By eleven pm most patrons were drunk.
Few lights illuminated their faces; candles, neon, outdoor spotlights…Monday, Monday by The Mamas and The Papas was playing on the jukebox.
It was better in the dark. Places like this…you didn’t want to see in bright light. At least I don’t.
Justice Chadwick had positioned himself in the far corner of the bar…last seat near the wall. From there, he had a view of not only the door, but the crowd as well.
He had been nursing his cheap-ass scotch and soda for a long while.
Midnight? The magic hour?
Not tonight.
As someone shouted to the bartender over the din for another round, Justice noticed his nails were dirty. He took a pocketknife out of his jeans and scraped under them with a blade.
A noise of glass shattering caught his attention. A waitress had dropped a tumbler she was clearing from a table.
After the initial distraction, conversations resumed while she picked up the shards carefully.
Justice pocketed his knife, moved a bowl of nuts closer, and cracked open a peanut from its shell, eating it. He brushed the shells into his palm and dumped them onto an empty plate. Most people let them drop on the floor. Not him.
“Is this spot taken?”
Justice sat up higher on the barstool. “Nope.”
A younger man sat beside him. He was wearing a red flannel shirt with the sleeves chopped off at the biceps, a baseball cap facing backwards, a clunky stainless steel watch and faded blue jeans.
While he waited for the bartender’s attention, Justice stared at his profile. There were unoccupied tables in the room. Why’d the guy choose this spot?
“Stinks like BO in here.” The young man leaned his elbows on the counter. “Yo! A beer?”
Justice opened another peanut, chewing it.
The bartender gave in to the slightly rude call, and walked over.
“I’ll take a pint of the IPA on special.” The young man held his wallet, as if showing he could pay.
Without a word, the stoic old man pulled a pint.
Justice glanced at a group of bikers leaving. They were loud, shouting to each other, laughing, swearing.
Two single dollar bills were placed on the bar, for the ‘special’ buck-ninety-nine ale.
The young man sipped the beer, appearing to vacantly stare at the bottles that lined the back of the bar.
Justice cracked open another peanut.
The young man glanced at him.
“Nuts?” Justice moved the bowl of peanuts closer. His one word could have been a question about sanity, right?
“No, thanks.” The young man gave him a scrutinizing look. “You from here?”
“Yup.” Nope.
“I’m just passing through.” The young man tipped up the beer.
I figured you for a local. My radar must be off. “Most people do…pass through.” Justice heard more raucous laughter and checked on it. Two women, drunk, older biker chicks, one had prison tattoos on her neck.
“Fuck. Is this place safe?” The young man chuckled, but sounded nervous. “I just wanted a beer before I turned in. Maybe I should have bought one at the minimart.”
“Traveling on your own?” Justice took an interest.
“Yeah. Meeting a buddy over in Deadwood.”
“Ever been there?” Justice asked.
“No. I heard it was cool.” The young man adjusted his ball-cap.
“Yeah. It’s cool.” Justice laughed to himself.
“Cade.” The young man held out his hand.
“Hi, Cade.” He clasped it. As his hand was held, squeezed, and Cade stared into his eyes, Justice caught a vibe.
The music grew louder and the occupants kept shouting over it.
Cade finished his beer. “Fuck. I can’t stand the noise.”
“Ya get used to it.”
“Nah.” Cade moved his empty glass away from himself. “You…uh, staying for another round?”
“Why?” Justice kept his gaze at the entrance while more bikers came and went.
“No reason.” Cade stood from the stool and gave him a last glance.
Justice knew that look. Bold, for a dive bar here in South Dakota.
“Take it easy,” Cade said.
Seeing that enticing back view, Justice tossed the rest of his cheap scotch down with a shiver of disgust, and threw cash on the bar. He followed.
When both men emerged from the tavern, Cade paused.
Justice stared at him as Harley Davidson choppers made a racket coming and going from the dark parking lot. The tavern was on the Interstate 90 corridor, and a cheap motel was close.
So close…
Cade stared at him, then walked towards that twenty-dollar a night motel.
Justice followed. Sure. I’ll bite. Boy do I.
Cade walked up to one of the dimly lit rooms. The door had the number twelve on it. He unlocked it, entered, and spun around.
Justice stood at the threshold.
The interior was kept dark, lit only from a streetlight; a double bed, this kid’s suitcase, a desk, a TV and dust…that was the extent of the contents.
Cade tossed his baseball cap aside and took off his shirt.
Now we’re talking.
Justice closed the motel door, locking it. He drew his shirt over his head as Cade dragged his jeans down his legs and took off his shoes and socks.
Once the young man was naked, Justice pushed him onto the bed.
Like a good boy, Cade rolled over, facedown.
Justice jerked his cock, staring at that tight ass in the sliver of light coming through the heavy curtain from the parking lot. Cade glanced at him from over his shoulder.
Removing his gun from the back of his waistband, Justice tucked his holster under his shirt on the floor, and crawled on his knees on the bed. Positioning himself behind Cade, he got himself hard enough for sex, and then dampened the head of his dick, advancing.
“Oh, fuck…” Cade reached for the pillow and held it under his head.
Justice kept Cade submissive, as he fucked the hell out of him.
~
Twenty-five year old, Amir Mehdi had only been a homicide detective for three months.
Their county department was woefully underfunded.
In plainclothes, a suit and tie, Amir followed the trail of blue and red spinning lights to a room. The uniformed officers backed up, allowing him in.
That smell. Nasty!
He snapped on latex gloves and had a look. A young man had been stabbed repeatedly.
A sergeant handed Amir a wallet. “Found it in the pants’ pocket.”
Amir opened it, trying to locate ID. Nothing was left inside it. “This was how you found it? Empty but inside a pocket?”
“Yes.”
Everything was removed from it. Nothing was left to ID the victim but forensics and fingerprints.
Justice stood at the sink in a room, washing. His blue eyes were piercing, a slight cleft on his chin, gray touching his sideburns. Rinsing, he dried his face and stood topless, jeans on, reading his phone.
Nothing was sent to him. As he finished getting dressed, Justice turned on the TV, looking for news. He located a local station and tucked his shirt into his pants as he listened.
Chance of rain, school shootings, corrupt politicians…
And…a local homicide.
