Free Lennox by Dallas Cole Page B

it.
    The eight ball misses the angle and rolls harmlessly to a stop in the
middle of the table. Rory shudders again with rage and tosses his cue
to the far corner. “Fucking cocksucker.” He picks up his
beer and pounds it, then turns back to me, all smiles once more.
“Your turn, man. You could clean up right now and win this.”
    But I very much doubt that’s what’s about to happen.
    “Twelve,” I say. “Side pocket.” I knock the
twelve in, even though I can feel the tremor in my right arm. Old
nerve damage from the crash. “Nine. Back left.” Miss.
“Damn. All you, man.”
    Rory chuckles to himself and gestures to the eight ball once more.
This time it sinks in with no complaints. He straightens up and grabs
his beer.
    “Well done,” I tell him.
    “Enh, it was nothing. I’m still rusty as shit.”
    “Hell, no more than I am. Three years without touching a
cue . . .”
    Rory leans back against the table. “Yeah, your luck sure has
changed, huh?”
    “Not luck.” I grab my beer and tilt the neck toward Rory.
“I have you and Mama to thank. Not lady luck.”
    “Well, Mama’s got something new for you.”
    My stomach sinks. And here it is.
    “C’mon.” Rory gestures toward the back room, past
the bar and the low murmur of clinking glasses, vaping pens, and
drunken laughs. “She should be back by now. Let’s go hear
her out.”
    We turn past the restrooms, smelling fresh as daisies—the pub
may look like a grimy hundred-year-old Dublin tavern, but Mama’s
crew keeps it dazzlingly clean. Rory lets me walk in front of
him—well, he leaves me no other option—and we climb up
toward the second-floor offices that gaze onto the remnants of
downtown Ridgecrest and the valleys beyond. A burly Pacific man
stands guard at the door; he frisks me, then nods toward Rory before
opening the door to the office for us.
    Mama’s inner sanctum is an even swankier version of the pub
below. Mahogany and leather and brass, with a private pool table and
bar. Men and women both hang out on leather couches, working through
log books and studying documents that I don’t want to look at
too closely. And overseeing it all is Mama, her booted feet crossed
and propped up on top of a carved wooden desk while she clenches a
cigar.
    “How’s it goin’, Serena?” Rory greets one of
the women on the couches. Serena doesn’t exactly look like a
typical gun moll—she’s trim, Hispanic, wearing designer
jeans and a tweedy blazer—but Rory yanks her off the couch and
grabs at her ass like she was a piece of eye candy. “You never
called me last night.”
    Serena cringes as he pulls her closer, but forces herself to smile.
“So sorry, Rory. Mama had me working late.”
    Rory laughs, his upper lip curling back. “Next time you want to
put in some long hours, baby, you let me know.”
    Her giggle is high-pitched, hysterical. Rory releases her and she
sinks gratefully back into the couch. I unwind the fists I didn’t
realize I’d clenched. Not my place. If my new business partners
want to be disgusting pigs, it’s not my place to stop them.
    “Mama.” Rory sidles up to the desk, stopping just short
of its raised platform. “Lennox here is ready to talk about
strengthening our bond.”
    I offer Mama a deferential bow of the head, but her expression is
unflinching. Hard gray eyes stare through me as she takes another
draw on her cigar. Her red and gray-flecked hair is worked into a
loose braid that trails over one shoulder. She’s a meaty,
stocky woman, built like a bear, or maybe a bulldog. Her hardened
face isn’t so much ugly as it is just intimidating. She doesn’t
want to be found beautiful. She wants to be feared.
    It’s working pretty well.
    Finally, she jerks her chin down—approving? She snaps her
fingers, and as one, everyone else in the private office stands and
shuffles off. I’m left alone with Mama and Rory.
    “Lennox Solt, right?” She swings her boots off the edge
of the desk and leans forward.