CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Step Up Bar slouched beside a two-pump gas station that primarily stocked cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and ammo. You could buy coffee there if burning a layer from your stomach lining caused no concern, but the soft drink machine stuck out front offered the better bet on the rare occasions it was stocked.
Across the weedy, pitted gravel lot, a twenty-room motel with a reputation for dubious sanitary standards welcomed only the most desperate of travelers.
Still, some locals enjoyed the fuck-you ambiance and patronized the bar for some serious drinking. And occasionally, enough drinks lured a couple or two over to the motel for the nonadvertised hourly room rate.
The three enterprises largely stayed afloat due to bikers traveling through who preferred cheap drinks, a hard-eyed game of pool, and the occasional brawl over the niceties.
Before he’d taken off for California, Callen had dragged Chase in there with him for a couple of rounds of rebellious, underage drinking, as nobody in the place gave a New York rat’s ass about checking IDs.
As Callen pulled in, passed the flickering vacancy sign for the One Shot Motel, he saw nothing much had changed.
He heard the insect buzz of the vacancy sign swatting at the still night air. Rising over it, the moon rode, a bite away from full, on a star-struck sky.
He steered away from the line of parked bikes, slid in next to a pickup. Shook his head.
Chase leaned back against the truck, Rory beside him, with Jessica and Chelsea flanking them.
“Didn’t know we were having a party.”
“That’s how it goes,” Bodine said as she climbed out.
Callen got out, walked over, scanned the lineup. “I appreciate the support, but it looks like I need an army to tend to my business here.”
“I don’t care how it looks.” Chase pushed off the truck. “Clintok did what he did on our land. We won’t get in his way or yours unless he tries something dirty.”
“He’s in there.” Rory wagged his thumb behind him. “His truck’s down there.”
Callen tried one last time. “It’s not the best place or circumstances to bring dates.”
Now Rory grinned. “You brought one. Plus … tell him, Chelsea.”
“I’ve got a black belt in tae kwon do.” When she lowered into a fighting stance, Callen could only wonder. “I took it all through college.”
“And I have a mighty and fatally accurate bitch slap,” Jessica added.
Couldn’t change it, Callen decided, so he’d trust the brothers would keep the women out of harm’s way should harm rise up.
“All I need to do is punch him in the face. That’ll square it for me.”
Chase nodded. “Then you get that done, and we’ll all be on our way.”
Callen went in with what he thought of now as his damn entourage, and saw the interior hadn’t changed much, either.
The decor ran heavy to taxidermy with bear and buck heads mounted, the Montana State flag framed beside the Gadsden. One new element? A sign reading:
GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, I DO.
A couple of biker types smacked pool balls around, and a couple more drank bottled beer and watched.
The place held two booths. In one, a couple of old guys who looked permanently pissed off sat across from each other, working on their beers and playing cards.
He judged the second booth commandeered by the bikers, as empty bottles littered the table and leather jackets formed heaps on the seats.
Seven stools lined the bar, all full. At first glance he didn’t recognize a soul but Clintok at the end, then felt a little tug of recognition for the big guy center bar, chomping down on beer nuts.
As the others filed in behind him, the balls stopped clattering, asses shifted on stools. Callen hoped to hell the fact the female population of the bar now numbered three didn’t stir up trouble.
But he knew by the way Clintok straightened on his stool that at least one patron knew trouble had walked in.
“Skinner? That you?” The big guy gestured. “Kiss my ass, that’s you, Cal Skinner. Heard you were back.”
“Sandy Rhimes,” Bodine muttered, and a lightbulb switched on.
“How you doing, Sandy?”
“Could complain, won’t bother. Hey there, Chase, Rory, Bodine, ma’am, ma’am.” He had a big, homely face and a sweet, almost angelic smile. “You bunch make a wrong turn somewhere?”
“Nope. I’m where I aimed for.”
“Well, if you’re having a beer, stick with the bottles. Slats here would tell you the same,” he added, wagging his own bottle toward the hefty, bored-eyed bartender.
“We’re not drinking right now. I’ve got some other business.”
Sandy took a peer down the bar. “Clintok? If you got a beef with him, I’d … Wait.” His mile-wide shoulders straightened, stiffened, and the sweet smile vanished. “He’s the one who shot your horse? I heard about that.” Sandy slapped down his beer, started to push his mighty girth out of the stool.
“It’s okay.” Christ, he didn’t need to add another. “I’ve got this.”
“Hope you do.”
“Just stay back here,” Callen told the rest, and walked down the bar to Clintok. “We’ve got business to finish.”
“Fuck you, Skinner.”
“I figure you’re carrying, so I’m going to say if I see your hand go where I think your gun is, I’ll break that hand at the wrist.”
The red started creeping up into Clintok’s face. “You’re threatening a police officer?”
“I’m threatening an asshole, an unemployed one, I hear. I’m threatening a coward who hides up in the trees and shoots a horse. So you’re going to want to keep those hands where I can see them.”
Callen felt rather than saw the man on the stool behind him slide off, ease away.
“Coward?” Clintok pushed off the stool. “You’re a murdering coward. You killed two women.”
Now Callen sensed the bikers tuning in. “You want to believe that. You know different, but you want it to be true. What is true is: You shot my horse.”
Clintok rammed a finger into Callen’s chest; Callen let him. “I was shooting at a snake.”
“Even your aim’s not that bad.”
“Same as you ever were.” Eyes hot, teeth bared, Clintok jabbed the finger again. “No-good, no-good whelp from a loser who gambled away everything and hanged himself from the shame of it. And here you come? You come in here with the Longbow men, and women to hide behind.”
“They’re just here as audience for the ass-kicking. You want the ass-kicking in here or outside? That’s your choice.”
“You take it outside.” The bartender brought out a bat, slapped it against his palm.
“Outside then,” Callen said.
He saw the punch coming, made another decision to let it come. It landed hard enough to set his ears ringing, but he just wiped the blood from his lip.
“Keep coming.” Callen backed up toward the door.