Free Hard Road by J. B. Turner

running a risk with a stolen car with South Carolina plates. He decided he would take that risk. But his major concern just now was that he couldn’t take Luntz into the bar. That would be asking for trouble.
    He weighed up his options and realised he didn’t have any. He decided to leave the car where it was as he was only going to be gone for a couple of minutes. He shut the window and stepped out into the sultry night. Pressing the car’s central locking fob, he walked up to the entrance.
    A tattooed skinny guy with tousled blond hair wearing a black T-shirt stepped forward and smiled, partially blocking his way. He was holding a cigarette in one hand, a bottle of Bud in the other. “Sorry my friend,” he said. “We’re closed.”
    â€œI’ll bear that in mind, son,” Reznick said, as he brushed right past him and headed inside to the cool of the bar.
    A crazy old hippie was belting out some punked-up blues standards on an old guitar, as stoned college kids lounged around on sofas, drinking beer and laughing loud.
    Reznick walked up to the bar and ordered a Heineken. He handed the tattooed, muscle-bound barman with chiseled features a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
    The kid took the money and Reznick took a long drink. The cold beer quenched his thirst. “I’m looking for Harry Leggett,” he said.
    â€œWho’s asking?”
    â€œName’s Reznick.”
    â€œYou got a first name?”
    He gulped the rest of the Heineken. “Tell him Reznick’s in town.”
    A smile spread slowly across the barman’s chiseled features and he handed Reznick back his twenty-dollar bill. “Your money’s no good here, man. It’s on the house.” He extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. Ron Leggett. Remember me? We met a few years back, up in New York.”
    Reznick shook his hand. “Christ, Ron. I didn’t recognise you. How’s your father these days?”
    â€œA pain in the ass, if you must know.” He asked a barmaid to hold the fort for a few minutes. The girl nodded sullenly as Ron opened a couple more Heinekens and joined Reznick at the other side of the bar.
    Ron pulled up a stool and sat down. “Man, dad’s gonna freak when he sees you,” he said, taking a large gulp of beer. “I take it you’re not here for the music.”
    â€œIs your dad around?”
    The kid pulled out a packet of Winston from his shirt pocket, tapped out a cigarette and lit up. He inhaled half an inch of cigarette before he flicked ash on the floor. “Yeah, he’s around. Just not here. An old buddy turned up this morning and they went out fishing this afternoon. He likes to kickback a couple of times a week. But he’s probably sleeping it off on his boat.”
    Reznick’s gaze was drawn to a faded color picture behind some whisky optics of Leggett that showed some guys drinking in the bar. He didn’t recognise any of the faces. “Your dad’s got a boat?”
    â€œYeah, a brand new fifty-foot Cabo,” he said. He took a deep pull on the cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. “It’s awesome. Pure teak inside. Man, my dad loves that boat.”
    Reznick smiled but said nothing.
    â€œReal pleasure to meet you again.” He leaned closed, voice low. “My dad once told me that you were the only man he truly trusted. Said you never made a wrong move. You always made the right call. And you never, ever let him down.”
    Reznick averted his gaze. “I don’t know about that.” He looked at the boy’s rippling physique. “So, how’s life working for your dad?”
    â€œI work all the hours here, and he spends most of his time on his boat.”
    â€œI hear you.”
    The kid fired up another cigarette, dragging hard. He blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from Reznick. “It’s a job.” He slugged