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Zaiden Simmons had grown up surrounded by criminal activity. As a child, his parents were both incarcerated for dealing drugs, and he bounced from one foster home to another, always finding himself on the wrong side of the law. “It’s in his breeding,” a jaded juvenile officer once remarked to his supervisor. “Some people are born bad, and they’ll never change.”
At thirty-nine years old, standing 6'4" and weighing 230 lbs, Zaiden cut an imposing figure. No man intimidated him – except for Papa Samedi. Then again, everyone was scared of the mysterious voodoo priest if they weren’t following his orders.
Zaiden couldn’t help but wonder why Papa Samedi had trusted him enough to give him information about Juliette, especially since Ms. Martin seemed so precious to the old man. A nagging feeling told him that the voodoo priest was using him for some larger purpose he couldn’t yet fathom. But he couldn’t dwell on that now. He’d risk anything to get what he needed – even selling his soul if he had to.
Zaiden’s buzz-cut black hair barely covered the scars from head injuries he’d sustained over the years. In some places, the hair hadn’t grown back, but he usually wore a helmet or bandanna to conceal them. Besides, he kind of liked the rugged look. It helped with his business of intimidation.
Although he despised drugs, having witnessed their destructive effects on people in his life, Zaiden’s love for money often led him to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear when it came to dealing or distributing them. He had his principles, but everything was negotiable when it suited him. Just as now, he had no intention of harming Juliette – but if it came down to it, he would.
* * *
The midday sunwas beating down on the cracked pavement as Zaiden rolled into the sleepy town on his Harley. The engine’s deep, throaty rumble echoed through the narrow street, drawing curious glances from passersby. Dust kicked up behind him, creating a gritty haze in the otherwise stagnant air. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been given the right address.
This place was a far cry from the kind of town he’d expected to find a second-hand trader in, assuming that was her true profession.
The address he had been given led to a street bustling with bars and cafés, each establishment’s signage promising escape for those who entered. The area didn’t seem residential; there were no visible apartments. He wondered how Juliette managed to store all her belongings in a place like this. Perhaps she occupied one of the commercial spaces at the end of the block.
Zaiden slowed to a stop at the curb, the engine’s rumble subsiding into the low beat of a distant drum. He unfolded the crumpled note from his pocket and double-checked the address. His brow furrowed as he realized the local dive bar he’d parked outside of happened to be the same address he’d been given.
Fuck.
The place had an air of desperation about it, the kind of place where people went to forget their troubles and drown their sorrows.
He killed the big V-twin and swung his leg over the bike, the worn leather of his boots scraping against the asphalt. He removed his helmet, revealing his dark, sweat-dampened hair, and hooked the helmet onto the sissy bar at the back of his seat. Adjusting his Dirty Dog sunglasses atop his head, he squinted up at the faded sign hanging above the entrance.
“Last Chance Saloon,” he muttered, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Like a fucking western in Mississippi. I bet that appeals to no one.”
As he stepped inside, the dim lighting and smoky atmosphere engulfed him like a shroud. The hazy air did little to conceal the suspicion that hung heavy in the room. A handful of patrons hunched over the bar, nursing their drinks and casting narrowed, wary eyes in his direction. They wore cowboy hats and boots, giving the place a Wild West vibe that was equal parts comical and pitiful.
Zaiden walked up to the bartender, a grizzled cowboy with an unkempt beard and a crooked grin that hinted at a tough life. Even John Wayne, if exhumed and propped up against the bar, would have appeared more attractive. “I’m searching for someone,” Zaiden said, his voice deep and intimidating. “A woman named Juliette Martin. Does that ring a bell?” He was abrupt but the last thing he needed was to waste time making friends with people trying to live out a fantasy lifestyle.
He didn’t hold much hope for a bartender in a place like this to know of her. And even if he did, Zaiden was certain that any information he provided would likely come at a price.
Cowboy eyed him warily. “Maybe,” he replied cautiously. “What’s it to you?”
Zaiden leaned in closer, his eyes never leaving the bartender’s face. “I have some business with her,” he said, his voice chillingly calm. “There’s something she’s got that I need to get back.” Realizing his words might give the wrong impression and make the man feel compelled to defend Juliette, he quickly added, “It’s an item she purchased from a friend, and I’d like to buy it off her. A family heirloom.”
He could see his words struck a chord with the man. Perhaps he did know Juliette after all.
The bartender hesitated for a moment before asking, “Whatcha drinking?”
Zaiden was caught off-guard by the question. “Whiskey. Straight,” he told the man.
As the bartender turned away to get his drink, Zaiden scanned the bar. He couldn’t help but shake his head, baffled by the sight of people wearing western outfits in the middle of the day. It looked like a fucking B-grade movie set, that even a dead John Wayne would have passed on to remain in his grave.
Zaiden heard the sound of glass clinking as it was placed on the bar behind him. As he turned around, the bartender said, “That’ll be fifty.”
“Fifty?” Zaiden asked.
The bartender nodded, “Unless you only want the drink.”
Zaiden took out the bills from his vest and placed them on the bar. The bartender picked them up, counted them, and then grabbed a pen from beneath the counter. He flipped a coaster over and scribbled an address on it. Pointing to the security camera, he warned, “She stays safe, or you’re a dead man.”
Zaiden glanced at the camera, and the bartender reiterated, “Got that?”
“Yeah, I got that, man. I told you; I just want to buy back something that was sold to her. Nothing more,” Zaiden insisted.
The bartender wrinkled his nose as if he didn’t believe Zaiden, but he let it go. Zaiden downed the whiskey, picked up the coaster, and nodded a thanks before leaving the bar.
