.”
“I’m good,” he said.
Palermo turned back to Jimmy. “Let me think about it. I don’t have that kind of cash on me.”
“Whoa,” Jimmy said, grabbing Palermo’s arm. “I just hauled my ass down here and now you want to think about it. I’m running a business here. I don’t have time for this shit.” Jimmy stepped closer, got right into Palermo’s space. “You’re buying cigarettes.”
Behind them, the bikers, like sharks to blood, sensed tension and stood. Three on two. Plus Gus—wherever he’d fall. Decent odds.
“Look,” Gabe said, “we don’t want a problem.”
“Then your boy here buys cigarettes.”
The bikers stepped closer, puffing up their chests, angling for a dust-up. Gabe sighed. “Too bad you left your cue sticks at the pool table.”
“We don’t need no cue sticks,” the smelly one said, ripping a knife from under his vest.
These fuckers and their knives. Gabe had had enough of it. The third biker stepped closer and—voila—another knife appeared.
Three on two. Plus the knives. Shit. Palermo darted his eyes to the smelly one and back. Code for “he’s mine.”
No problem. Gabe cocked his head, measuring the other two. And then, like hell itself had opened up, the bikers rushed them. Palermo ducked, dropped to his knees and drove a fist between Jimmy’s legs. He grabbed his crotch, staggering while his eyes rolled back.
Smell-boy lunged at Gabe, knife whipping and Gabe shifted left—boom—blasted him with an overhand right, flattening his nose.
Palermo leapt for the third biker, but glass shattered behind them and Gabe angled toward the pool table before Jimmy and Smell-boy rebounded. Gus—in a truly fantastic and oh-fuck move—stood on the bar with a broken whiskey bottle in his hand. “Cut it out!”
The distraction was all Palermo needed. He grabbed a bar stool, swung it, and knocked the third guy’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing into the bar.
Smell-boy launched himself up, throwing wild punches and catching Gabe with a hard right and—whew—that rang his bell. Smell-boy charged, his shoulder plowing right into Gabe’s gut, shoving him backward, flat on his back onto the pool table. Gabe wheezed, coughed out a breath just as the guy charged again and leapt. The eight ball sat by Gabe’s right hand and he grabbed hold—whack—slammed it into the big man’s temple. The man went slack, but holy shit, half the guy’s weight pinned him to the table.
At the end of the bar, Palermo and a now recovered Jimmy squared off.
“Knock it off!” Gus hollered. “I’m calling the cops!”
Palermo faked a left, stepped right, and drove a fist deep into Jimmy’s ribs. Jimmy winced, grabbed Palermo by his waist, and tossed him onto the bar. He landed hard and groaned as his car keys and wallet flew from his pocket and slid down the bar. Well, shit. The man had serious strength.
“You sonofabitch,” Jimmy screamed, pulling a gun from his jacket and pointing it at Palermo. He cocked the hammer back just as Gus scrambled for the wallet.
Ah, fuck.
“Wait!” Gus hollered. He held the wallet open, showing a badge. “They’re cops.”