like horses tied to the post.
Snow curled up the steps and over his boots. A pine wreath decorated a barred door. Trent wrapped his numb fingers around the handle. He pulled and the door came toward him; slipping inside, he closed it, shutting out the cold.
His eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom. There was no foyer, and Trent found himself in a combination L-shaped bar/dance floor and band stage lit by weak lamps on bare concrete walls. The slow ticking of a double-pipe cast-iron radiator in the corner seemed the only activity. A strong smell of Pine-sol and stale cigarette smoke lodged in his throat.
Trent felt pain as his ears and fingers came back to life. He imagined a late-night crowd of rednecks and bikers getting high on gallons of beer and shots. He was immensely glad he wouldn’t be there.
Past the dance floor, green-shaded lights hung over several felt-covered tables.
Two skinheads without a legible facial expression between themselves were leaning against a jukebox. The sleeves of their denim jackets were scissored off at the armpits, and the continuous and wildly colored tattoos that wrapped their arms looked like tight fitting sleeves.
Security types , Trent thought. Hired to do the Apostles strong-arm business. He tried to swallow his fear. Up to this point, he had been riding high and feeling bold; now his confidence was ebbing.
The only other occupants were playing pool . A skinny, black-eyed man with hollow cheeks and a pockmarked face was chalking his cue. His scraggly moustache was yellowed with nicotine; a red bandana with skull and crossbones was wrapped around his head.
The billiard-playing man was big and muscular and swaggered around the pool table with a shot glass in his meaty hand. He had a baldhead and a faded-pink scar across his forehead; he wore a black leather vest and dirty blue jeans.
After a moment of icy silence Trent asked, “Utah?”
“Yeah,” the man said, downing the amber liquid in one gulp. He tossed the tiny glass to one of the skinheads then racked the pool balls. When he leaned over the table with his cue stick, Trent spotted the Apostles tattoo on his shoulder.
“ Hey, Winston,” Utah said, giving Trent a calculating look, “I think he’s iron.”
“No doubt,” Winston said, twirling the end of his moustache.
“I’m not a cop,” Trent said, deciding he could never stare down the skinheads. “ My name is Trent Palmer; I find missing people.”
Utah glanced up. Light gray eyes, cold as ice. “What do you want? Exactly?”
“I’m looking to exchange information,” Trent said, browsing Utah’s landscape of crude jailhouse tattoos. “The guy who killed Jack Zimmer in Piedmont Park abducted a little girl. I’m trying to find her.”
Utah didn’t reply . He took his time controlling the cue ball and sank all the stripes with a variety of touch and trick shots before sending the cue ball the length of the green where it reversed course and tapped the eight ball, almost sinking it into the corner pocket. His voice rose in impatience. “You packing?”
“No,” Trent said. “ Just give me what I need and I’ll go away.”
“Why us?” Bandanna asked.
“Someone cut down your buddy with a half-dozen nine-millimeter slugs. Guess I thought you’d care. If you do, I was hoping we could negotiate.”
“Whaddya got to nee-go-she-ate?” Utah asked, leaning over the table to sink the eight ball.
Trent glared at Utah so he would know he was dead serious. “For starters, the Outlaws are shutting down Garcia’s crystal-meth business and monopolizing it with a super pipeline. I’ve got insider information to help Garcia defend himself against the Outlaws and the Latin Kings.”
Utah paused in mid stroke, frowning, then followed through.
“ I don’t like problems, Palmer. But I’m damn good at solving them,” he said, using his cue to push the balls around. “Are you going to be a problem for me?”
“ I hope not.”
Utah racked the cue
Snow curled up the steps and over his boots. A pine wreath decorated a barred door. Trent wrapped his numb fingers around the handle. He pulled and the door came toward him; slipping inside, he closed it, shutting out the cold.
His eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom. There was no foyer, and Trent found himself in a combination L-shaped bar/dance floor and band stage lit by weak lamps on bare concrete walls. The slow ticking of a double-pipe cast-iron radiator in the corner seemed the only activity. A strong smell of Pine-sol and stale cigarette smoke lodged in his throat.
Trent felt pain as his ears and fingers came back to life. He imagined a late-night crowd of rednecks and bikers getting high on gallons of beer and shots. He was immensely glad he wouldn’t be there.
Past the dance floor, green-shaded lights hung over several felt-covered tables.
Two skinheads without a legible facial expression between themselves were leaning against a jukebox. The sleeves of their denim jackets were scissored off at the armpits, and the continuous and wildly colored tattoos that wrapped their arms looked like tight fitting sleeves.
Security types , Trent thought. Hired to do the Apostles strong-arm business. He tried to swallow his fear. Up to this point, he had been riding high and feeling bold; now his confidence was ebbing.
The only other occupants were playing pool . A skinny, black-eyed man with hollow cheeks and a pockmarked face was chalking his cue. His scraggly moustache was yellowed with nicotine; a red bandana with skull and crossbones was wrapped around his head.
The billiard-playing man was big and muscular and swaggered around the pool table with a shot glass in his meaty hand. He had a baldhead and a faded-pink scar across his forehead; he wore a black leather vest and dirty blue jeans.
After a moment of icy silence Trent asked, “Utah?”
“Yeah,” the man said, downing the amber liquid in one gulp. He tossed the tiny glass to one of the skinheads then racked the pool balls. When he leaned over the table with his cue stick, Trent spotted the Apostles tattoo on his shoulder.
“ Hey, Winston,” Utah said, giving Trent a calculating look, “I think he’s iron.”
“No doubt,” Winston said, twirling the end of his moustache.
“I’m not a cop,” Trent said, deciding he could never stare down the skinheads. “ My name is Trent Palmer; I find missing people.”
Utah glanced up. Light gray eyes, cold as ice. “What do you want? Exactly?”
“I’m looking to exchange information,” Trent said, browsing Utah’s landscape of crude jailhouse tattoos. “The guy who killed Jack Zimmer in Piedmont Park abducted a little girl. I’m trying to find her.”
Utah didn’t reply . He took his time controlling the cue ball and sank all the stripes with a variety of touch and trick shots before sending the cue ball the length of the green where it reversed course and tapped the eight ball, almost sinking it into the corner pocket. His voice rose in impatience. “You packing?”
“No,” Trent said. “ Just give me what I need and I’ll go away.”
“Why us?” Bandanna asked.
“Someone cut down your buddy with a half-dozen nine-millimeter slugs. Guess I thought you’d care. If you do, I was hoping we could negotiate.”
“Whaddya got to nee-go-she-ate?” Utah asked, leaning over the table to sink the eight ball.
Trent glared at Utah so he would know he was dead serious. “For starters, the Outlaws are shutting down Garcia’s crystal-meth business and monopolizing it with a super pipeline. I’ve got insider information to help Garcia defend himself against the Outlaws and the Latin Kings.”
Utah paused in mid stroke, frowning, then followed through.
“ I don’t like problems, Palmer. But I’m damn good at solving them,” he said, using his cue to push the balls around. “Are you going to be a problem for me?”
“ I hope not.”
Utah racked the cue
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