Contributor: Gary Clifton
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L.C. Clark had operated the joint for 27 years. Like gory scarecrows, the photos of men who'd tried to rob the old man were taped in the front windows. He'd shot ever mother's son of them deader than good manners. The place was called a restaurant, but Clark only sold dope, booze after hours, and sex with some of the butt-ugliest whores you ever saw.
McCoy had played a year at linebacker for SMU before the grade-monster caught up with him. Harper had kicked more asses than any human alive. But being tough old boys didn't close the deal. Both McCoy and Harper needed snitches like Clark, as sure as the old man needed his hookers - hard to do business without them.
"No, hell no, McCoy, of all them sumbitches I offed," he gestured to the photos. "I never let the hammer down on a white man, but I could if I hadta," he leaned back against the bar in a reasonable Wyatt Earp impersonation. Pudgy, with one gold tooth and drugstore half-glasses on his nose, his ample stomach showed that even if the Rosie Mack didn't sell food, he ate good someplace.
The next night, a wild-eyed-asshole redneck barged in waving a pistol. Clark gave up the register, but opened fire as the guy cleared the door. When McCoy and Harper got down there, the toad lay dead on the sidewalk, his head splattered in the center of a yard wide circle of crimson brains and gore.
"Biker...from his clothes," McCoy said. "Deader n' hell."
"Said I could kill a white man if I had too, McCoy," old Clark sat on a battered barstool and puffed on a menthol filter tip.
Harper knelt and poked at the body. "You ain't killed one yet, Clark. No bullet holes in this carcass. This guy died from a crushed skull. Ran headfirst into a utility pole. Hell, dude, you scared him to death."
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Clifton, forty years a cop, has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University and has short fiction pieces published or pending on several online sites.
- -
L.C. Clark had operated the joint for 27 years. Like gory scarecrows, the photos of men who'd tried to rob the old man were taped in the front windows. He'd shot ever mother's son of them deader than good manners. The place was called a restaurant, but Clark only sold dope, booze after hours, and sex with some of the butt-ugliest whores you ever saw.
McCoy had played a year at linebacker for SMU before the grade-monster caught up with him. Harper had kicked more asses than any human alive. But being tough old boys didn't close the deal. Both McCoy and Harper needed snitches like Clark, as sure as the old man needed his hookers - hard to do business without them.
"No, hell no, McCoy, of all them sumbitches I offed," he gestured to the photos. "I never let the hammer down on a white man, but I could if I hadta," he leaned back against the bar in a reasonable Wyatt Earp impersonation. Pudgy, with one gold tooth and drugstore half-glasses on his nose, his ample stomach showed that even if the Rosie Mack didn't sell food, he ate good someplace.
The next night, a wild-eyed-asshole redneck barged in waving a pistol. Clark gave up the register, but opened fire as the guy cleared the door. When McCoy and Harper got down there, the toad lay dead on the sidewalk, his head splattered in the center of a yard wide circle of crimson brains and gore.
"Biker...from his clothes," McCoy said. "Deader n' hell."
"Said I could kill a white man if I had too, McCoy," old Clark sat on a battered barstool and puffed on a menthol filter tip.
Harper knelt and poked at the body. "You ain't killed one yet, Clark. No bullet holes in this carcass. This guy died from a crushed skull. Ran headfirst into a utility pole. Hell, dude, you scared him to death."
- - -
Clifton, forty years a cop, has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University and has short fiction pieces published or pending on several online sites.
Author:
Gary Clifton
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