Free One for My Baby (Phoenix Noir Book 4) by Barry Graham

ONE
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    I t was the second decade of the 21st Century, but you wouldn’t have known it by looking at Mark. His attire was pure Rat Pack—natty dark suit, striped tie, Fedora. The place was crowded, and people were getting intimate in booths or on the dance floor. Mark was sitting at the bar, alone. He was on his second glass of Jack Daniel’s. He kept looking at his watch, and the bartender kept looking at him sympathetically, guessing that his date had stood him up.
    After the latest glance at his watch, he asked for his tab, and finished his drink while the bartender brought it. He paid in cash, left a good tip and walked out of the place.
    His car wasn’t in the parking lot, but in a dark, quiet street nearby. He walked to it, and, even though it was late evening, it was still so warm that he had a sweat on when he reached the car. As he approached the car, a beige Honda Civic, he used a remote control to open the trunk. He took off his hat, coat, shirt and tie, under which he wore a black T-shirt.  He tossed them in the trunk, then bent and untied his shoes, kicked them off, put them in the trunk and took out a pair of black sneakers. He closed the trunk, put on the sneakers, and got in the car.
    It took him about forty minutes to drive to North Scottsdale, going at slightly over the speed limit. When he arrived at the restaurant, he parked, checked his watch, put on a black ski mask and took a Glock from under the driver’s seat.
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    T he restaurant had closed for the evening, cleanup was done, and all the staff had left except for two managers. The manager was checking his text messages when he heard his assistant, Shane.
    “Alan. Hey, Alan...”
    “What?”
    “We’ve got a problem.”
    Alan turned around and saw Shane standing there with a guy in dark clothes and a mask who was holding a gun to the side of Shane’s head. Shane’s eyes were squeezed shut.
    Alan said, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
    “No,” Mark said. “I’m not Jesus, I’m God. But you don’t have to get down on your knees. Your buddy here’s wrong—you don’t really have a problem, as long as you listen to me. Are you listening to me?”
    “Yeah. Yeah, I’m listening.”
    “Very good. I’m not here to hurt anybody. I just want the money. But if anybody sets off an alarm and the cops come, I’ll kill you before they get me. Do you think I’m kidding?”
    “No.”
    “Very good. Get me the money right now. There should be about eight grand.” He extended the empty courier bag in his other hand.
    “We don’t have as much as that.”
    “Yes, you do. This is the night you move the week’s cash. Lie to me again and he’s dead.”
    Shane said, “Please, Alan. Please? I’m really scared.”
    Alan said, “How do you know tonight’s the—?”
    Mark shoved Shane to the floor, dropped the bag, and cut Alan off by slapping his face. “The money.”
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    O utside, Mark walked to his car, pulling off the mask. He used his remote control to unlock the car doors and trunk.
    Inside, Alan and Shane stood in a locked storeroom. Alan’s mouth was bleeding.
    “I thought we were going to die,” Shane said.  “I thought we were going to die.”
    Alan shook the locked door, then kicked it. It didn’t budge.
    “Christ, don’t!” Shane said. “He might come back.”
    “Shut the fuck up.”
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    S itting in his car, Mark put on his shirt, tie, coat and Fedora. Then he started the engine. He drove back to downtown Phoenix at the same speed at which he had driven to Scottsdale. He passed a police car. As he drove, he listened to Dean Martin’s Greatest Hits .
    There wasn’t a lot of furniture in his apartment, just what he needed, which included a piano. His cat, Pangur Ban, was asleep on top of the piano, but he woke when he heard Mark’s key in the front door, meowed, jumped down and ran to greet him.
    Mark went straight to the bedroom, dropped