Perversion (Page 12)

-G

PS-They call me Grim now.

Tricks,

You didn’t reply to my last letter. And then I realized why when it came back to me in the mail. You never got it. When Marci called CPS, they said your file has been sealed and you’ve been moved, but they can’t tell us where. They said they can’t send or receive mail for you either, so I don’t even know why I’m writing this letter. I did manage to track down shitty Aunt Ruby, but she was drunk or high on something and barely knew her own name never mind where you went. She said to your brother Mark’s house, but you never mentioned a brother, and I can’t find anything on him. Gabby’s records are also sealed, so I can’t find out where she is either. I’m hoping that maybe you’re with her and that you’re happier wherever you are. But none of this makes any sense. You just disappeared.

Where are you, Tricks?

-G

PS-Marci keyed Ruby’s car on the way out. The bitch deserved that and more.

Five Years Later…

THE PRESENT

Six

Tricks is gone.

Tristan Paine is dead.

I slip my phone into my pocket, having finished my daily Google search for Emma Jean Parish, with the same results that have shown up for over five years now.

Not a damn thing.

“You done swiping right on some hot cock so we can play now?” Haze goads, downing a shot of whiskey. He flips his black baseball cap to the back and racks the balls.

“Don’t be jealous, you homophobe. Besides, I was swiping right for you. Don’t worry. I gave him your number,” I reply with a wink. My cigarette hangs from my lips as I take my shot. Two balls bounce off each other and roll right into their intended pockets.

“Fuck off,” Haze barks with a laugh. “I’m confident in my heterosexuality, and for the record, I could probably pull a much hotter guy than you. If I wanted to. But if you decide you want to start crossing swords with dudes, you should know, I’m not a homophobe, and as your brother, I fully support you,” he says, placing his hand over his heart.

“Good to know, fucker,” I mutter with a laugh.

“He was looking for HER again,” Sandy explains, taking a sip of his beer.

“Anything?” Haze asks, raising his eyebrows.

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Fuck, how long have you been looking for her now? Like three years?” Haze asks.

“Four,” Sandy replies.

“Five,” I correct.

I don’t want to talk about Tricks. I already spend too much time thinking about her. More so now than when she first disappeared. I especially don’t want to talk about her tonight because I’m feeling restless. My knuckles are aching for action. The truce has toned down the violence in Lacking, but it hasn’t lessened the need for it.

I down a shot of whiskey; the amber liquid barely burns my throat. It’s watered down cheap shit, but then again, the same can be said for the entire bar. Pieced-together furniture is strewn haphazardly around the two pool tables in the center of the room. Mismatched wall hangings, posters, and neon beer signs that either don’t work or aren’t plugged in litter the walls. No rhyme or reason for any of it.

I set the shot glass down on the side of the table, then glance around. It doesn’t take long to sort through the patrons and notice that who I’m looking for isn’t here yet. There are only a couple of dozen people in BB’s Bar tonight, but it doesn’t take a lot to make the small space feel crowded. The muffled sounds of conversation hum all around me along with the occasional burst of laughter. The smell of fried pickles, stale cheap beer, and cigarettes fill the hazy air.

“Three shots in a row?” Sandy asks, his mouth hanging open so that his jaw, if it could, might drag along the sticky ground. He snaps it back shut when he sees me looking at him. He ruffles his mop of reddish-brown hair which is a few weeks overdue for a cut. “Why do I even bother playing with you, Grim?”

“It’s gotta be better than playing with yourself all the fucking time,” Haze puts in. He holds his own pool stick in one hand while he uses the other to pretend to jerk it off. He bites his lip and humps the air theatrically.

“Fuck off,” Sandy replies, giving him a middle finger.

Haze sits on a high stool with his eyes locked onto the door. He turns his ball cap backward his long black beard in stark contrast to his otherwise all-American looks.

“Not here yet,” Sandy muses, following Haze’s stare.

“You don’t fucking say?” I ask sarcastically. “Staring ain’t gonna get them here any fucking faster, so do me a favor and stop. You look like a fucking pit-bull, waiting for someone to drop their steak.”

“Maybe, I am,” Haze replies.

“What’s crawled up your ass?” Sandy asks.

Haze blows out a breath. “Just got other shit on my mind tonight, is all.” He suddenly stands from his stool. He gives me a curt nod just as the bell over the door of BB’s Bar rings out. I don’t look over. Not yet.

I wait for Sheila, our usual waitress and part-owner of the bar, to finish refilling my shot glass. She does it slowly, bending over as much as possible to put her ample cleavage on display. I make a show of looking and appreciating at what she has to offer because if I don’t, she’ll only try harder to get my attention, and I don’t need her to try any harder right now.

I need her to leave.

I return her wink as she finally walks away. Only now do I allow myself to glance over my shoulder where I see Memo and Gil strutting up to the bar with their yellow Los Muertos bandanas in full view. Memo’s got his wrapped around his forehead while Gil’s got his hanging from his back pocket.

NOW, the night has truly begun.

I crack my neck, and Sandy stubs out his cigarette

When Haze pretends to be interested in our game for the first time all night, I know we’ve been spotted.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Bitches of Bedlam,” Memo sings as he approaches the table. His gold front tooth gleams under the yellow fluorescent lights.

“You know what would be awesome? If you could live up to your name. Los Muertos. The dead. If you could just really BE dead, that would be fab,” Sandy says, holding his pool stick in front of him.

Gil sneers. He leans over the pool table, scattering the balls around the table. “Heard you boys are missing a shipment,” Gil says with a knowing grin on his scarred-up face. “Shame you can’t keep better track of your shit.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Sandy asks, straightening his shoulders and walking around the table until his chest is almost touching Gil’s.

Gil places his palms up in mock surrender. He shakes his head. “Of course not, brotha. Haven’t you heard? There’s a truce between Bedlam and Los Muertos. Peace. As much as I would love to be the one who ripped you faggots off, we ain’t jacked your shit.” His lip turns up at the corner. “Well, not this time anyway.”

Sandy lets out a long whistle.

“Then, how come your boys were spotted selling weapons that looked an awful lot like the ones we were expecting in that truck?” I ask, re-racking the balls.

Memo shrugs. “Just because we got ‘em don’t mean they’re yours. Weapons all look alike.”

“Hold on there. No need to be racist about it,” Haze chimes in.

Memo snarls.