Tuna Tango by Steven Becker

sounded Russian, though he couldn’t place it for sure. 
    The bartender was back, and set the wine glass down on the bar. He looked at Will as if he knew that he would be paying. Will nodded toward him and he walked away.
    “Thanks. My name is Jazmyn,” she said as she took a tentative sip and then downed half the glass.
    He looked at her, knowing it was an alias, but enjoying the sound of it all the same. “Where’s George?” he asked, glancing again at the door.
    “Gregori? We got in a fight. He threw me out of the truck in front of this place. I don’t have my money, ID, or anything.” She started to sob again.
    He glanced at her, not doubting that she had no money or ID; there was no place to put it. Her T-shirt and shorts were both low cut and tight. There was no room for any extraneous objects. Able to relax slightly, not having to worry about George barging through the door at any moment, he thought of another problem: He had no idea what to do. As if on cue, she took over the conversation.
    “That bastard. I am done with him.” She gulped the rest of the wine and looked at him.
    He knew she wanted another. And then she stared at him. His other head took over, and he started to rationalize. A couple more glasses of wine and maybe she would give him some information about George—maybe something he could use to get Kyle back. He signaled to the bartender, knowing he was lying to himself, but unable to stop.
    A fresh glass in front of her, she slid into the vacant seat between them. What now? His mind couldn’t help jumping to places he knew it shouldn’t be going. Sheryl was nowhere in his thoughts as he visualized them both on his sailboat. 
    He tried to concentrate as they made small talk, but couldn’t get the image out if his mind. 
     
    ***
     
    Dick sat in the car and waited for his nerves to settle. He glanced at the pot left in the baggie and did some quick calculations. It didn’t take long, and soon he was scooping the rest of the weed into the indentation he had made in the soda can and lighting it. 
    The smoke filled the small car as he exhaled. When the cloud finally cleared, after he had recycled as much of the smoke as possible, he realized he had just added to his problems. Without a supply of weed, he couldn’t function. How was he going to get Kyle back and raise the rest of Rucker's cash when he was on edge? 
    Will was working the beach angle, and he didn’t think there was much he could do on that front, besides get in the way. He had said he was not going to the police, but Dick couldn’t be sure of that. With a handful of bench warrants out for him, he couldn’t take the chance of them running his name. 
    May as well go back to Tampa, check out who was at the bar, and try and score some weed. If Will did get the authorities involved, he would at least be in another jurisdiction. Maybe that would give Will some time to find Kyle. He started the car and pulled out of the lot, noticing the gas gauge had less than an eighth of a tank left as he waited for a gap in the traffic.
    With enough of a buzz to hold him, the twenty-minute drive to Ybor City went quickly. The street was quiet, and he pulled into a space in front of the bar. It was close to last call as he walked into the club and glanced over at the two barstools he and Kyle had been sitting on only hours earlier. The bar was crowded, mostly with regulars and employees hanging out on their night off. He scanned the crowd, hoping to see one or two friendly faces who might front him a bag until the weekend, but his glance stopped on Sheryl, who was sitting alone in a booth at the end of the room. 
    With nothing to lose, he walked over and looked at her.
    “Hey, Dick.”
    “Hey,” he stalled. “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”
    “Sure. Get a beer and put it on my tab if you want. It’s about last call. Get me one too.”
    She was slurring slightly, but he was not going to pass on a free beer. He went to the