Free Shallow Grave-J Collins 3 by Lori G. Armstrong Page A

Mike’s ready for you.” He fl ipped locks, swung the door 88

    open and waited.
    Martinez said, “Hang on,” and pushed away from the wall.
    I scrambled away before he could grab me. Th e
    second that man put his hands on me I’d forget why it wasn’t the best idea on the planet for him to put his hands on me.
    Talk about pathetic.
    “If this is about lunch, forget it. I’ve only got thirty minutes left to learn how to make a proper whiskey sour.”
    Martinez didn’t even try to argue.
    M M M
    I’d actually told Martinez a little white lie; I’d been a bartender for a semester in college. Since that’s how I met my ex-husband, I’d completely blocked the unhappy memory and refused to talk about it. Period. To anyone.
    Big Mike didn’t say a word about me being such a quick study. To show my gratitude for his discretion, I schooled him on how to pull a perfect draft beer. Of course, we had to drink his mistakes.
    “What do you know about the set up at Bare Assets?
    Employees, customers, and all that jazz.”
    He rested his lower back against the cooler. “Busier than we are, especially on weekends. Diff erent clientele.
    89

    Four bartenders from 8:00 until close. Four to six cocktail waitresses. Th
    ree to fi ve strippers. Two to three
    bouncers and one deejay.”
    “Are Hombres members used as bouncers like they are here?”
    “A few are. Mostly Bare Assets is a good training ground for Hombres pledges.”
    “Pledges?”
    “Guys who’ve passed the fi rst tests of the Hombres membership requirements.”
    Tests? Membership requirements? “Like a country club?”
    Big Mike’s eyebrows squished together as he frowned at me. “You really don’t know anything about the Hombres club, do you?”
    “No. Martinez doesn’t talk to me about this kind of shit.”
    “Th
    at’s standard procedure.”
    “But under the circumstances, don’t you think I should know some of it?”
    He shot a look at Martinez’ offi
    ce. “Th
    at’s not—”
    “Please. Just the basic rundown. Th
    at’s all.”
    “Th
    e Hombres are fairly exclusive, we don’t allow just anyone to join. First step for possible membership is the interested party needs a recommendation from another club member. Th
    en background checks are done.
    90

    Followed by a probation period where we test them on several skills.”
    Hmm. I didn’t ask for elaboration on those skills.
    “If all goes smoothly, we have a pledge ceremony.
    For the next year, they’re basically apprentices — they do whatever we tell them to.”
    In other words: free slave labor. “And if they don’t do what you tell them?”
    “Instant dismissal. Th
    ey’re permanently ostracized by
    the members who recommended them. Biggest obstacle to completing the pledge year is family interference. Most pledges wash out before the probation period is up.”
    “Do you get many pledges?”
    He sighed. “Way more than we can keep up with.”
    His gaze snapped to mine. “It’s against the rules for me to tell you how many members are in the organization, so don’t ask.”
    “I wasn’t planning to. So, what happens after the year is up?”
    “Th
    e candidate gets to wear the offi
    cial Hombres
    patch and is a full-fl edged, dues paying member with vot-ing privileges and other . . . responsibilities to the club.”
    I chewed on that for a minute. “Let’s say someone gets patched in and after a few years wants to quit?”
    “Not an option. Membership is for life.”
    Yikes. I changed the subject. “So have you ever 91

    worked at Bare Assets?”
    “Not since I was a pledge eight years ago, and only if I’ve got no other choice. Most times I’ve been in recently have been because the bossman wanted to check up on things.”
    Pointless to ask how often Martinez showed up there. He owned it, he was a hands-on owner at Fat Bob’s, logic dictated he’d be the same with Bare Assets.
    “When I go work there, you really don’t think anyone will know who I am?”
    Big Mike