Kirk Russell - Night Game

Marquez shone the light on his neck and stared into the darkness trying to see who was there. Holding the light on himself made him feel like a target. Two men walked down the road toward him, and he knew he’d done the right thing leaving the Kevlar vest and digital camcorder behind. One was big but light on his feet, fading to the side while his pale companion came forward with a garbage bag and a powerful flashlight. He dropped the bag on the ground and shone the light on it.

“Take a look,” he said, and when Marquez didn’t, “what are you waiting for?”

“You open it.”

“What are you afraid of?”

The background man moved in and showed a gun.

“We want you to take off your coat,” the pale man said.

“I don’t really want to.”

“Take it off anyway, but do it slowly.”

Marquez unzipped his coat, hoping Alvarez and Cairo had a clear view. They’d have to come out fast with their guns drawn. He handed over his coat and watched the pale man check the pockets, knead the sleeves and every inch of the coat before dropping it on the ground. The big helper moved around behind.

“Your shirt.”

“Right.”

Marquez took his shirt off and tossed it on the garbage bag, let the guy bend and pick it up. He guessed they’d been hired to come check him out and who knows what else if they found what they were looking for. It changed everything again. He ignored the urgency in the next order that he spread his legs, did it slowly, asking, “If you’re looking for a wire, it means you think I’m a warden. Why is this happening?”

The pale man squatted now, taking little time with the shirt, handing it up to Marquez while his partner carefully checked the rest of Marquez’s body. The garbage bag got opened, exposing dried bear galls.

“Get dressed. Take your bag with you,” the pale man said, then talking big, “You would have taken a walk with us if you’d been wearing anything.” He pointed behind him. “Up the road.”

Marquez put his shirt on, picked his coat up, and found the money was gone.

“Where’s my money? I’m not interested in doing business tonight.”

“You already did it. Take the bag and haul ass.”

“Not going to happen.”

“You leave it here, that’s your problem.”

“You tell him I want my money back.”

Marquez put his coat on and walked away. His legs felt stiff, awkward, and he knew it was possible he’d get shot. But each step took him farther into darkness, and when he looked back they were gone.

After they’d returned to the safehouse and debriefed, Marquez felt too edgy to call it a night.

“I’m going to take a ride into town,” he said. “Anybody want to come along?”

“I’ll go with you,” Shauf said. “I could use a drink.”

They drove past the Creekview Saloon and spotted Petroni’s orange Honda parked not far away. After a moment’s hesitation Marquez pulled over and parked.

“You sure you want to do this tonight?” Shauf asked.

“Yeah, he owes us some answers.”

The bar at the Creekview had been built to look like a big horseshoe, and they took a position along one side. Marquez leaned in to get the bartender’s attention. Three bartenders stood talking to each other, wearing black shirts carrying a gold emblem in the shape of a prospector on the pocket. Gold rush branding was a change he’d seen start in Placerville a few years ago. The original town name, Hangtown, appeared more and more on store windows.

He ordered drinks and then spotted Petroni sitting with a young black-haired woman at a table in front of a bandstand where a country singer was tuning up her guitar and bantering with the crowd. A waitress wearing cowboy boots, red tights, a short black skirt, and a red bandana around her neck leaned over Petroni’s table.

Marquez chatted with Shauf while waiting for their drinks. It was too noisy to unwind here, and after they had their drinks he wished they’d gone somewhere else. This wasn’t going to be the place to sit with Petroni. He clicked his glass against hers, and she asked, “Who are these guys across the bar?”

“The one with the thin blond mustache is Bobby Broussard, one of the cousins. He lives out there with Troy. I don’t know the other guy.”

The other man was also young but much tougher looking, powerfully built. On this cold night he wore a tight T-shirt under a loose leather jacket open wide enough to show off his pecs. His hair was short, gelled, bleached, his face flat, cheekbone planes too sharp, as if someone had screwed up a wood carving but kept going at it anyway. He became aware of them now. He leaned and said something that brought a leering smile to Bobby’s face.

Marquez took a sip of rum and said, “That’s Troy Broussard’s daughter, Sophie, sitting with Bill.” He turned, got the bartender’s attention, and asked, “Is Sophie working tonight?”

“She’s over by the bandstand with her boyfriend.”

“Oh, yeah, I see her now, thanks.”

Marquez lifted the rum again, and the bartender lingered, did he want another? Marquez did, but rum wouldn’t work for him tonight. He’d thought coming into town and cooling down would help, but the buy had been too disturbing. He glanced over, caught an arrogant expression on Bobby’s companion’s face.

Shauf turned her back to them and spoke softly. “They’re focused on Petroni’s table, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“Why is that?”

Maybe it was the novelty of a Broussard going out with a game warden, or maybe these two at the bar didn’t have anything else to occupy themselves with, Bobby like a schoolboy giving his girl cousin shit. Petroni’s head shifted just slightly, perhaps sensing the conversation out of his view at the bar, then he finished his drink and stood heavily. He gave Sophie a grim smile before heading for the bathroom.

“Arguing with her,” Shauf said. “Doesn’t anybody in this town get along?”

Petroni moved awkwardly around a young couple, the new jeans he wore too tight for his middle-aged gut, the wide leather belt more fitting in a western bar than here.

As soon as Petroni disappeared into the bathroom, Bobby Broussard started weaving his way to Sophie, his thin frame sliding between tables, a geeky, sleazy smile offered to women he brushed into, his thigh and crotch rubbing against them as he squeezed his way through.

Watching him, Marquez remembered a much younger Bobby working as a spotter on bear hunts, keeping an eye out for the law, a thin kid with bad skin and always running his tongue over his upper lip in a way that made you glad you didn’t know what he was thinking. When Bobby reached Sophie he tapped her on the shoulder and used his beer bottle to point at the bar where his friend stood smiling. Sophie turned, looked at the man at the bar, then raised her hand, and flipped him off as though there were no one else in the room. Shauf chuckled.

But then something more got said, and Sophie came out of her seat and stuck the same finger in Bobby’s face. Even the singer looked over as Bobby grinned, backing up like this was all good fun, and Sophie’s gaze returned to the other man, who toasted her with his beer and crooked a finger motioning her to come to him. A couple of women yelled at his gesture as if it offended them personally. Marquez heard the word “asshole.”

“I’m ready to go,” Shauf said. “Who needs this? You don’t, I don’t. Let Petroni have his midlife crisis. I’m fried, you must be too.”

“Let’s hang for a couple.”

Petroni came back from the bathroom, and by then Sophie had turned her chair so her back was to the bar. Petroni sat down and looked around at the nearby tables, but what he needed to see was Bobby Broussard’s companion crossing the room behind him. Within a few strides the man was there, and he jerked Petroni’s right shoulder from behind. Petroni just managed to get on his feet as his chair went over, his drink skittering.