Chapter 9

            They walked down the sidewalk until they came upon the development with the sign reading Missy's hanging above the door. The bar was busy. Voices bounced off the walls as drunken patrons shouted over the music playing from blown out speakers. A young bartender stood behind the counter, flitting from one customer to another like a hummingbird in a field of flowers. Herbert thought for a second he was in the wrong place. This bar was different from the one he had seen the previous morning. Then he spotted Blackjack sitting at a table, his long white hair swaying beneath his Panama hat as he threw his head back in laughter.

            “What're we doin' here?” Darius looked around, his eyes lingering on a gaggle of women nursing drinks.

            “Go grab yourself something to drink. I gotta track someone down.” Herbert handed Darius some money and started toward the back of the bar.

            “Hey,” Herbert said, coming to a stop at the table. Blackjack was sitting with several young men. He looked them over once then turned his attention back to Blackjack.

            Blackjack Robinson looked up at Herbert, his face flushed and eyes glossy. “Well, well, well. What do we have here? My favorite carpet-muncher...uh...cleaner.” He laughed and took a long drink from his beer. “Gracing us with your presence, are we?”

            “Don't act like you're surprised to see me.” Herbert strained to yell over the ruckus. His voice came out low and hoarse.

            “But I am. You've been in here twice in two days. That's surprising, isn't it?”

            Herbert eyed the men sitting with Blackjack. They were staring up at him, smirking over the rims of their glasses, their eyes bright with amusement. “I'm not in any mood for games right now.”

            “Sit down, Herbie. Cut loose. Have a drink. Oh, wait, I forgot. You don't do that anymore.”

            “Fuck you.” Herbert clenched his jaw. His fingers curled into boney fist.

            “Is that the best you got?” Blackjack laughed again. “You never had a way with words, Herbie. Even when you were drunk.” He held up his beer. “C'mon, have a sip.”

            Herbert snatched a handful of Hawaiian shirt. “Let's go talk.” He lifted a cackling Blackjack out of his seat and dragged him toward the back door of the bar.

            “Christ, Herbie,” Darius said, chasing after the two of them with his own drink in tow.

            The three emerged in an alleyway, the air cool and refreshing on Herbert's sweat streaked face. Blackjack leaned against the bricks and laughed as he dug a pack of cigarettes from his pockets. It died down to a snicker as he placed one between his lips and lit up. “I'm glad it's still just as easy to rile you up, Herbie.” He looked from Herbert to Darius. “Who's the kid?”

            “This is Darius. He works in the shop with me.”

            “I'm sure that's all he does. A young, supple boy like him.” Blackjack smiled around his cigarette.

            “Herbie, who the fuck is this motherfucker?” Darius furrowed his brow. “I'm about to smash this glass over his head.”

            “He's got some fight in him, doesn't he?” Blackjack grinned. He turned from Herbert to Darius. “My name is Blackjack Robinson. Maybe you've heard of me. I own this bar and I used to work with Herbie over there.” He cocked a thumb at a frowning Herbert. “And you'd do best to treat me with some goddamn respect. Herbie here can get away with it because we've got history. But I don't give a fuck about some charity case spook he picked up out of the trash.” Blackjack smiled a vicious smile. He seemed to sober in a span of seconds.

            Herbert looked at Darius to see the rage flare in his eyes.

            Blackjack seemed to take note of this as well. “Oh, you didn't like that, did you? Well, the truth fucking hurts. I can see you wanna hit me. Go ahead. Give it a shot. You wanna know why they call me Blackjack? You know what a blackjack is? It's a fuckin' club used to knock people out, bash their kneecaps in. I got my name by having one of those things broken over my head before I beat the shit out the motherfucker that did it to me. I got the skull of a billy goat and I'm twice as stubborn. So, go ahead, take a swing, but you sure as fuck better make it count or even your sugar-daddy here won't be able to help you.”

            Herbert didn't like the expression on Blackjack's face. It was one he had seen many times, a drunken lack of inhibition, a failure to suppress predatory instincts. Blackjack was much worse when he was drunk. Invulnerable to damage, a force of muscle and pain. He looked at Darius to see a similar visage of rage and impending violence. Herbert didn't like where this was going, so he pulled the pistol out of his jumpsuit. “That'll be enough from the both of you idiots. If either one of you throws a punch I'll put a bullet in each of your kneecaps.”

            “Where'd you get that peashooter?” Blackjack turned to Herbert.

            “Just a souvenir.”

            A low, scraping laugh came from deep in Blackjack's throat. “Is that a fact? I'll bet that thing doesn't even work anymore.”

            “Oh, it works. I put a bullet through some poor bastard's neck earlier today.”

            Blackjack stared at Herbert in silence, his brow furrowed as he tried to puzzle out whether he was lying or not. Finally, after some reflection, he spoke. “Your aim's going.”

