Domino by Ivy Black
Chapter Eight
Domino
Cosmo, Poe, Derek, and I roll to a bar at the end of Harrison called Ruby’s, but I can’t get my mind off that little stunner I spotted back at the coffeehouse. Sandy blonde hair just past her shoulders, brown eyes, milky skin that looked soft to the touch, and a petite frame that seemed to have curves in all the right places… the woman was fine. This is one of those times I’m glad to have the military training I did that allows me to notice the small details in the blink of an eye.
“You all right?” Derek shouts over the bikes to be heard.
I nod and flash him a thumbs-up. I was a little surprised Cosmo asked him to tag along, but I’m glad to have him here. Derek’s a good man to have if shit goes sideways. And given what we’re here to do, the probability of shit going sideways is extremely high.
Mike Dorsey is the owner/operator of Ruby’s after inheriting it from his own pops. The place has been in Blue Rock longer than any of us have been alive. Although it’s always been a fairly seedy dive bar, the place is an institution. The townies love it as do some of the tourists who roll through the city.
We pull into the lot and park our bikes. After taking off our gloves and helmets and stowing them in our saddlebags, we gather together. Cosmo is our road captain, so even Poe follows his orders out here, which means Derek and I are taking our cues from him as well. Obviously.
“Okay, so we’re looking for a guy called Rip. He’ll be in a blue ball cap with a blue flannel tied around his waist and a black Metallica t-shirt on. We’re not going in with guns blazing, boys,” Cosmo starts.
“Good thing. I didn’t bring one,” Poe says.
Cosmo looks at him incredulously. “How in the hell can you roll into a situation like this and not come strapped?”
“Not lookin’ to shoot anybody today. My experience is when a man’s got a gun on him, he tends to use it.”
He says the last and casts a critical eye at both Derek and me. We both grimace and pull our pieces, locking them away in our saddlebags. Poe gives us both a satisfied nod. Cosmo, on the other hand, is looking at us like we’re idiots.
“You guys are idiots,” he says, confirming what he was thinking.
“We don’t need a gun to do what we need to do here, bro,” Poe replies. “At least we shouldn’t. If we can’t take down one little crackhead with our hands, we shouldn’t be in the business of taking down crackheads. Especially, not within city limits. Besides, I don’t think Mike wants us shootin’ up his bar.”
Cosmo concedes the point with a nod. “All the same to you, I’m still goin’ in strapped. These crackheads always seem to have a gun on ’em.”
Nobody refutes the point because it’s true. Doesn’t matter though. We can’t get caught with a gun, and we certainly can’t shoot anybody. Not in town. Although our relationship with Sheriff Singer improved after we saved his daughter—Monk’s old lady—there’s only so much he’s willing to do for us. Covering it up if we kill somebody, even an asshole slinging dope in town limits, would most definitely not be one of those things.
Most of the people know we help keep the peace in Blue Rock. The shop owners all seem to appreciate that we deal with the troublemakers who haven’t gotten the memo and will call us when somebody steps out of line. That’s why we’re at Ruby’s. Mike gave us a call to let us know there’s a guy who’s been coming into his bar for the last week, quietly slinging dope, and asked us to handle it.
“Okay, we go in and observe first. We’re just four guys havin’ a beer until I say otherwise,” Cosmo tells us. “We want to make sure we have the right guy, and that he’s actually doing what Mike thinks he is. Not that I doubt him, but I want verification. We clear?”
The three of us nod in unison and it feels like we’re back in the military, getting our orders before an op. Our mission discipline kicks in and that familiar adrenaline rush starts to take over. I don’t know a single person who doesn’t get amped up before an op. And while this may not be the same as kicking in doors searching for Taliban fighters, there may be a very real threat beyond the doors to the bar all the same.
“Okay, let’s go.”
We follow Cosmo into the bar, and I let the door swing shut behind us. The bar is dim, likely to hide the fact that Mike doesn’t do a great job of sanitizing the place. The feel of something sticky on the bottom of my boots only reinforces that point as I walk to the bar. The wood-paneled walls are covered with old concert posters, American flags, and stickers from all over the country. There’s one wall that’s nothing but license plates from other states, and an old-fashioned juke box in the corner… although it’s routed through speakers that are inconspicuously hidden around the bar. Journey is currently playing to the half-filled bar.
