Free Shot of Tequila by J. A. Konrath

Marty got from some top dog in the mob hierarchy.
    Marty was also prone to summon Tequila during the wee hours because one of the other guys was sick and couldn’t play bodyguard, or because Marty just caught a line on some big debtor whom they hadn’t been able to find.
    Tequila didn’t think it was any of those, though. Tonight was Super Bowl night. It probably had something to do with that.
    Like most around-the-clock employees, Marty’s collectors rotated work details on holidays. That way none of them had to work two Christmases, or New Year’s Eves, or Thanksgivings, in a row. Super Bowl Sunday was considered a holiday as well, and Tequila had worked last year’s, making him exempt this time around. He should have gotten the night completely off, but Marty had gotten a fix on Billy Chico, and sent his only available collector to track him down. It wasn’t a paid holiday like it should have been, but it beat sitting in that steel vault for six hours while Marty’s accountants counted the day’s take fifteen times each.
    Tequila reached the lobby and took the door to the parking garage. Frank the doorman gave him a friendly nod as he walked past. He disengaged the car alarm with the device on his key ring, which also opened the doors. The yellow metal smiley face keychain he’d gotten from Sally seemed to wink at him as he started the car. Her birthday was coming up in a few weeks. He’d have to think of something nice to get her.
    Once again he had to honk at the watchman, who didn’t open the garage door because he’d been sleeping. Tequila decided he wouldn’t let it slide this time. He’d complain to the association and get the man fired. What if there were some kind of emergency, especially with Sally?
    He drove out into the night, opening his windows and letting the frigid atmosphere slap at him. Spill was only ten blocks away, and he parked in the alley around back. He buried the gun barrels in the bottom of a nearby Dumpster, making sure the prints were wiped off first, and placed some boxes over them.
    The club was located on the first and second floor of a ten story office building, which Marty owned. When Marty had toyed with the idea of opening a dance bar, he’d been able to get this entire building for less than what it would have cost to build a club from scratch. The remaining floors he rented out to a few legitimate businesses, and kept the rest for himself.
    Tequila went around to the front of the building, where a line of people waited to get in, freezing in their miniskirts and dago tees. Looking good was more important than keeping warm at a trendy club like Spill . Tequila walked past the line and nodded at the doorman, who was scrutinizing a young blonde girl’s ID with a penlight. It should have been Terco or Slake at the door, as Leman and Matisse were on money guard duty tonight, but instead it was O’Neal, one of the bartenders. Terco and Slake had probably been pulled away to deal with whatever the emergency was.
    O’Neal gave Tequila a mean face for cutting in line until he noticed who it was, and then the mean became a curt nod and he let the smaller man pass.
    The interior of Spill was similar to other clubs of its type. Dark, except for the flashing lights on the dance floors, cramped to capacity with people, smoky, and louder than hell. Tequila pushed his way through the crowd of twenty-something partiers and to the back bar by the DJ booth. He used his access key to open the door marked PRIVATE . The door locked automatically behind him, and Tequila walked down a short hall and then up a staircase to Marty’s office, mercifully soundproofed from the rest of the club.
    Marty the Maniac was in his office alone, something Tequila hadn’t expected. He appeared to be hunched over some kind of contract, and he motioned for Tequila to come in without looking up at him. Tequila, without knowing exactly why, felt slightly on edge. He entered the office but didn’t sit, waiting