We spent most of the rest of yesterday getting disguises. Our faces didn’t show up on TV until this morning, but fortunately Alex’s quick thinking had us prepared.

I’m wearing a black wig. It makes me look a bit like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. I even got some big black glasses to complete the look.

Alex’s wig is a lot less flattering.

I laugh at him, again, as soon as he looks at me.

“Come on,” he says. “My buddy owed me one favor, and I used it on your wig. For me it was whatever was left over.”

“A mullet,” I say, laughing.

He pulls on his red trucker hat. “Don’t forget my dumb hat.”

I hand him his aviator glasses. “And your dumb glasses.”

He pulls them open and puts them on. He raises his eyebrows up and down. “Well?”

I laugh again. “The sexiest man with a mullet I’ve ever seen.”

“What about Joey from Full House?”

“You mean Jesse,” I say.

“Huh?” he tilts his head at me.

“Jesse was the sexy one,” I say, grinning.

“They both had mullets?” he asks.

I nod. “But no one thought Joey was sexy. Only Jesse was hot enough to transcend his mullet. Bob Saget had a mullet too. No one thought he was sexy either.”

“Mullets were hot back then. Just no one wants to admit it.”

“You were what, like 8?”

“An 8-year-old with one badass mullet.”

I lean in and plant a wet kiss on his forehead. “I’m scared, Alex.”

He puts a hand on my wrist, his thumb finding the soft skin of my inner palm. “Just sit in the corner. Look like a drunk. Avoid talking to anyone.”

“What if someone talks to me?” I ask.

He hands me a phone. We each bought a throwaway phone at the gas station. “Call me if it gets bad.”

“It would have to be really bad though, right?” I ask. “Because remember what happened last time these guys saw you?”

He pulls his aviators down his nose and grins. “They won’t recognize me. I’ll just come in and pull you out real fast. No one will think anything of it.”

“Alright,” I say. “Wish me luck.”

He drops me off at a gas station nearby, and I have to walk a few blocks to the biker bar. It’s not hard to find. There’s at least a dozen bikes parked outside, and I can hear the classic rock blasting from the sidewalk.

I take a deep breath and wander in.

I’m wearing a thick overcoat that wraps all around my body. It doesn’t hide all my curves, as Alex’s wandering eyes confirmed, but it does hide most of them.

When I walk in, I fake a stumble. I’m supposed to be a day drunk, so desperate for a cheap drink that I’d go into a biker bar even when it’s not at all my scene.

It’s loud inside. “Rowdy” is probably the best word I could use to describe it. There’s guys with big beards and bandanas playing darts and pool. From the look of it, you’d think both sports were full contact with the way they rib and jostle each other between each throw of the dart and strike of the cue.

A few guys who aren’t occupied take the time to look over at me and side-eye me. I can tell they can’t quite place me, and their gaze lingers long enough to assess me. My big coat and glasses act like an armor, and they look away soon enough.

I slink off toward the back of the bar, trying not to look around too much. I take a seat in the back corner and dig my elbows into the bar. The bartender is busy–there’s only one–and I make no effort to get his attention. He’ll find me soon enough.

I look around, trying to spot Marlo. Alex showed me some photos of him–mugshots–and I know what to look for. He’s a big guy with a bigger beard and bushy eyebrows. He’s not here now, but Alex told me I might have to be a regular here for a day or two to catch him.

“You need something?” The bartender finally asks me.

I was staring at a couple just making out with each other against the other wall. The woman’s hand wandered under the biker’s belt and pants, and no one seemed to think a thing of it.

“Yeah,” I say. I make my voice raspy, as if I’m permanently hungover. “What’s your best bang for the buck?”

He sees my glasses, which I’m wearing in the early afternoon–and inside–and gives me a look that says he knows exactly what kind of customer I am.

“Got some shit tequila,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say.

He pours me a shot. “Figure you don’t need limes or salt or nothing.”

It’s not question. Alcoholics don’t drink for the fun of it. I shake my head.

He grunts and walks off, and I take the shot.

I was so worried about the bikers being suspicious of me, or hitting on me, or any number of things. As the tequila burn goes down my throat and warms my stomach, I realize that I overlooked the most obvious problem. I’m pretending to be a drunk, and I’m a complete lightweight. Two more shots and I’ll be wobbling off my stool.

The bartender is back after just a few minutes. “You gonna want to open a tab then?”

He holds the bottle toward my glass, but I put my hand over it. He raises his eyebrow at that.

“I don’t have much money,” I say. “I have to pace myself.”

He scowls at me. “I have enough to tip you,” I say. “If you’ll let me just stay here a while. I don’t have anywhere else to go until tonight, and seeing other people drink helps me.”

I slap a $10 bill onto the bar, and he scoffs. I put another $5 down, and he snatches it away. “I’ll open you a tab. Tell me when you want that next drink.”

I wait until I can barely feel the tequila anymore before I let him pour me another. Just as I down the shot and look back up, I nearly jump off my stool and hide behind it.

Napier is standing in the doorway. He’s not in uniform, but he’s sporting a fresh black eye.