There’s a long bar set against the wall to our right that’s chipped and nicked and usually gets a new coat of lacquer once every six months or so. Booths line the other three walls, and round tables that look a lot like the bar, are spread throughout the middle of the room. A doorway in the wall opposite the bar leads to a room with some pool tables and video games. I catch sight of the guy we’re looking for as he moves past the door. Giving Poe a nudge, I nod to the doorway.
“Target’s in the billiard room,” I say.
He nods and whispers to Cosmo. The four of us take a seat on the tall stools that front the bar and one of Mike’s girls, Jessie, a brunette wearing a halter top that accentuates her prodigious rack, drops bottles of beer in front of us. Mike is at the other end of the bar, on the phone, and gives us a nod.
“You boys are drinkin’ free today,” Jessie says.
Cosmo flashes her a grin. “We always drink free in here, darlin’.”
She gives him a wink and heads down to the other end of the bar. I take a long swallow of my beer and look over at Cosmo.
“So, how do we play this?” I ask.
He and Poe exchange a glance, some silent bit of communication passing between them. Both of them are wearing grins on their faces and turn back to me.
“Go try to score,” Poe says.
“Me?”
“We need to verify that he’s dealing. Best way to do that is to score from him,” Cosmo tells me.
“And we want to see how you perform under pressure,” Poe adds.
“What, you haven’t seen enough from me yet?” I ask.
Poe shrugs. “Life is always testing us in different ways. Consider this as us testing you in a different way as well.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
“You’ll finally be able to put those theater classes you took in high school to use,” Derek says.
“Shut the fuck up, Prospect.”
He gives me the finger, making me laugh. I take another swallow of beer and slam the bottle down on the bar. Getting off my stool, I walk to the doorway and step into the billiard room. Rip is there perched on the edge of one of the tables, talking on the phone. He looks over, but his eyes slide right off me. I lean against the wall, slipping my hands into my pockets, and wait for him to notice me. He finally looks up at me and I give him a nod.
“Yeah, lemme hit you back.”
He disconnects the call and slips the phone into his pocket. Rip stares at me for a long moment, sizing me up. He’s a short, lanky guy with acne-scarred cheeks, and limp, greasy hair. Rip doesn’t look exceptionally intelligent and I have to wonder what he’d be doing if he wasn’t out slinging dope. Probably flipping burgers.
“You Rip?” I ask.
“Who’s askin’?”
“Lookin’ for a taste of somethin’ good.”
“What makes you think I got what you’re lookin’ for?”
I shrug. “Word gets around.”
He licks his lips nervously and looks around. Rip looks unsure of me as he runs a hand through his hair, but the allure of money keeps him where he is rather than heading out the door like he should be doing. In his line of work, having a stranger roll up on you asking you to sell them some dope never ends well. These pricks are all the same… stupid.
“You a cop? Because by law, you gotta tell me if you’re a cop.”
Pretty sure that’s not how it works, but I pointedly look down at myself, at the way I’m dressed, then back up at him.
“Do I look like a cop? Seriously?”
“That’s what a cop would say.”
I snort and shake my head. “It’s what somebody who’s not a cop would say too, dumbass. Now, do you have some candy or not?”
He stares at me for a minute, swallowing hard. He’s clearly still on the fence about me, so I let out a long, annoyed breath.
“No, I’m not a cop,” I snap.
He frowns, but then nods as if he’s accepting my answer. Because you know, a cop would totally admit to being a cop when he’s trying to do an undercover drug deal. That makes total sense.
“So, like, what do you need then?” he asks.
“Whaddya got?”
He holds up a plastic baggie with white powder in it. A neon green smiley face is embossed on the front of the bag. Heroin, most likely.
“Fifty bucks,” he says.
“Come on, man.”
“Fifty. Take it or walk.”
I pull some cash out of my pocket and approach him like I’m going to hand it over. When I get close to him, though, I reach back then drive my fist forward. The sound of my punching him sounds like a baseball hitting an old leather mitt. At least until the crack of his nose snapping fills the billiard room.
