Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant Page B

back through the bar.
    â€œThis could get ugly,” I tell Pinch.
    â€œI’ve been in there.” He smirks. “It already is.”
    Despite everything that’s happened, I burst out laughing just as I push open the door.
    The roomful of men turn to stare, but when they see that it’s me, they all swivel back around and instantly find the interior of their beer mugs fascinating. All, that is, except one.
    Pinch squeezes my shoulder and whispers, “You leave a lasting impression.”
    The one exception is a Polish dockworker with a swollen and discolored finger, flattened nose, and blood-encrusted muttonchops.
    Pinch winks at the dockworker as we move past, and while scarlet blooms in every burst blood vessel in his cheeks and nose, Gerek makes no attempt to stop us.
    In the lobby, Warrick holds up his hands and mutters, “I didn’t do, do— I d-d-don’t know nothing.”
    â€œWhat room is she in?” I ask.
    â€œUh, uh, uh.”
    â€œI don’t have time.” I jab my thumb in Pinch’s direction. “Tell me now or my friend will remove your fucking spleen through your anus.”
    Warrick gulps and blurts, “Twenty-two, on the second floor.”
    I nod. “Is Lebed here yet?”
    Warrick gulps again and moves his head in the same useless gesture that doesn’t answer my question. I head for the stairs, deciding and/or hoping that he means no.

    â€œI like the spleen via anus threat,” says Pinch as we climb the stairs to the second floor. “Mind if I borrow that sometime?”
    â€œBe my guest.”
    He chuckles. “You surprise me, Dixie.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œThis,” he says. “You’re normally so passive, but I just saw you leave a room full of hard men quaking in their salty boots. I like it. You’d make a good contractor.”
    â€œUh, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
    â€œYou should.”
    On the second landing, I open the door and peer down the hall. There are no bouncers standing guard outside any of the rooms, which is likely because of the video surveillance inside. If anyone starts trouble, whoever monitors the cameras will sound the alarm.
    We head down the hall to Room 22. Outside, I stop and tell Pinch about the cameras.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be seen,” I tell him. “No point you getting on Lebed’s radar, too.”
    Pinch’s grin practically breaks his face in half. “Curiouser and curiouser, Alice.”
    I wrinkle my brow in confusion, but don’t want to waste time asking exactly what he means. Instead, I try the handle. The door is unlocked.
    Inside, Roxanne is on all fours on the bed while the drunken ox is mounting her from behind. The man still doesn’t quite appear to know where he is, as his eyes roll around his skull and ribbons of drool drip from the corners of his mouth. He’s operating on autopilot, pure primal instinct. He also has the hairiest ass I’ve ever seen outside of a zoo.
    â€œGet dressed,” I tell Roxanne. “We’re leaving.”
    She rolls her eyes at me like a teenager caught kissing a boy in her bedroom. “I told you, I’m working.”
    â€œRed Swan is on his way and he’s not happy.”
    Roxanne pales but tries not to let her fear show. The ox, oblivious to anyone else in the room, continues to thrust into her in a rhythm that would confuse Ringo Starr.
    â€œThis isn’t open for debate,” I say, cutting off any argument. “We’re leaving. Now.”
    She stabs a thumb over her shoulder. “And what do I do about him?”
    The ox shows no sign of finishing anytime soon. I turn to Pinch, who’s standing in the hallway.
    â€œAny advice?” I ask.
    He reaches into his pocket and tosses over a scuffed leather blackjack. I catch it and instantly feel the weight of a lead core surrounded by dense sand. Pinch points to a soft spot just behind his