The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

I ASKED THE BARTENDER for another cup of coffee. His shoulders and chest had the solidity of concrete; the backs of his fingers were tattooed with illegible letters. He poured into my cup but set the coffeepot down on a towel rather than back on the stove. “What are you doing in here?”

“Waiting on somebody,” I replied.

“This isn’t a social center.”

“I didn’t mean to bother anybody.”

“Who you waiting on, kid?”

“They didn’t give me their names.”

He put the coffee back on the burner and picked up the towel and wiped the wet spot the pot had left on the bar. “Where you from?”

“Houston.”

“Where in Houston?”

“The southwest side.”

He gazed through the front door at the street. “The warm-up is on the house. Drink up.”

“You’re telling me to leave?”

He huffed air out of his nostrils and filled his chest with air. “Don’t complicate my day. That’s the operating rule here. Think you can abide by that?”

“Yes, sir. Have you seen any strange guys around?”

“What do you mean by strange?”

“Greaseballs.”

“This isn’t a cuddly place. That’s not a good word.”

“Guys who carry guns and shoot other people,” I said.

He threw his towel into the air and caught it, then walked away.

I watched the clock. Five minutes passed, then ten. The two nine-ball shooters stacked their cues and ordered draft beers and started peeling hard-boiled eggs at the end of the bar. The bartender was reading a newspaper he had flattened on the bar. I saw him look up and study something or someone out the front window. When I turned on the barstool, I saw a maroon Packard station wagon, one with real wood paneling and whitewall tires and chrome-spoked wheels; it drove to the end of the block and disappeared. The bartender folded his newspaper and walked toward me, trailing one hand on the bar top.

“A couple of guys out there have been around the block twice,” he said.

“The ones in the station wagon?”

He nodded.

“I don’t know anybody with a station wagon,” I said.

“They were in the alley a little bit ago.” I didn’t reply. He leaned on his arms. “They’re hitters. One of them was trying to see through the back door. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“You know Merton Jenks?” I asked.

“Everybody knows Merton Jenks.”

“Call him if things go bad in here.”

“Are you out of your fucking head?”

“I don’t think so.”