Rip staggers backward, dropping the baggie as he covers his nose with his hands. Blood squeezes out between his fingers, spilling onto and soaking into his black t-shirt. But then, Rip reaches under the flannel that’s wrapped around his waist, and knowing what’s coming next, I close the gap between us. I lash out with my foot, connecting it with his hand. He yelps in pain and the gun goes flying across the room, hitting the ground with a clatter as I deliver another kick to his ribs, forcing another wheezing cry out of his mouth, the air driven from his lungs.
Reaching down, I grab him by the hair and pull him up. I drive my fist into his gut, doubling him over with a choked gasp. Pulling him up again, I lean close to him, forcing him to look me in the eye.
“Blue Rock is our town, Rip. There ain’t no dealing in Blue Rock. None,” I say, my voice low and menacing.
His lips waver, and he looks at me with fear in his eyes, licking his lips. But he tries to stiffen up. Tries to make himself look unafraid of me. It’s a weak attempt, but hey, kudos for trying, I suppose.
Snatching his hand in mine, I twist it awkwardly. He grunts, an expression of agony etched into his features. Giving it another hard twist, I force him to cry out.
“I’ll snap your fuckin’ wrist right now. But I won’t stop there, asshole. I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body.”
“What do you want?” he cries out.
“You’re going to empty all your pockets. All your cash. All your dope. Everything. And when you’re done, you’re going to get into your car, on a bus, or call an Uber, and get the fuck out of here. Forever. You are never going to come back to Blue Rock again. Ever. Do you understand me?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
I give his wrist another cruel twist and he screams like a little girl, then I give him a savage kick to the midsection and bring my fist down on the back of the neck, driving him to the ground. Rip curls into a fetal position and starts to cry. Kneeling down beside him, I search his pockets and clean him out. I take all of his drugs, all of his money, and a fancy switchblade to boot.
Applause draws my attention and I turn to see the guys standing in the doorway. Smiling to myself, I shake my head.
“Get over here, Prospect,” I say.
Derek comes over and I hand him all the baggies of drugs. He whistles low as he inspects the stash in his hands.
“Tell Mike to pour that shit down the drain. All of it,” I tell him.
“Yeah, okay. And you better knock that prospect shit off.”
He walks out and I reach down again, grabbing Rip by the hair. Pulling him up, he stumbles alone as I drag him through the bar. All of the patrons sitting around the tables are watching us with wide eyes as we go. And when we get to the parking lot, I shove him, then give him a kick in the ass, propelling him forward. He hits the ground with a grunt and rolls over, blood covering his face, looking like a beaten man.
“I see you in Blue Rock again, hell, if I even hear of you setting foot in this city again, I will kill you,” I tell him. “Do you understand? I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
He gets to his feet and stumbles over to some old beater and jumps behind the wheel. The boys come out and we watch him drive off in a cloud of smoke and squealing tires.
“Think he’ll come back?” Cosmo asks.
“Pretty sure he will.”
“Hope he doesn’t. You’ll have to make good on that threat if he does. You don’t, and he’ll never respect your word again. Nobody will.”
I get the point he’s making and nod. “Yeah, shouldn’t have gone with the I’ll kill you line right away.”
“Yeah, you need to give yourself a little wiggle room,” Poe adds.
I shake my head and laugh. I’ve still got a lot to learn. But hey, the important thing is, I scored a win for us. We got some drugs off the street and potentially got a dealer out of town, too. All I can do now is hope he doesn’t come back.
Looking over, I see Cosmo grinning. He’s holding a shiny chrome .38 revolver in his hand, admiring it.
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but I do recall saying these fuckin’ crackheads are always strapped.”
“Yeah, well, he never got a shot off, did he?”
“You’re lucky.”
“Nah. I’m just that good.”
He looks at me, that wolfish smile widening. “If you were really that good, he never would have been able to draw down on you in the first place.”
I laugh. “Don’t be an asshole.”
He shrugs. “It’s just so hard being right all the time.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Our job done, we mount up and ride back for the clubhouse. And as we pass the coffeehouse, I feel a pang of disappointment when I see that little stunner isn’t still sitting there.
