Also, the mural on the wall, worthy of a National Medal of Arts prize, is the Hell’s Jury logo, the same one emblazoned on the back of the cuts the bikers wear. Mean looking raven with its wings spread, a vile fiery skull with nice teeth, and an orange moon backing it all. Gives a sense of understated belonging. Of course, I’m no art critic.
“Stay here,” Eight says bluntly as he walks off.
“Fuck off,” I call to him, but stay where I am like a good little Stepford wife.
A short curvy Latina in jeans and an awesome fringed tank strolls up to me. She has long straight hair, beautiful dark eyes and a mischievous grin that lights up the room. “I hear you had a bad morning.” She jerks her head towards the bar. “All the curative medicine you need is waiting for you over there.”
“No prescription needed,” calls a cute, petite woman standing behind the counter.
Who could turn down that kind of endorsement. I’m flanked by the Latina as I stroll up to the bar and perch myself on a stool. I nod to the bartender’s coffee. “Make it a double.”
“I’m Haley,” she says as she grabs a cup from under the bar.
“Selkie,” I reply.
“Ximina,” the Latina says as she sits next to me. “They call me X.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say.
“I’m King’s ol’ lady,” Haley says.
“I’m Reaper’s ol’ lady,” Ximina says.
“I’m…” I stop, think about it. “Just passing through.”
Haley laughs. “That’s what all the ol’ ladies say.”
“Not me,” X says. “I never said that.”
Haley looks thoughtful. “Well, me neither.”
“Neither did Evanee,” X says.
“It’s possible you’re wrong,” I say to Haley.
An older woman comes through the sliding doors and approaches us, a cloud of cigarette smoke following her.
“That’s Verity. She didn’t either,” Haley says.
Verity leans against the bar. “Didn’t do what?”
“Start out reluctant to become an ol’ lady,” Haley replies.
Verity scrutinizes me. “You’re with Eight?”
“Reluctantly,” Haley and X say together.
“She must be blind,” Verity says drolly.
The three of them laugh at my expense.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eight
I leave Selkie to fend for herself as I stalk towards Hangman’s office. I don’t feel guilty about abandoning her. If there’s one woman who can handle tense situations it’s Selkie. I get sidetracked by my recollection of the woman sitting on Kozlov’s couch, flipping through a magazine like she was waiting to audition for a lead role in an action film.
“You comin’ in?” Hangman’s rasping voice pulls me back to reality. “Or loitering?”
