Mick glanced up from the game of solitaire on his table and scowled. “Why the fuck drink it, then?” he snapped. “You can’t even hold your whiskey. You think you can guzzle tequila?”
Bass stared back at him, bared his teeth in a fuck-you smile, and took another swig. He ignored the urge to grimace at the taste for a second time. Tequila wasn’t his drink to start with, and this was barely tequila. It tasted more like rubbing alcohol someone had soaked a vanilla pod in.
“Getting a head start on you, Mick,” he said as he slammed the bottle back down on the bar. “After this shit hits the fan, the border’s going to be the only option. I might as well get used to the taste now.”
Mick dealt out three cards and scowled as the suicide king came out to play. He swept them back up off the table and shuffled the unlucky royal back into the deck.
“You think this is the first time the Feds have tried to close us down?” he said. “Merlo’s got a hard-on for us because he thinks taking us out will make his reputation, but his old boss was no better. He tried to get rid of us too, but we’re still here, and he’s in the boneyard. Shepherd’s like fucking Teflon, Bass. Nothing sticks.”
Bass pressed the palm of his hand down over the mouth of the tequila bottle. His knuckles were swollen with blue bruises under the skin around the scabs, but no one had noticed yet. Or if they had, they didn’t care.
“Yeah?” he said. “Well, I’ve seen the Feds take other gangs down like this, and it’s fucking surgical. First of all they cut our supply lines so the money dries up, then they start on anyone that does business with us. It doesn’t even matter if they have anything that sticks. They just need to make it a royal pain in the fucking ass to deal with us.”
He abandoned the tequila—he’d made his point with it, and another swig would land him on his ass—and grabbed a beer from the bar fridge instead.
“Then what?” someone asked.
Not Mick. He had more sense. Bass used the edge of the bar to pop the cap off the beer. He licked the froth of it as it bubbled down the glass.
“No money. No business,” he ticked off on his fingers. Then he stopped, took a drink, and stuck his thumb out on the third point. “No friends. Then they just pick us off, one by one, as we’re stuck shaking down hookers on street corners like pimps to get the money to buy a pack of smokes. I don’t know about you guys, but it’s real nice to have J.J. Diggs in a suit that costs more than the DA’s education turn up in court to call them all bastards. I am not looking forward to whatever scrub that washed up in the Public Defender’s office getting my name wrong when he accidentally pleads manslaughter up to murder.”
He drowned any other complaints with a long draft of beer. This time he didn’t actually drink any of it, just blocked the bottle with his tongue and swallowed his own spit, but it gave the right impact. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see frowns groove deeper into sun-leathered faces, and the small puddles of conversation dried up as people thought about their own best interests.
Usually he’d let it drop there, let the ideas settle, and take private bets on who’d go to Merlo first for a good deal. Tonight he was going to have go off book a bit.
“Jesus Christ, tequila makes you a miserable fuck.” Mick broke the silence as he gathered up the solitaire spread. He shuffled the cards, the scrape of them loud against callused palms, and slouched back in his chair. “Do you even speak Spanish, you ignorant bastard?”
Bass snorted. “I grew up here,” he snorted. “I’ll get by.”
Over by the pool table, Ville spluttered a curse as he sank the white ball. He shrugged off the offer of a rematch from his opponent with ill grace and a handful of bills tossed onto the table. The other guy shrugged and picked the money off the blood-stained baize as Ville walked away.
It wasn’t a bad exit—he’d always been a bad loser—but he played his hand too soon. His phone was already up to his ear as he ducked out the door into the back office. Bass turned his head to watch as Ville shoved the door shut behind him.
He should have known it would be Ville. It wasn’t like the guy even had to sell out his best friend to get into Shepherd’s good books this time.
Bass leaned his elbows on the bar, the beer bottle clasped in his hands as he waited for everyone’s attention to fully shift from him. It didn’t take long. Just because what he said was true didn’t mean that anyone wanted to hear it. As a muted buzz of conversation started up again, Bass pushed himself off the bar and sauntered over to the back office. He nudged it open and leaned in, shoulder braced against the frame.
“Peace offering?” He held up the beer expectantly. “I didn’t mean to get you in the shit.”
Ville gave him a sour look through faded bruises. “No?” he said skeptically, even as he extended his hand for the bottle.
“We can call it even, then,” Bass offered as he stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him.
“Even?” Ville asked. He started to frown, but the expression died as it touched the edges of his bruises. Instead he settled for a snort. “For what? Telling Shepherd about that doctor you fucked?”
The beer bottle slapped against his palm, and he looked surprised as he registered how light it was. His eyes flicked from Bass to the half-empty bottle, and Bass took advantage of the moment of inattention to punch Ville in the face.
His nose, still swollen from Shepherd’s beating, flattened under Bass’s knuckles. Blood spluttered out, hot and thick, and Ville sucked in his breath to scream. Bass grabbed his face to shut him up, with the heel of his hand braced under Ville’s stubbled chin and his fingers dug into the bruised cheeks. The scream bubbled against his palm, choked out through clenched teeth. Bass used the leverage to shove Ville against the filing cabinet.
“Actually I meant for framing me to the cops back in the day, but that’s water under the bridge. Now shut up.”
Ville swung his arm blindly in a clumsy roundhouse. It was beyond telegraphed, but if Bass let go of Ville’s mouth block, they’d have company. Bony knuckles and weighted glass caught against his forehead. The bottle broke in a spray of green glass, and pain grayed through Bass’s skull.
He felt warm liquid drip down the side of his face and something scratch at his eyelid when he blinked. It made his eye itch. Ville snarled against his fingers and rammed his knee up toward Bass’s groin. Bass blocked with his thigh and clenched his teeth against the dull jolt of pain as Ville’s kneecap dug into the muscle.
“I will break your fucking jaw,” he said as he tightened his grip. Bruised skin blanched under the pressure, and he felt Ville’s jaw creak as he pushed up. “Where’s Shepherd?”
Ville glared at him, eyes black and desperate in the soft bed of bruised skin. His breath huffed against Bass’s fingers as he panted with anger and pain. Fear too. His answer was garbled through mashed lips, but it wasn’t that hard to decipher.
