Matt Hilton: Judgement and Wrath

The bartender moved towards me reluctantly. He glanced around his clientele, as if by serving me he was betraying their creed. Not that he looked the type to worry about people's feelings. He was a massive man in one of those cut-off leather vests designed to show the size of his biceps. He had a black star inked into the rough skin beneath his right eye, and a scar that parted his bottom lip and ended somewhere in the braided beard on his chin.

'Don't want any trouble in here, mister,' he said as he set down a beer in front of me. 'I suggest you drink up and get on your way.'

Holding his gaze, I asked, 'Is that what you call Southern hospitality round here?'

'No,' he sneered, 'in these parts we'd call that good advice.'

Besides the long hours I'd already put in at the wheel since leaving Tampa, I could foresee a long night. A relaxing drink would have helped my mood. Maybe a little pleasant conversation would have helped, too. Didn't look like I was going to find either in here.

'Thanks for the heads up,' I said.

Flicking dollars on the bar top, I stood up and walked away, carrying my drink. It felt warm in the glass. By contrast, the barkeep's gaze on the back of my head was like ice.

Passing a group of men sitting at a table, I inclined my chin at them. They looked back with the dead eyes of men wary of the law. One of them shivered his overdeveloped pectoral muscles at me and they all sniggered.

In the back corner of the bar sat a man as incongruous to this setting as I was. A small bird-like man with nervous eyes and a way of oozing sweat through his hair without it moisturising the dry skin on his forehead. His right hand was in continuous motion, as though fiddling with something small in his palm. I may have caught a flash of metal, but his hand dipped to his coat pocket and it was gone.

Without asking his permission, I placed my beer on the table and took the chair alongside him. The barrel made it awkward to sprawl, so I leaned forward and placed my elbows on the planks. I turned and studied the man but he continued to watch the barroom as though fearful of who might walk in next.

'When you said I'd know you when I got here, I see what you meant,' I said. 'You don't strike me as the type who hangs out in biker clubhouses.'

'We agreed on this place for that very reason,' the man said. 'It isn't as if anyone I know is going to be here.'

'It wasn't a good idea,' I told him. 'If you wanted anonymity, you should have chosen somewhere where you'd blend in. Where we'd blend in. Check it out; we're on everyone's radar.'

Maybe the bartender's advice wasn't so bad after all.

'We should go,' I told him.

The men gathered at the table further along had turned their attention to the spectacle we presented sitting in their midst. They didn't seem pleased, as if we spoiled the ambient testosterone.

The man wasn't listening. He dropped a hand from the table and dug beneath a folded newspaper. I saw the corner of an envelope.

'Everything you need is in there.' He quickly grabbed at his own drink, taking a nervous gulp. 'The balance will be paid as soon as I get the proof that Bradley Jorgenson is no longer a threat to me or any of my family.'

Sighing at his amateurish game of subterfuge, I left my arms resting on the table. It gave me cover for when I dipped my right hand under my coat and caressed the butt of my SIG Sauer P228.

'I'm not sure I want the job,' I said to him.

The man stiffened.

'I'm not who you were expecting,' I said.

He finally glanced at me and I knew what he was thinking. Is this a set-up? Was I a cop like everyone in the damn bar thought?

'You can relax, Mr Dean. I am Joe Hunter.' I folded my fingers round the butt of my gun, placing my index finger alongside the trigger guard. 'What I mean is I'm not a hit man.'

'Jared Rington told me that you would help,' Richard Dean whispered harshly.

'I will help,' I reassured him. 'I'll get your daughter away from Jorgenson. But I'm not going to kill the man without any proof that he's a danger to her.'

Dean nodded down at the envelope. 'Take it. You'll see what I mean. All the proof is there.'

There was movement among the men at the next table. One man with jailhouse tats stood up. He picked up his beer, held it loosely in his hand. He gave me a look that said we'd outstayed our welcome. He sniffed loudly, then jerked his head at the two men nearest him.

Oblivious, Dean said, 'Please, Mr Hunter, I need you to get my daughter away from that monster. If it means killing him to do that… well… I'll pay you any price you want.'

'Pass me the envelope,' I told him. 'Under the table. I've got your phone number. I'll be in touch with you, let you know my decision.'

Dean had panic in his eyes. Whether it was about relinquishing the cash already in the envelope without a firm agreement, or because there was a real possibility I was going to do as he asked, the nerves got a grip of him. He wavered, his fingers plucking at moisture on his glass.

'Two seconds and the deal is off,' I warned him.

He quickly slipped the envelope into my outstretched left hand.

'OK. Now go.'

He opened his mouth and I gave a slight shake of my head. Suddenly he was aware of the Aryan Brotherhood approaching us. Coughing his excuses, he started from his seat, dodging round the tattooed man and his two compadres. They heckled him but allowed the little man to go.

Pushing the envelope into my waistband, I stood up.

'I'm going, guys. You can relax.'

The man with the jailhouse tats barred my way. He lifted a grimy nicotine-stained finger to my chest.

'You're not welcome here.'

'Didn't you just hear what I said?'

'Can't say I did. What is that funny accent?'

I get remarks like that occasionally. Comes with being English. And northern to boot.

'Look, guys, you've caught me in an awkward predicament,' I said to Tats. 'You don't want me here; I don't want to be here. Truth is, normally I wouldn't sully myself by entering a shit hole like this. But here I am.'

My words had the desired effect.

I got a laugh.

Stepping forwards, I found they parted for me.

That should have been it. Playing on the paradox of self-deprecating humour, I should have got myself out of Shuggie's Shack without any injuries. The problem was two things got in the way.

First, Tats' question: 'What did that little freak hand you under the table?'

Second was the surly mood I'd been in when I arrived. Which wasn't helped by the bullshit Richard Dean had subsequently laid on me.

'None of your fucking business,' I told him pleasantly.

The jukebox was spitting out heavy rock music. Ear-jarring stuff, but expected in a place like this. It played on. If there'd been a pianist in the bar he'd have stopped at that moment.

'You're in my place,' Tats pointed out. 'That makes it my business.'

'Oh, so you must be Shuggie, then?' I swept my gaze around the barroom. Shook my head at what I saw. 'You know, place like this dump, you should be ashamed of yourself.'

'I ain't Shuggie, asshole. And that's not what I meant.'

'Yeah, I know what you meant.'

'I own this place. I own what goes on under this roof.' He stuck out his grimy hand a second time. 'Hand it over.'

I shrugged.

'OK.'

The SIG was between his eyes before the smirk had fully formed on his lips.

Chairs scraped and there was a chorus of shouts as just about everyone leapt to their feet, pulling out guns of their own. A couple of the more delicate customers headed for shelter.

It was like DefCon Five had just been announced and anarchy was the new world order.

It kind of matched my mood.

'This is how it's going to be,' I said. My words were for everyone in the room. 'Everyone relaxes, puts away their weapons and gets the hell out of my way. The alternative is that Biker Boy will be throwing his very own wake in the near future.'