Page 51 of Thug

“Yesterday? About 7:00. Maybe 7:30. In time to get here for the meeting.”

“Today, goddamn it. When did you leave? Today?”

He shrugged. “Ten minutes ago.”

“You’ve been here licking that icing off your fingers for ten minutes,” I argued.

“Okay. Fifteen.”

I looked at the clock. It was 11:30. “Not like her to be late,” I said. “Hell, if anything, she’s always early.”

“That’s part of the problem,” he said. “I was telling her that yesterday. She needs to hire some help. She can’t run that fucker by herself. Maybe she’s sick, or something. Know where she lives?”

If what she told me on the previous day was correct, the only way she’d dip out on work was if she was dead.

“I don’t know where she lives.” I tossed the box of donuts in the trash and stood. “Let’s go to the bar. I’ll see if I can find something with her home address on it.”

He looked at the trash can, and then at me. “Why’d you toss those fuckers?”

“Because,” I said. “I’m done thinking about what it was I was thinking about.”

* * *

There were six hospitals that could be considered local, and Gray wasn’t in any of them. She wasn’t in jail, nor was her car in the city or county impound. Normally I wouldn’t consider a bartender’s absence any of my business, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that Gray was much more than a bartender in my eyes.

She’d been “missing” for all of twelve hours. The time and effort I devoted to finding her was no different than if she were one of the patched members of my club. I didn’t quite understand why I was doing what I was doing, but I did it without abandon.

It wasn’t driven by a feeling of love, loyalty, or necessity. Her presence in my life certainly wasn’t needed. I’d been a loner my entire life, and I intended on remaining that way. All that mattered was that she was safe. Once that fact was determined, I was convinced I’d turn and walk away, promptly returning to my life’s normal patterns. For the time being, however, I was on a mission.

Picking a lock with a lock pick set brings a tremendous amount of attention to the person picking the lock, even if they’re versed on the subject. A basic set of “bump keys” cost ten bucks. The deep-ridged universal keys will unlock ninety-nine percent of the front doors in the United States without bringing any attention to the person using them. Any onlooker sees the user unlocking the door with a key.

I opened Gray’s front door and walked inside like I’d been invited. A quick check of the one-bedroom home revealed an organized living room free of any family photos, a neatly made bed situated between two matching nightstands in a room that smelled like her, and an empty one-car garage. There was absolutely nothing in the home to indicate where Gray was, or where she might be.

My impromptu search only confirmed where she wasn’t.

It frustrated me that I didn’t know more about her. Our previous day’s conversation let me know there was nothing more important to her than having her bar succeed, and that only death would prevent her from her continued attempt to obtain that goal.

There was no denying that I was deeply troubled by Gray’s absence. Equally as troubling was why I was so concerned. My actions were clearly out of character, but abandoning my search wasn’t something I could fathom.

I stood in the threshold of her door and gazed blankly toward the street. I had no idea where I could go or what else I could do. I scanned through my recollections of the past few weeks one day at a time, searching for a morsel of information that might produce a clue. Upon reaching the night I met Gray, a light bulb illuminated.

On a mission that I was sure would prove fruitful, I blasted down one of Marana’s slummy side streets. A block before my destination I shut off my engine. I rolled to a silent stop in the alley behind the dilapidated six hundred square foot dope house.

I clenched my pistol in my right hand and snuck to the front of the run-down shack. The peeling paint, aluminum foil covered windows, and oil-soaked Harleys parked in the dirt yard left little to the imagination regarding what transpired on the other side of the decrepit hut’s walls.

I pounded my left fist against the front door.

“Open the fucking door!”

The door cracked open two inches. Between the door and the frame, the safety chain dangled. I planted the heel of my right boot against the door handle, snapping the chain and forcing the door against the face of the idiot hiding behind it.

I burst into the room. Tiny’s face was covered with his hands. He stumbled across the filthy floor, nearly losing his footing in the process. Before he could recover from my surprise entrance, I pressed the barrel of my pistol against his temple.

With each step he took to get away, I took one to maintain my upper hand. We came to rest against the wall that separated the kitchen from the front room.

Wide-eyed and shaking like a heroin addict on his second day of detox, Rooster stood a few feet from Tiny’s side.

“Back up, Rooster,” I snarled. “Or I’ll blow the fat man’s brains all over the walls of this shit-hole.”