I look down at once into my empty glass, not daring to raise my head. The black strands of the wig help to hide my face, and I risk looking up–just with my eyes–to see what he’s up to.

I’m tempted to just get up and leave, but he’s right at the door. I’d have to walk within a few feet of him to get out. Besides, moving around might only draw his attention to me.

And speaking of drawing attention. The bikers almost all stop what they are doing as heads start to turn toward Napier. He may not be in uniform, but everyone seems to know he’s a cop. The guys playing pool hold their cues against the ground, clasping them like spears. One of the bikers playing darts pretends he’s getting ready to throw a dart at Napier, and the others laugh.

“Where’s Ruger?” Napier asks.

Everyone looks away from him, as if he’d suddenly vanished into thin air. They start talking loudly again–louder, actually–and no one bothers to so much as acknowledge Napier’s question.

Napier saunters toward the pool tables. Thankfully away from me. His back is to me. I could just run. Alex is parked a few blocks away. I could get away.

But then we’d be right back where we started. I came here to see if there was bad blood between Marlo and Ruger. Alex thought there might be, and he thought that he might be safe to approach one of the two, depending on what they were feuding over.

Now Napier is here in person. I can’t imagine that’s a smart move on his part.

I pull my phone out and turn it on. The camera on it must be total crap, but it’s something at least. I pretend like I’m fixing my own hair. I tilt my head and press my lips together as I angle the camera toward Napier. I snap a photo of him. It’s grainy looking since the bar is so dimly lit, and I only got the back of him. I keep the camera up for when he turns around.

He walks right up to the jukebox, bends over, and rips the cord out of the socket.

The music cuts off, and everyone looks over at him again. He turns toward them–toward me–and I take as many photos as I can. His face is plainly visible.

“I said,” he shouts. “I need to talk to Ruger.”

“He’s in the back,” the bartender grunts. He points toward the door.

“Tell him to come out,” Napier shrieks.

“Afraid he’s gonna punch your other eye?” someone says, laughing.

Napier pulls his gun from his waist and cocks it. “Do not disrespect me.”

The bartender sighs, his shoulders sagging. He picks up a phone from the wall and presses a few buttons. I see his mouth moving, but I can’t make out what he says.

In just a few moments, as if he were coming before the bartender had even called, a door in back swings open, and a man with silver-grey hair struts into the bar. “The fuck you want?” he hisses at Napier. “Another shakedown?”

Shakedown? So Napier is still trying to milk money out of them? Even after taking such a big chunk?

“Outside, now,” Napier snaps, looking around in a panic at everyone watching.

“No one here is gonna say shit,” the silver-haired man says. He must be Ruger. “What are we paying you for, huh? Looks like you can’t catch him.”

Ruger takes three wide steps toward Napier. He towers over him. He glares down at him, then cocks his head sideways. “Or did he catch you, huh?”

Napier hisses something in a low voice. Ruger shrugs, and gestures him to follow. Napier follows him into the back after all.

The bartender laughs and shakes his head. “Guess he’ll go back there after all, huh?”

“What was that all about?” I ask.

The bartender shoots me a serious look. “Don’t you go worrying your thirsty head about it. The next two are on the house.”

He slams an empty glass onto the bar and pours me two at once. “Best you drink to forget.”

I give him a smile. I want him to think I’m too busy chasing drinks to give two shits about what I just saw.

I watch the bartender pull a cell phone out of his pocket. He eyes the other bikers, then the back door.

He walks further from everyone, which means toward me, and he holds the phone to his ear.

“Marlo,” he starts.

My ears perk up, and it takes all my willpower to not lean my ear right in toward him.

“Yeah,” the bartender says. “Napier just barged in. He’s in back with Ruger. What you want me to do?”

“Really?” The bartender asks. “He’s bleeding us dry, man.”

There’s a pause, and the bartender looks annoyed. “Fine,” he says. “Whatever you say, boss. But sooner or later–”

He cuts off as if he were interrupted. He shrugs and puts the phone away.

I pretend not to be paying attention.

“Must suck to be a bartender but not be a drunk,” I say. I slide one of the glasses toward him.

“Fuck it,” he says, and he downs the shot.

“Bad day?” I ask.

“Bad week,” he says. “You know those movies where guys sign deals with the devil?”

I nod my head and tap my glass with the back of my nail. “I know my own life well enough.”

He laughs. “Luckily I ain’t the one who signed the contract,” he says. “Just my bosses did. Now neither one wants to admit he was the one who signed. Ya get me?”

I get him. At least I think I do. I can’t wait to tell Alex. I realize I maybe should have called him as soon as I saw Napier. Then again, the last thing I’d want is for Alex to barge in to try to rescue me from Napier. I don’t think he’d get out alive if he started a fight in here.

Then again, if he hit Napier, I can’t imagine the bikers would side with Napier at this point. Not after the way they looked at him.

“I could technically just walk away from mine,” I say, staring down into the glass. “I’ve tried plenty of times, but I’m always back. I wish it were easy as a contract.”

“No real contract here either,” the bartender says. “Just a lot of bad blood.”