Stiffed by Rob Kitchin

And you’re out-voted two to one.’
    For flip’s sake!  Jason’s ruled by his stomach, Paavo by army slogans.  Friends: can’t live without them, can’t swap them for cash.
    Paavo pulls in to John Philips’ lot and parks off to one side.
    ‘I’ll buy a container and the gas, you get matches or a lighter then get started on lining your stomachs,’ I say as we head towards the store.  ‘I just want toast and a coffee.’
    ‘I knew you’d see sense,’ Jason says.
    As if I had a choice.
    W e split up on entering the store. I head to the back and into an old-style hardware store and the motor sector.  It is floor to ceiling shelves, all packed with boxes and gadgets.  I pick out a red, gallon-sized plastic container and pay for it.  I then head back out to the pumps and fill it up.  I can’t take it back into the store like that so I head to the van.  It’s locked and I don’t have the keys so I slide it under the chassis, out of sight.  Hopefully nobody will steal it, or worse, pour it over the van and set it alight.
    I head back in , pay for the gas and wander into the diner.  It hasn’t been updated in fifty odd years.  A set of low, red vinyl booths, large mirrors and automobile memorabilia on the walls, and an open kitchen at the back.  Most of the booths are occupied with a cross-section of Carrick society, from long-haired truckers through to smartly dressed businesswomen.  Paavo and Jason are sitting next to a window with a clear view of the van.
    I slide in next to Paavo, Jason sitting opposite, his stomach squashed against the table edge.
    ‘Well?’ I ask.
    ‘It’s on its way.’
    ‘Good.’   There’s already a black coffee in front of me.  I take a sip.  Just the right side of too bitter.  Hopefully this won’t take long and we can get on our way.  I’m going to feel a damn sight less jittery once we’ve got rid of Marino and Junior, even though we’ll still have Redneck to deal with on our return.
    A black woman in her mid-thirties slides into the seat next to Jason.  She’s wearing a grey sweater with ‘Red Sox’ printed across it and her straightened hair is sticking out at odd angles as if she’d rolled out of bed and come direct to the diner.
    ‘Can I help you, Miss?’ I ask.
    ‘Yeah, you can tell me where to find that double-crossing bitch and my lying , cheating husband.’
    ‘Double-crossing bitch?’
    ‘Yeah, Kathy.  And Ronnie.’
    ‘Kathy?’
    ‘Yeah, that double-crossing bitch you live with.  You’re Tadger, right?’
    ‘Tadhg.’
    This conversation is starting to get a little surreal.  Who the hell are Kathy and Ronnie?
    ‘Whatever, honey.  I want Ronnie, and my brother over there,’ she points a long , false nail painted red and dotted with silver stars over my shoulder, ‘wants Kathy and the money she stole from him.’
    I glance over my shoul der.  Barry White is standing at the entrance to the diner.  He looks seriously pissed. 
    I turn back to the table and mutter: ‘Oh fuck.’
    ‘Oh fuck is right.  My brother is one badass motherfucker. He wanted to come over here to persuade you to tell him where Kathy is.  I told him it would be better if I spoke to you first.  See if I could get some answers in a civilized fashion.  Now, I’ve been driving half the night, I ain’t in a good mood, you understand?  So, where are Kathy and Ronnie?’
    A dim light bulb sparks into life in my addled brain.  Kate and Junior.  And the disheveled woman sitting opposite must be Denise.  This is not good.  This is not good at all.  My stomach flips a double somersault.
    The truthful answer is, of course, that her badass brother shot her big mouth husband and he’s lying like a mummy on a blood-stained mattress in the back of the white van outside and Kathy is being held by Redneck.
    Instead I answer: ‘We don’t know.  She left me.’
    Denise puts her head in her hands and shakes her head.  Then she clucks her tongue and places her