Jimbo tapped the hand cannon under his shirt. “I got this, brother.”
One hour later Val and Gareth pulled the truck up in front of a bar with three dressed-down Harleys parked in front. The bikes were all black—no ornate silver-trimmed saddlebags or flashy paint jobs—just three squat beasts hitched like horses to a post outside a saloon. The building itself was a one-story concrete block with nothing to even signify it was a bar except a flickering MILLER TIME neon hanging in one of the rectangular fixed windows lining the top of the storefront. A sun-faded OPEN sign hung from a suction cup stuck to the plate-glass door. Gareth had expected more. He had expected the place to look like a scene from Sturgis or Easy Rider, but aside from the hogs outside, it looked more like a tax attorney’s office. Considering Wilcombe’s fancy accent, MC errand boys, and hot-shit-sounding secretary, this place was nothing short of a dank shithole.
After exchanging an underwhelmed look, Gareth and Val got out of the truck and walked to the door. Gareth put his hand on the glass but paused before pushing it open.
“I gotta tell you, Val, I’m not sold on this idea. I’m out of my element here.”
“That makes two of us.”
“If this goes south . . .” Gareth said.
“It won’t. You’re Gareth Burroughs. You’re fucking invincible.” Both men smiled, but only briefly. Gareth took a breath and pushed open the door.
4.
They both let their eyes adjust to the sickly blue electric light and took a quick inventory of the patrons and the layout. To their left, two bikers were playing pool under a hanging Pabst Blue Ribbon lamp, and a thin bartender with a huge Wyatt Earp–style mustache stood behind the bar. His facial hair gave him tusks like a walrus. All three of them were sporting JACKSONVILLE JACKALS patches on their cuts. One of the men playing pool looked able to handle himself—tall, with lots of bulky muscle crammed into a denim jacket. His buddy, on the other hand, looked like he hadn’t skipped a meal in all of his fiftysomething years. He was soft and pudgy, with a long, stringy gray ponytail. The size-up was reassuring. Three men in an open room matched the three bikes parked outside. That didn’t count what could be out back, or in the bathroom to the right, or on the other side of the door behind the bar. Gareth guessed it led to a kitchen or a storage room. It could serve as an ambush point or an escape route, but if shit went sideways, Gareth knew right away his chance of getting out of this box, as it stood, was a fifty-fifty shot. He breathed a little easier, but not much. He’d faced worse odds back home.
They stood in the doorway while every eyeball in the place locked on them.
It was understandable. Gareth may not have looked like much under his straw cowboy hat and canvas jacket—a pale-skinned redhead, weighing in at one-sixty on a good day—but Val was a different story. Val was a solid-muscled farm boy, every bit of three hundred pounds. He was also black as night, no stars. He looked like a mountain of Kentucky coal in a flannel shirt.
They slowly crossed the room, and Gareth took a seat at the bar. Val stood behind him with his arms crossed, trading stink-eye stares with Moe and Curly at the pool table. From the bulges under their jackets, Val counted at least one gun per man.
“Can I help you boys with something?” the walrus said to Gareth.
“Nope, but we’ll take two beers. Don’t matter which.”
“You planning on drinking both of them?”
Gareth just stared blankly at the man. “Do you have a problem?”
“Not with you. I believe we’re expecting you. But your boy there might have to wait outside.”
“My boy? Oh, you mean Val.” Gareth motioned with a thumb over his shoulder. “That guy’s name is Albert Valentine. Named after his deddy. Some people call him Albert, but not many. Most folks call him Val. You know, short for Valentine.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what the boy’s name is.”
“Apparently. Because if you did, you’d know that it’s pretty damn rude to call him boy. Nobody calls him boy, and you just did it twice. My advice is to not let it happen a third time.”
“Tuesday’s Gone” played on the jukebox, filling the gap of silence while the bartender sized Gareth up.
“Well, when this train ends, I’ll try again, / But I’m leaving my woman at home . . .”