            “That's all you got to say?”

            Blackjack shrugged. “Good for you. I guess you still got it.”

            “Don't play, motherfucker.” Darius spoke up.

            Herbert looked over at Darius. “I don't need your help.” He turned back to Blackjack. “I know it was you who put the hit out.”

            Drunken laughter erupted from Blackjack's mouth. Herbert tightened his grip on the gun. Anger crept up his throat. He clenched his teeth. “It's no joke.”

            “You think I put a hit out on you? For what?”

            “For asking the wrong questions. Nosing around where I shouldn't be. You're trying to cover your ass with this whole Roland shit.”

            “Oh my god, you gotta be kidding.” Blackjack clutched his sides and gasped in his hysteria. “That's a fuckin' leap right there. What do I have to gain by icing you?”

            “I'm a loose end. You know the cops are sniffing around me. It'd be a lot easier to manage if I was dead. If we were dead.”

            “Christ, Herbie. Sobriety has scrambled your brains. You'd think with a dead family you'd have some sense in you.”

            Herbert moved before he knew what he was doing. The tremor of impact ran up his forearm as the muzzle of the pistol connected with Blackjack's forehead. The old crook crumpled to the pavement. Blackjack pressed his palm to the gash in his head. “Jesus fuckin' Christ, what'd you do that for?” Blood ran down his face.

            Herbert looked from Blackjack's drunken bewilderment to Darius' nervous shock. He shrugged. “I was getting tired of you.”

            “Herbie, if you weren't holding that gun right now, I'd rip your throat out with my fuckin' teeth.”

            “It's a good thing I've got it then, isn't it?”

            “They should've put one between your fuckin' eyes, you miserable bastard.”

            “They almost did.” Herbert motioned to his arm, which was still wrapped with the bloodied rag. He looked at Darius. “We're leaving.”

            “What?” Darius looked down at Blackjack as he struggled to stand. “That's it? We're just gonna go like that?”

            “Yeah. There's nothin' for us here.” Herbert stared at Blackjack, his eyes smoldering.

            Blackjack stared back, shaking his head. “You're in the shit, now, Herbie. You just burned the last bridge you got.” There was something in his voice hidden in the rage. Sadness? Remorse?

Herbert couldn't be sure. He started backing out of the alleyway, keeping the gun trained on Blackjack. He stopped at the mouth of the alleyway with Darius behind him and shook his head. “You know, it didn't have to be this way.”

            “Whose choice was that, Herbie?”

            Herbert shook his head and started down the street with Darius at his heels.

            Darkened brick buildings streamed by, reddish smears in the smudged windows. Darius smoked in the passenger seat. Herbert slouched behind the steering wheel, a cigarette of his own hanging from his lip.

            “Man, that was fucked up.” Darius said, breaking the silence.

            “I know.”

            “That Blackjack guy...he can take a hit, huh?”

            “Yeah, he wasn't kidding about how he earned his name.”

            “We could've taken him...” Darius smiled around his cigarette.

            Herbert smiled, though he wasn't sure. Blackjack was tough as nails and drunk as a skunk. He had no restraint when he was drinking. In that state he became a rabid animal. Herbert remembered what it was like. He was the same way once.

            “You busted his head open, Herbie. I mean, I would've given him a face full of glass if I had the chance, but you came outta nowhere with that. Shootin' people. Crackin' motherfuckers in the head. Didn't know you was so hard.”

            “Never judge a book by its cover, D. You might just end up gettin' pistol whipped.”

            Darius laughed. “I guess so. I know not to fuck with you now. Definitely won't ever be showin' up late again.”

            Herbert smiled and the cab of the van settled back into silence. Darius watched a bum dig through the trash as they idled at a stoplight. They drove for several blocks before Darius turned back to Herbert.

            “Hey, you don't think any more shit is gonna go down, right?”

            Herbert shrugged. He stared straight ahead and clenched his jaw. There was always the possibility of there being another hit. There was an endless supply of gunmen and sadists in Carser City, all of them looking to make a quick buck. “I don't know. Probably not. I don't think so.”

            “Well, shit. You don't sound very confident. It's bad enough with the fuckin' police sniffin' around us. Now I gotta worry about gettin' hit?”

            “I don't think you have much to worry about. You're not the one who just busted Blackjack's head open.” Herbert looked over at Darius. “Listen, if something happens to me, I'm telling you now that it was his fault. I'm not saying go out and do something stupid like go gunning for him. Lord knows you're a shit shot. I'm just saying he's the one to watch out for.”

            Darius nodded solemnly and tapped ash from the end of his cigarette. “Aight.”

            “Not that anything is gonna happen to me.” Herbert added, trying to smile. He ignored the yawning fear in the pit of his stomach and pressed down on the gas.