Free Quiver by Peter Leonard Page A

the bar, ordered a vodka, took his drink into the men’s. DeJuan followed him in, only two guys in there and watched him take out a coke vial, do a one on one.
    He saw DeJuan looking at him and said, “You a cop?”
    DeJuan said, “I look like a cop?”
    “Want a bump?”
    DeJuan said, “Amber say you’re looking for a contractor.”
    Man said, “What’re you talking about?”
    DeJuan said, “Looking for somebody to fulfill a contract is what I understand.”
    He put the little black spoon up to his nose and snorted it up his left nostril, then his right.
    “Got somebody around, you don’t want around no more.”
    He pinched his nose and snorted hard and screwed the top back on the vial and put it in his shirt pocket. “Now’s not the time. Maybe we can meet somewhere, discuss a business arrangement.”
    DeJuan liked that, the man talking about it in his serious business voice now. He wrote his phone number on a piece of paper, handed it to him. “My private line. Call when you’re ready to talk.”
    DeJuan went through the door back into the smoky nightclub, Thornetta Davis doing “I Ain’t Superstitious,” belting out the lyrics as DeJuan passed in front her, checking out the country club dudes dancing with their ladies, if you could call it that, stiff moves and no rhythm like they dancing to some other song.
    * * *
    DeJuan was robbing a 7-Eleven the next morning when his cell phone rang. It was the dude with the hair.
    He said, “Hey, this is Marty, can you meet me in the parking lot of Bed Bath & Beyond on Sixteen Mile in thirty minutes?”
    At first, DeJuan had no idea who this dude Marty was, thinking it was a wrong number, but then he recognized his voice.
    DeJuan said, “I’m kind of busy at the moment, can you give me an hour?” It was a shocker. DeJuan would’ve bet his diamond pinky ring he’d never hear from the dude again. He glanced down at the 7-Eleven manager lying on the floor in his green vest, hands and feet wrapped in duct tape—angry sawed-off little dude. Before DeJuan taped his mouth, manager Mr. Richard Ferguson said 7-Eleven would prosecute him to the full extent of the law and did he want to reconsider and turn himself in?
    “Yeah,” DeJuan said, “Straight up, I want to turn myself in. You’re such a bad ass, I’m worried.” Did he want to turn his self in? The fuck was wrong with his head?
    DeJuan had come in the back door. Walked up, there was a dude named Russ—Russ smoking out behind the store when DeJuan approached, placed the barrel of his SigSauer Nine againstRuss’s cheek, said, “Break over, motherfucker, get back to work.”
    He dropped his cigarette and DeJuan walked him through the stockroom into an office. There was a desk with a phone and a bank of TV monitors that showed different parts of the store. There was a guy behind the counter working the register.
    DeJuan said, “Who’s that?”
    Russ said, “The manager, Mr. Ferguson.”
    “Tell Mr. Ferguson, get his ass in here, you got an emergency needs his immediate fucking attention.”
    Russ grinned. “He’s not going to like this.”
    After DeJuan secured Mr. Ferguson, he had Russ show him how to turn off the video cameras. Then he tied Russ up, put him in the stockroom.
    He was cleaning out the register—look like about $1,700—when a customer come in, old lady, had something in her hand, coming toward him. He closed the register and turned toward the woman. “How you doing? Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
    The woman held up a carton of cottage cheese and said, “I want my money back.” She pulled the top off and pointed to a green circle of mold. “Know what that is?”
    DeJuan didn’t like her attitude, old bag coming ingetting in his face, fucking with him ’cause she think the customer always right. He picked up the cottage cheese, read the small type on the back, found what he was looking for. “Look here,” DeJuan said. “See, it expire.”
    Old lady look like she going to throw