When Last Seen Alive by Gar Anthony Haywood Read Free Book Online

Frerotte said, the smile still visible on his face. “But that ain’t no reason to be insulting.”
    The closed straight razor was in his right hand now. No one had seen him reach for it, it had just appeared there.
    “Put that goddamn thing away, Jack,” J.T. said.
    “You better do what the man says,” Cowens agreed. More respectful of Frerotte, perhaps, but still not smart enough to be afraid of him.
    Gunner eased his way out of the booth and stood up, finally convinced that Cowens was oblivious to Frerotte’s identity.
    “You know what your problem is, brother?” Frerotte asked Cowens, not even showing J.T. the courtesy of a glance. “Too much muscle. Shit’s got you thinkin’ you’re indestructible.”
    No one Frerotte’s size should have been so capable, but he flicked the razor at Cowens’ face and withdrew it again almost faster than the naked eye could register the motion. A huge chunk of flesh took flight and landed at J.T.’s feet on the other side of the bar, as Cowens howled and brought both hands to his face, trying to stanch a flow of blood his fingers could barely abate.
    “But see? You ain’t indestructible,” Frerotte said, smiling now not to disarm Cowens, but to torment him.
    “Goddamnit, Jack!” J.T. shouted, before bending over to pick up the bloody brown nub that had once been the better half of Cowens’s nose.
    Cowens was still screaming in horror, tears and blood running down his hands, as his woman rushed over to him, begging somebody, anybody, to go get her a towel. J.T. scrambled around the bar, ushered her and Cowens into the back where his office and private bathroom lay. That left Gunner and Del alone to watch Frerotte clean his razor with a bar napkin, performing the task as nonchalantly as a man setting the proper time on his watch.
    “Put that fucking thing away, Jack,” Gunner said.
    Frerotte looked up to see the investigator standing just outside of his reach, eyes set hard like somebody braced for war. His cousin Del stood right beside him, his expression equally determined, the two of them creating a united, if unimposing, front. The grin that had left Frerotte’s face momentarily returned, only a little lighter and less venomous than before.
    “You talkin’ to me, Gunner?” Frerotte asked.
    “Yeah, I am. Fold the goddamn machete up and put it in your pocket. May take the cops a while to get here, and I don’t feel like looking at that thing while we’re waiting.”
    “You ain’t gonna have to. I’m leavin’.”
    Gunner shook his head.
    “Oh, I see. You gonna make me stay, is that right? You and your little brother there?”
    “That all depends on you. I don’t want to mix it up with you, Jack. We aren’t friends, but we aren’t enemies, either. I’d like to keep it that way, if we can.”
    “Then stay the hell out of my business.”
    “You mutilate a man in my presence, I figure that is my business.”
    “Then you figure wrong. What the hell you thinkin’ about, gettin’ in my face like this? Are you strappin’? Is that it?”
    “Put the knife away, Jack,” Gunner said again. Knowing even as he did so that evading Frerotte’s question was as good as answering it: No, he wasn’t carrying a gun tonight.
    “I tell you what,” Frerotte said. “I’m either gonna see what you had for breakfast this mornin’, or what you got for me. One or the other.”
    The big man took a step in Gunner’s direction.
    “Stop right there, motherfucker,” J.T. said.
    He was back behind the bar, training the shotgun he always kept anchored to a shelf beneath it on Frerotte’s ample gut. Even in his agitated condition, Frerotte could see that this man of little patience had no more patience left for him.
    “Get the fuck outta here, and don’t come back,” J.T. said. “I ever see you in my place again, I’m gonna empty this motherfucker on you first, and ask you to leave later. You hear what I’m sayin’?”
    Frerotte examined the barkeeper’s face