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The stranger dips his chin in a curt nod before venturing away from their table in search of others to question.
As much as I love my work, I also like to detach from it. Especially after the week I’ve had. If he heads on over, I’ll give him a business card and tell him to show up at my door bright and early on Monday.
Right now, I just want to enjoy my whiskey. And if I’m being honest, this is probably the most amusing entertainment I’ve had in a while, watching him go ’round and ’round with these guys.
“You’re lookin’ for who?” Two-Packs-a-Day Ted wheezes out the question loudly. Not because he’s trying to get attention, but because on top of having emphysema, he’s also extremely hard of hearing.
Which is a nice way of saying deaf as fuck. Many of the guys who’ve been working with the big machinery down at the paper mill have major hearing loss as a result.
“I’m lookin’ for a guy named Mac.”
The man’s voice floats over me like a layer of velvet, yet it’s easy to detect the trace of steel lurking beneath it.
A guy named Mac. Aside from the amusement flooding me, I figure he probably heard about my salvage yard being the best around…and automatically assumed it’s owned by a man.
Deaton pipes up first. “I don’t reckon I know this Mac gentleman. How ’bout you, Ted?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I do.”
“Wait a sec, now.” This comes from Boone, who—right hand to God—has rocks in lieu of a brain. “Don’t you think he might be talkin’ ’bout—”
“No!” Ted and Deaton yell in unison.
On and on it goes. One by one, the man asks if they know a guy named Mac. They’re having way too much fun with the poor guy, but I can’t say I blame them. A stranger walks into a bar with a Hispanic accent asking for the male equivalent of someone they know, and people tend to clam up.
I’m just biding my time. Eventually, the man will venture over here, and I’ll have my turn.
“A guy named Mac?” Randy busts out laughing.
It takes a moment before Randy finally manages to answer, and when he does, his voice is drenched with so much amusement, I’m surprised he doesn’t drown in it.
“Nope, never heard of ’im.”
16
DANIEL
I’m in fucking hee-haw hell.
A weary-looking jukebox sitting in the far corner of the bar just finished playing “Sweet Home Alabama” only to roll right into another song about loving a bar.
Men sit around, most with a beer in hand. Some are double-fisting bottles but only using one as a spittoon for their chewing tobacco. Others are drinking whiskey or scotch, by the looks of it.
Every single one of them whipped their heads around to gawk at me when I stepped inside. And I get it. I’m so fucking out of place, in a sea of sleeveless shirts—some purchased that way and others made that way by hand—and stained jeans.
Some have belt buckles the size of dinner plates. I’d bet anything they’re compensating for having a tiny dick, because no real man needs to draw that much attention to his fucking crotch.
This joint makes me think of that movie Deliverance. A few dozen total men are here, all with weapons of some sort; mostly sheathed knives clipped to their belts, but there are a couple who have holstered pistols. Tossed in the odd mix is a lone woman sitting at the bar, long hair spilling out from beneath a backward ball cap.
No other females are to be found, and the one at the bar didn’t bother turning around when I entered and hasn’t done so since. It’s like she’s on a mission to ignore her surroundings and concentrate on her drink of choice. Fuck…the dynamics of this place are weird as hell.
Seeking people out and interrogating them isn’t new to me. When necessary, putting them six feet under isn’t either. But this time is different. It’s not for my gang. It’s not to protect our community.
It’s fucking personal. Which is why I can’t go drawing my gun to speed up the process of getting answers.
Another reason I don’t is because the moment I stepped inside this place, the bartender reached a hand beneath the counter. He didn’t do more than that but sure eyed me like he knew I was carrying. I’d bet my last dollar he’s got a shotgun loaded and ready to roll for any fuckers daring to start shit.
I sure as hell want to, especially after hitting dead ends with the others here, and now trying to make sense of what these two drunk asses are yammering on about.
