good job of disappearing of late. He still wouldn’t tell me where he disappeared to, but I would wear him down eventually and get to the bottom of it.
Rounding out the ten was another good friend of mine from Los Angeles, park ranger Jack Carter, who might have the coolest job of all of us. He had a cute daughter who may or may not be smarter than all of us.
“All of you are dead,” said a big guy in the front row. The big guy might have been drunk.
“Who said that?” asked Numi.
“I did, motherfucker.” The guy stood and faced the Nigerian. “Big man with your gun.”
I watched Numi step around the fire, slip his gun behind him in his waistband and hit the big guy even harder than I might have hit Steel Eye. We all watched the guy tumble head over ass—and very nearly into the fire. When he was done tumbling, he didn’t move. He might have been dead. No one seemed to care.
“Now.” I grinned at this motley gang, both mine and the Devil’s Triangle, as I released Steel Eye, who spun around and faced me. “Do we have an agreement?”
The man with the washed-out eye studied me closely, then looked at my rag-tag gang, each wielding their preferred weapon, and each looking ready to use it. Finally, he nodded. “We do, and you can go fuck yourself.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said.
t was an hour or so later, and we were at a place called Patty’s, a dive bar a few dozen miles away, just outside of Palm Springs.
Monty the ghost hunter was playing darts with Nick Caine and Ishi. All three, I thought, could use some work on their technique. Jack the Park Ranger and Roan my disappearing investigator friend were taking it to a few unsuspecting drunks at the pool table. I happened to know that Jack and Roan were better than most at billiards, although I’ve been known to give them a run for their money. Max Long, the private eye out of Mystic Falls, was currently doing his damndest to impress a pretty young waitress. His smile might have been winning her over. Detective Sherbet had left after a few drinks. I was about to make a joke about drinking and driving, until I remembered that drinking and driving wasn’t very funny. Sherbet patted me on the shoulder as he slipped out. He looked older than I remembered, and far more tired. It might have been well past his bedtime. Aaron King left soon after. Earlier, Aaron had seemed a little too eager to jump on stage for his turn at karaoke, belting out “Love Me Tender.” That he had sounded exactly like Elvis Presley concerned me more than it probably should have.
Now there were four of us at the bar, drinking, our elbows up on the scarred, aged wood. We could have been cowboys from days of old. But we weren’t. We were private eyes and thugs, and damn good at both. I was drinking Blue Moon Pale Ale and remembering fondly my detective friend out of Boston, a big guy named Spenser, who was, last time I checked, nearly as tough as me, although I wouldn’t want to mess with his friend Hawk.
Private eyes are a weird breed. We come in different shapes and sizes. Some of us are brawlers. Others are computer nerds. All of us live on the fringe, much like those bikers. We just follow the law a little more. Not always, granted. But usually.
Spinoza was sipping water. My old friend had given up the hard stuff long ago, after the accident with his son. I would have given it up too. Spinoza, the smallest of all of us, was leaning back against the bar, an elbow propped up behind him, watching Max work his magic on the waitress. Or trying to. Spinoza gave the impression of not listening, or of being easily distracted. I think that was his M.O. I knew the little bastard was hearing everything within twenty feet of him. Occasionally, he and Numi commented on Max’s pick-up technique.
“That won’t be the end of it, you know.” Sanchez sat next to me.
“I know,” I said.
“Some will come looking for you.”
“I know that, too,” I said.
“You gave Steel
Rounding out the ten was another good friend of mine from Los Angeles, park ranger Jack Carter, who might have the coolest job of all of us. He had a cute daughter who may or may not be smarter than all of us.
“All of you are dead,” said a big guy in the front row. The big guy might have been drunk.
“Who said that?” asked Numi.
“I did, motherfucker.” The guy stood and faced the Nigerian. “Big man with your gun.”
I watched Numi step around the fire, slip his gun behind him in his waistband and hit the big guy even harder than I might have hit Steel Eye. We all watched the guy tumble head over ass—and very nearly into the fire. When he was done tumbling, he didn’t move. He might have been dead. No one seemed to care.
“Now.” I grinned at this motley gang, both mine and the Devil’s Triangle, as I released Steel Eye, who spun around and faced me. “Do we have an agreement?”
The man with the washed-out eye studied me closely, then looked at my rag-tag gang, each wielding their preferred weapon, and each looking ready to use it. Finally, he nodded. “We do, and you can go fuck yourself.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said.
t was an hour or so later, and we were at a place called Patty’s, a dive bar a few dozen miles away, just outside of Palm Springs.
Monty the ghost hunter was playing darts with Nick Caine and Ishi. All three, I thought, could use some work on their technique. Jack the Park Ranger and Roan my disappearing investigator friend were taking it to a few unsuspecting drunks at the pool table. I happened to know that Jack and Roan were better than most at billiards, although I’ve been known to give them a run for their money. Max Long, the private eye out of Mystic Falls, was currently doing his damndest to impress a pretty young waitress. His smile might have been winning her over. Detective Sherbet had left after a few drinks. I was about to make a joke about drinking and driving, until I remembered that drinking and driving wasn’t very funny. Sherbet patted me on the shoulder as he slipped out. He looked older than I remembered, and far more tired. It might have been well past his bedtime. Aaron King left soon after. Earlier, Aaron had seemed a little too eager to jump on stage for his turn at karaoke, belting out “Love Me Tender.” That he had sounded exactly like Elvis Presley concerned me more than it probably should have.
Now there were four of us at the bar, drinking, our elbows up on the scarred, aged wood. We could have been cowboys from days of old. But we weren’t. We were private eyes and thugs, and damn good at both. I was drinking Blue Moon Pale Ale and remembering fondly my detective friend out of Boston, a big guy named Spenser, who was, last time I checked, nearly as tough as me, although I wouldn’t want to mess with his friend Hawk.
Private eyes are a weird breed. We come in different shapes and sizes. Some of us are brawlers. Others are computer nerds. All of us live on the fringe, much like those bikers. We just follow the law a little more. Not always, granted. But usually.
Spinoza was sipping water. My old friend had given up the hard stuff long ago, after the accident with his son. I would have given it up too. Spinoza, the smallest of all of us, was leaning back against the bar, an elbow propped up behind him, watching Max work his magic on the waitress. Or trying to. Spinoza gave the impression of not listening, or of being easily distracted. I think that was his M.O. I knew the little bastard was hearing everything within twenty feet of him. Occasionally, he and Numi commented on Max’s pick-up technique.
“That won’t be the end of it, you know.” Sanchez sat next to me.
“I know,” I said.
“Some will come looking for you.”
“I know that, too,” I said.
“You gave Steel
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