Night Game by Kirk Russell Read Free Book Online Page B

coat,” the pale man said.
    “I don’t really want to.”
    “Take it off anyway, but do it slowly.”
    Marquez unzipped his coat, hoping Alvarez and Cairo had a clear view. They’d have to come out fast with their guns drawn. He handed over his coat and watched the pale man check the pockets, knead the sleeves and every inch of the coat before dropping it on the ground. The big helper moved around behind.
    “Your shirt.”
    “Right.”
    Marquez took his shirt off and tossed it on the garbage bag, let the guy bend and pick it up. He guessed they’d been hired to come check him out and who knows what else if they found what they were looking for. It changed everything again. He ignored the urgency in the next order that he spread his legs, did it slowly, asking, “If you’re looking for a wire, it means you think I’m a warden. Why is this happening?”
    The pale man squatted now, taking little time with the shirt, handing it up to Marquez while his partner carefully checked the rest of Marquez’s body. The garbage bag got opened, exposing dried bear galls.
    “Get dressed. Take your bag with you,” the pale man said, then talking big, “You would have taken a walk with us if you’d been wearing anything.” He pointed behind him. “Up the road.”
    Marquez put his shirt on, picked his coat up, and found the money was gone.
    “Where’s my money? I’m not interested in doing business tonight.”
    “You already did it. Take the bag and haul ass.”
    “Not going to happen.”
    “You leave it here, that’s your problem.”
    “You tell him I want my money back.”
    Marquez put his coat on and walked away. His legs felt stiff, awkward, and he knew it was possible he’d get shot. But each step took him farther into darkness, and when he looked back they were gone.

9
     
    After they’d returned to the safehouse and debriefed, Marquez felt too edgy to call it a night.
    “I’m going to take a ride into town,” he said. “Anybody want to come along?”
    “I’ll go with you,” Shauf said. “I could use a drink.”
    They drove past the Creekview Saloon and spotted Petroni’s orange Honda parked not far away. After a moment’s hesitation Marquez pulled over and parked.
    “You sure you want to do this tonight?” Shauf asked.
    “Yeah, he owes us some answers.”
    The bar at the Creekview had been built to look like a big horseshoe, and they took a position along one side. Marquez leaned in to get the bartender’s attention. Three bartenders stood talking to each other, wearing black shirts carrying a gold emblem in the shape of a prospector on the pocket. Gold rush brandingwas a change he’d seen start in Placerville a few years ago. The original town name, Hangtown, appeared more and more on store windows.
    He ordered drinks and then spotted Petroni sitting with a young black-haired woman at a table in front of a bandstand where a country singer was tuning up her guitar and bantering with the crowd. A waitress wearing cowboy boots, red tights, a short black skirt, and a red bandana around her neck leaned over Petroni’s table.
    Marquez chatted with Shauf while waiting for their drinks. It was too noisy to unwind here, and after they had their drinks he wished they’d gone somewhere else. This wasn’t going to be the place to sit with Petroni. He clicked his glass against hers, and she asked, “Who are these guys across the bar?”
    “The one with the thin blond mustache is Bobby Broussard, one of the cousins. He lives out there with Troy. I don’t know the other guy.”
    The other man was also young but much tougher looking, powerfully built. On this cold night he wore a tight T-shirt under a loose leather jacket open wide enough to show off his pecs. His hair was short, gelled, bleached, his face flat, cheekbone planes too sharp, as if someone had screwed up a wood carving but kept going at it anyway. He became aware of them now. He leaned and said something that brought a leering smile to