This is a bit that comes just after Carli's killed Stasi. When I wrote this as a a screenplay, I had Stasi falling 25 floors to the ground then cut to Carli smacking the pool balls.
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Wednesdays and Thursdays were usually quiet and easy, which suited Zeke fine. Some regulars would come in. Some buddies. And sometimes they'd talk. And sometimes he'd join them in a beer. And life would be good, for a moment.
But this particular Wednesday night, that's not how things were going. There was an energy in the room that troubled him, and it emanated from the woman playing pool on the table closest to the bar. She was tall, well-done in every way, thick blond hair cascading down her back. She wore a tight pair of jeans that emphasized her glorious hips and rear, and a loose shirt unbuttoned just fare enough to show off a nice set of breasts. High-end cowboy boots finished off the near-perfect ensemble. She was playing alone in a way that showed her body off, and which made Zeke wary. She was up to something; after several years at this bar, picking up on trouble had become like a sixth sense...and she radiated trouble.
But no one else seemed to notice, though Rhonda, the Cantina's waitress, did act like she wasn't there. Poor Rhonda. Plain hair, plain face, probably twenty pounds underweight to pull off the jeans-mini-skirt, tie-dyed t-shirt tied at the waist in a way to give her a midriff, doll-like boots on her feet, and heavy emphasis on turquoise jewelry on her wrists and around her neck. If a woman came in who wasn't attached to a biker or a jock, she had to be forced to serve them. And it looked like that was how it bout be, tonight.
Except it didn't look like the blond woman was ready for a refill, yet. She'd been nursing that beer for an hour as she played game after game. Zeke had no problem with that, at first, but then a couple of his buddies, Grady and Spit, had arrived.
Grady was one of those linebacker types who used to be in top shape but now was gone to seed. He kept his head shaved, was never outside without his sunglasses, and seemed to have nothing but t-shirts and crappy Wranglers to wear, along with an ancient pair of Dingo boots. Only his bushy eyebrows gave away the fact that he was red-haired. An ex-marine, like Zeke, he had been in a chopper crash that burned his hands and arms. He could use them, thanks to the surgeons at Brooke Army Medical Center, in San Antonio, and rehabilitation crew at William Beaumont, in El Paso, but only with limited success. Elaborate tattoos covered the scarring, right down to his nails, with a fleur de lis also tattooed, above each ear.
"Those hurt and bled like a motherfucker," he'd told Zeke over a couple of Dos Equis at a cantina on Avenue Lerdo, just across the bridge in Juarez. He swore the beers tasted better over there.
"Why'd you do it?" Zeke had asked, eyeing them.
"For the fuck of it," Grady had sighed. "Remind me what pain is." He flexed his fingers as much as he could. "Remind me there's still so much fuckin' pain in the world."
It was at Beaumont that Zeke had met him, while learning to use his new leg. Grady had just taken him to get his first post-op tattoo, to hide some of the scarring.
"It hurt much?" he had asked as he took another swallow of beer.
Zeke had just shaken his head. "I had a tatt on my leg. My calf. Knew what to expect."
Grady had chuckled. "You're a good kid."
"You ain't so much older'n me."
"Ten years, motherfucker. An' two lifetimes." He had leaned back to gaze at the slow-moving ceiling fan. "Ten years an' two lifetimes."
They had watched over each other, ever since. He was the one who had gotten Zeke the job behind the bar; he knew the owner from basic. Helped him set up in the trailer behind the place. Helped him learn to ride a bike, even with one leg. Now Zeke had been here going on ten years. Ten years of solitude and peace.
And blessed loneliness.
Grady lived in an old ranch house with Spit, who might turn out to be attractive if he would lose half the weight he was carrying...and not carrying well. Clothes a size too small. Hair long and always looking like it needs to be washed. Tattoos on his arms but nowhere else that anyone knew about. Well, anyone but his Rubenesque biker girlfriend, Katty, whose outfit was also a size too small and whose hair was so bleached, you knew it was sanitized.
Neither of them had ever offered up their real names, and Zeke wasn't one to care, and so it was what it was. They both rode Harleys and sported leather wrist bands and jackets and belts with buckles the size of Texas on them. It was a wonder Spit's didn't cut into his gut.
The three of them had taken up residence in their usual booth near the pool table, and Rhonda had taken their usual order -- Coors for Katty, Michelob for Spit and a bottle of Dos Equis for Grady. Spit had maneuvered them into the booth so he could watch the blond woman do her thing around the table, and chuckle like a growly hyena at her every move. Katty noticed and was not in a good mood, thanks to it.
Another red flag to Zeke.
Then Spit got up, snarling, "Gonna take a piss." But as he walked past the woman, he grabbed her ass and chuckled, "Sweet cheeks."
Before either Zeke or Katty could react, the woman whipped her pool cue up between Spit's legs.
He cried out, grabbed his crotch and fell over...then howled in pain. "Aw, fuck...fuck...my back...fuck..."
"Oh, shit," sighed Zeke as Grady went to Spit and helped him up, with Rhonda's assistance.
The woman stood there, watching them, impassive, cue held in a way that she could use it as a weapon, if need be.
"Now you done it," Grady said to her. "You hurt Spit's back, and him havin' to work, tomorrow."
"His name fits," the woman said.
Grady helped Spit settle back into the booth, where Katty swatted him, angry.
"Ow!" he yelped. "Baby, my back..."
But she wasn't having it. "It's your own damn fault, asshole."
Grady sighed and looked at the woman. Saw violet eyes gazing back at him and lips caught in a half-smile. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman look at him, like that, especially one who was actually nice to look back at.
"Now you know his name," Grady said. "What name fits you?"
She gave him no response.
"O-kay," Grady sighed, "Let's pay that game. What name fits me?"
She looked him over, like a jackal would eye its meat, and chalked her cue. "How ‘bout a game?" she asked. "Winner names names."
He held up his hands. "Ain’t so good with pool."
She smiled, actually amused. "Let's say I spot you a couple balls." Then she blew chalk dust off the cue.
O-KAY. Grady picked out a cue. Set his beer beside hers. Offered a drag on a joint...and she took it. And toked it. And held it for a nice long moment before letting the smoke drift through her pursed lips.
Grady actually shifted under his tshirt and jeans in a way that was filled with expectation. "Stripes or solids?" he asked.
She shrugged.
Grady felt a twinge of jealousy at how easily their fingers moved over the tiny keyboards. Hell, he had trouble typing on a regular computer. But then he noticed Laila, a biker chick with boobs and curves in leather everything, hair the color of cotton candy, was circling in on them. He chuckled. Those boys were about to find themselves on the ride of their lives, and their daddies' credit cards would soon be maxed out. He hoped Laila would take pictures; she loved controlling the little twerps.
He turned back to the woman, saw she was eyeing him, waiting, her mouth slightly open, her tongue poised just under her upper lip. He gulped, felt more than a stir in his dick, lined up too quick and shot...and missed. He was getting flustered, and also a bit pissed he'd worn briefs, today. Harder to show off the equipment, and while the rest of him was kind of sloppy, Grady was proud of the most important thing he had to offer.
She let out a sigh, casually leaned over the table and dropped one. Then she rounded it, completely, eyeing the balls as she chalked her cue. She stopped next to Grady, nodding. Gave him a side glance. Grabbed hold of his beer and took a nice, long swallow, her eyes never leaving his.
"Mexican beer," she said. "Good taste."
Then she leaned over the table, her hips nudging his, making him hold his breath in fear he'd scare her off with his giggles...and deliberately missed her next shot. She rose, gave a little girl pout and said, "Oops."
O-KAY!
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