Page 8

I dip my sunglasses down, assessing them. The big one is a King, not that I give a flying rat’s ass. The one to his left is his brother, all blue eyes and pretty face. I know Nick Bruin plentywell enough. The one to his right looks like he’s about to stain his shorts.

“Is that Percocet?” he asks, all but drooling.

I jerk my chin at Barb. “Fuck off, you dusty old cunt. I’ve got real business to do.”

Snatching her Lipitor, she hisses, “I hope you forget your bank pin when you’re getting robbed.”

“Your grandkids’ nightly prayers are wasted on you,” I call to her back as she storms off. Slowly. Hunched over a walker. She peers up at the Dukes with a glare as she passes. “Well,” I say to them, shuffling the cards. “You three certainly look like you know which color crayon tastes best. Sit down and tell me about it.”

“Blue,” the white-haired says without missing a beat, dropping into Barb’s seat. “The grays are kind of chalky.”

“You know,” Nick says, “we usually like to conduct our illegal gun-running business somewhere a little more discreet than the Forsyth bridge club.”

“You’ll conduct my business where I fucking tell you,” I reply, kicking out a vacant chair. The boy glares, but does as he’s told, arms folded as he eye-fucks Janice’s bottle of blue pills. “They’re laxatives, not Viagra,” I tell him. “But since you just blew in from Stupid Town, I’m betting you’re plenty full of shit. She’ll probably let five go for a picture of your cock.”

He gives me a chilly grin. “No thanks.”

The big one sits down last, heavy and glaring. “We’re doing this as a favor to Payne. You should show us some respect.”

Nick gives his brother a sly look. “This is Mrs. Crane. She only respects two people. Her pharmacist and the guy who invented the iron maiden.”

The white-haired one–Maddox’s boy–glances between us. “You know each other?”

I laugh, low and raspy. “Oh, this one and I go way back.”

Nick’s eyes narrow into slits. “She tried to turn me out once.”

“What can I say?” Shrugging, I stab out my cigarette. “Nice ass is nice ass. What’s your story?” I point the dying ember of my cigarette at the Maddox kid. Green eyes. Covered head-to-toe in tattoos. I don’t know him half as well as I know his daddy.

“My ass is pretty nice, too,” he replies flippantly. “But it belongs to my girl back home. Has her name on it and everything.”

I look between the brothers, Nicholas and Simon. I know their parents pretty well, too. “So here you are. Bruin and Perilini’s best swimmers, eh? The good sperm must have dribbled down your mother’s ass crack.”

Simon’s teeth clench. “Do you want the gun or not?”

I nod. “Show me.” Maddox Junior is the one to pull it from his waistband, moving closer as he gives me a glimpse of the shiny silver. I blink at it, lips pulling back into a snarl. “What the blue-crayon-flavored fuck is this?”

“It’s easy to hide,” he says, turning it over in his palm. “Good grip for small, arthritic hands.”

“It’s a bitch pistol,” I point out. “Do I look like a bitch to you?”

Simon leans back, expression deadpan. “That’s exactly what you look like. An emotionally fragile grandmother.”

“You look like a magician whose only trick is turning liquor into domestic violence.” I gesture at the tiny pistol. “Who am I going to kill with this? A cricket?”

“It’s supposed to be for self-defense,” Nick points out.

“The next time you three pass around that withered brain cell you all share, you should use it to ask yourselves what I’m defending myself from.” Rooting around in my purse, I extract my small tub of Vaseline, slamming it on the table. “Here.”

Maddox raises an eyebrow. “Lube?”

“To ease the way when you shove that bitch pistol up your asses.” I raise my chin, swiping up my glass of gin. “Now show me the real stuff.”

Nick nods at the gun. “That is real stuff. It’s small, but it packs plenty of punch.”

“I’m not as stupid as you look. You’re Dukes. You’re pulling more than one sale today. Show me what you’re slinging to whatever dimwitted turd of a frat boy you’re paying a visit to after me.” A glance passes between them. Some eyebrow wiggling. Some glaring. An eye roll. Finally Nick sighs, bending over to pull a gun from the small of his own back. “That’s more like it,” I say when he slides it over the table. Beside me, Francine pauses her game of rummy to ogle the Glock.

It’s bigger than her shitty revolver.