Free The Summer of Last Resort by J. A. Browning Page B

shots.
    “Have the new owners talked about making changes?” Jake asked. The fishnet girl didn’t break concentration at all. “Not new owners, I don’t think. Tell the truth, I’ve got no idea who owns this joint.”
    “Who runs it?”
    “It gets run,” she said, slowly chalking the tip of her cue.
    Jake turned to her and, gesturing at the cube, said, “I could use some of that.” She reached over and grabbed his stick, and then gently placed the chalk cube over the end and twisted it rhythmically back and forth. “I love it when a girl twists the tip of my stick,” Jake joked, and she smiled and leaned her head towards his. “Look, I don’t know what you’re after, but the guys that replaced Johnny, well, they’re ten times worse.” Jake nodded, and took his shot, unfortunately dropping the cue ball. But when she went to place it, Jake took Shane’s picture out and laid it on the table.
    “Do you know this kid?” he asked, but she shook her head, and took the shot. Jake took the picture and replaced it with Maria’s. “Her?” he asked. No. Then he showed Keith’s picture, and, for a second, a smile flitted across her face, and then he showed her Kim’s picture, and she nodded in agreement. Jake carefully pulled the pictures back into his pocket, noticing the bartender scowling at them, and pulled he fishnet girl aside. “This girl - her name is Kim. Do you know her?”
    She didn’t say anything, but Jake saw her eyes widen just for a moment.
    “What about this guy, Keith?”
    “He was Johnny’s friend.”
    “Did you know him?”
    She leaned closer to him and whispered, “Oh, I knew him all right.”
    “Was there anything special about him? Any distinguishing characteristics?”
    She laughed and looked back at him. “You could say that.”
    “Do you know where they might be now?”
    She shook her head, and grabbed her stick, but just as she drew her arm back to shoot, a big man in a dark jacket came in and grabbed it. “You need to be back on the floor,” he said, roughly grabbing her arm and shoving her away.
    “And you, sir, I think you need to come with me,” the big man said, and Jake instinctively took a step back, but hound himself bumping into another large man. They grabbed Jake and hustled him back through a door in the back of the bar, and back to the back of the club, where there was a large trash compactor machine. “Give me your wallet,” the first man demanded, and Jake shook his head. The second man switched on the compactor and then grabbed Jake’s arms behind him while the first man let go with a brutal punch to the belly that left Jake doubled over on the metal waffle plate floor next to the machine. His groans were muffled by the whine of the machine squeezing trash. “Get up!” the first man demanded. The first man frisked Jake, who of course didn’t bring a weapon, but did pull out his wallet. It had a driver’s license, a Diner’s Club card, a Chevron gas card, and a teacher’s union card – all courtesy of Jake Iverson, lately deceased, of Ponca City, Oklahoma. “You took my daughter, you bastards!” Jake grunted, and lunged at him while the second man tried to restrain Jake.
    The second man tightened his grip on Jake’s arms while the first man grabbed Jake’s hair and roughly banged his head down onto the hard yellow painted steel of the machine’s console. “Just look at that beauty,” the first man said as they watched the giant steel ram pressing sacks of trash and boxes until they burst apart. “It makes me all warm all over to see that. Just think what would happen to you if you accidentally fell in.” Jake could feel a trickle of blood drip from his nose and lip where the metal had cut his face. “Now, get the hell out of here,” the first man said, and, gestured to the second man who hustled Jake down off the machine and roughly shoved him down into the alley, then tossed his wallet back at him. “And don’t come back –