Here’s a bit of dialogue from “Mary’s Fate,” the third book in my Rick Crane Noir Series from Stay Thirsty Publishing, that shows what a loyal employee Rick is.
Happy Labor Day:
If you’ve ever heard anyone take a punch – I mean a really good shot to the midsection delivered by someone who knows how to hit – it’s a sound you never forget. Doubly so if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of one of those punches. So there was no doubt in my mind what I heard through the open window of the men’s room in the back of the bar.
Normally, I don’t get involved in other people’s business. But seeing how I work for Jimmy Sr., and this is his place, I took a little more than a passing interest in what was happening out back.
“What do you mean you don’t have the money?” I heard a strange voice say over the distant hum of truck traffic on the highway.
“I told you I’d have it for you on Monday,” another voice said as I washed and dried my hands.
That lame excuse was followed by another hard shot to the body that sent the guy crashing into the row of metal garbage cans that run along the side of the building.
“Boy,” I thought. “Whoever it is, he’s getting one hell of a beating.”
That’s when I stepped out of the men’s room and pulled my .45 ACP out of the holster on my hip. Looking back toward the bar to make sure no one else was coming up the hallway that leads to the bathrooms, I reached into the inside pocket of my sports jacket and pulled out the silencer and screwed it onto the end of the barrel with one firm twist to the right. Then I walked out the back door, and into the parking lot behind the bar.
Down on one knee up against the red brick building right under the men’s room window, trying to catch his breath, was Eddie Schorr, a low-level drug dealer who sold weed and a little crank – biker speed – in the bars around town. Towering over him were three humongous white dudes who could have been linebackers for the New York Giants. But they were Scorpions, an outlaw biker gang out of Syracuse easily recognizable by their black jeans, black t-shirts, and black leather cuts with their club logo on the back. All three of them had full beards and arms the size of tree trunks full of jailhouse tattoos. One guy had the club logo tattooed on his neck.
I’d been careful to open the screen door slowly so that it didn’t creak. Once clear of the doorway, I let it go. The loud thwap quickly alerted everyone to my presence.
Two of the Scorpions turned toward me and went for their guns, but I had the jump on them. I fired two quick rounds into each – double taps to the chest. The muffled tunk-tunk of the silenced .45 bounced softly off the back of the building and then out into the parking lot, where it was absorbed by a dozen cars. I doubt anyone walking by out front heard a thing.