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Better than these rundown parks, but still no treat. Cold and damp and falling apart.
She speeds by the off-road that leads up to the shacks and, the rest of the drive to Jim’s Joint on the edge of town, Billie finds comfort in her bottle. With a “nipple lid” (Gigi called it that once, and Billie will never get over it), she’s drunk a full quarter of the booze before she’s parked out front of the old bar.
She doesn’t know if it’s the pit in her gut for Preston or the itchy unease under her skin for Cletus’ murder, but whatever it is, she’s drunker than usual when she staggers into the bar.
Already unlocked, the door is quick to slam shut behind her.
Lights are on, but they’re dim and hard to pierce through the dust in the air. Still, beyond the scarred brown tables, the bar lines the wall opposite, and a familiar tanned face lifts to look at her.
“You’re late,” Tonya chides in a sing-song—her go-to way of chastising friends, since she hasn’t got much of a backbone when it comes to Billie or Kate.
“You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?” asks Tonya.
Guess news didn’t travel all the way through the Southside this morning, then.
“Our old buddy, Mr. Fix It…” Billie says, her voice breathy from just the short rush through the parking lot in the early day’s heat. “He was killed last night.”
Tonya says nothing… But her face says it all…
Blank. Repeating the words in her mind.
Firm. Registering what they mean.
Creased. Worry trickling in for what that might mean.
Billie wanders to the bar and tosses her fluffy bag onto a stool. “Whole trailer park was busier than if Krystal Crackhead won the damn lottery. Cops everywhere. Carmine says she heard he was ‘butchered’.”
Tonya’s face tenses. Dimples cut into her full, round cheeks. “Good riddance.”
“Yeah, well, thought you should know—a lot of folk will be talkin’ about it today.”
Understanding softens her face. “Here.” Then she sets her jaw, firm. After a beat, she nods stiffly—athanks for the heads up.
Billie pours herself a shot. But she tugs out a second glass and fills it a generous amount.
She hands it to Tonya. “You might need this.”
Tonya doesn’t so much as blink before she’s grabbing the vodka and chugging it back. She slams the thick glass down on the bar and shudders.
Then—
“Fill the napkin dispensers,” she says. “Chairs off the tables, and make sure there are enough coasters out. I’m guessing we’ll be busy at lunch.”
For a heartbeat, Billie just stands at the opposite side of the bar, watching her life-long friend. But Tonya’s expressionless face doesn’t so much as shutter. She looks so totally unfazed.
Humming something curt, Billie pushes back from the bar, then drags herself off to the round tables with chairs stacked on top of them.
Time to work.
9
Doors unlocked, lights on, cook in the kitchen. But the Joint was as dead as Henry Maxwell.
With Cletus being murdered and all last night, Billie expected more of a buzz to hit the old tavern before the lunch rush. Instead, time just ticked by.
Tick,
