Just Us

By K.R. Lugo

Criminal defense attorney Trent Varus is a disillusioned man looking for revenge outside the law on those who have conspired to ruin his life. He is on a mission to punish the wicked and set the record straight, with the relentless quest to find answers to questions that were never asked acting as the driving force in his otherwise empty life.

Shortly after the authorities discover District Attorney Walter Callahans dead bodya death the coroner subsequently rules as suicide by overdoseCaptain Mike Johnson unofficially assigns Detective Erik Lomax to investigate the former district attorneys checkered background. Despite the forensic evidence left at the crime scene, Lomax relies on his instincts and soon finds himself on the trail of a killer who strikes with a brutality the likes of which the city has never seen. Circumstantial evidence attached to a string of bloody deaths leads him to a long-forgotten murder casePeople v. Varusand all its major players were involved in a setup to bury a truth his only suspect wants uncovered.

In this thrilling mystery, as a man seeks vengeance for the conviction that destroyed his life, a detective investigates the series of victims he leaves in his wake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532012563

K.R. Lugo

K. R. Lugo attended school in California and Arizona and graduated from METC in 1984. He attended several vocational classes, including landscaping, masonry, and horticulture, but none satisfied him. In February of 2001, Keith graduated from Law school. Previous publications "Schism". He currently lives in Nevada. "Prey for the Soulless", a work of fiction created by K.R. Lugo, is hereby introduced by Dark Writer LLC [e-mail]

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Copyright © 2017 Dark Writer LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-1255-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1256-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017900520

iUniverse rev. date: 3/24/2017

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

For my beloved wife. She knocks my shoes and socks off.

PROLOGUE

October 1, 1996, twenty years ago

S eated behind the same bench for the past fifteen years condemning men to miserable lives spent in prison, the Honorable Judge Terrence Harper cleared his throat and leveled a pair of steely eyes on defendant Trent Varus. A sneer of contempt marked his face and made it clear to anyone in the courtroom that he detested the man standing behind a wooden table next to defense attorney Gary Kirkpatrick.

Trent refused to cower or avert his eyes from the judge, though he accepted the fact that Harper had the power to destroy his life. Instead, he stood proud and defiant, resolute on maintaining his claim of innocence.

Although the evidence presented at trial by Deputy District Attorney Walter Callahan was overwhelming, his devoted wife, Connie, remained standing by him in her belief that he was innocent. She now served as his only refuge, his only advocate, encouraging him to stay strong and trust that everything would eventually turn out in their favor. However, to his unspoken shame, he did not share in her blind faith that bad things only happened to the deserved.

On the day of his arrest, reality had come crashing down on their sheltered lives and threatened to wash away everything they had built together.

Now, only the soft sound of Connie’s muffled cries coming from the other side of the bar interrupted the otherwise deafening silence in the room. Ostracized by all her friends and neighbors, she sat alone, dabbing daintily at her bloodshot eyes. Their lives were in complete shambles. The television news, which had dubbed her husband the Pinstripe Killer, only increased the number of accusations from the public.

Against his attorney’s advice, Trent had refused every plea offer made by the prosecution, along with every urging his attorney made to just surrender to public pressure and beg for mercy before the court. He was innocent. No force existed on earth that could make him admit to a crime he did not commit.

Spectators from every corner of the city filled the seats in the courtroom. The gleam in their eyes told the tale of how anxious they felt about this true-life court action. Some were dressed in suits, others in casual wear. The press from every local network had the best seats in the courtroom and held the tools of their respective trade at the ready. Competition in the field was fierce. Reporters on scene held their fingers eagerly poised over the send buttons of their laptops and cell phones. There was little doubt that the race was afoot. Everyone present was hungry to be first to report the sentence handed down by the hanging judge against defendant Trent Varus for the crime of first-degree murder. Those in attendance sat content in stony silence, waiting for the scythe of justice to fall on the neck of the guilty.

Judge Harper snorted derision at the convicted murderer standing emotionless in his presence and shifted his eyes to the prosecution’s table. Before I pronounce sentence on the defendant, do the people have anything to add? he said with a guttural growl.

Deputy District Attorney Callahan shot a quick leer at Varus and shook his head. The court has already received the recommendations from the probation department, Your Honor, he said with a note of hostility. Since probation is not applicable in this case, and there is nothing in the record to support a single factor in mitigation, the people assert that the statutory maximum is a foregone conclusion. A savage grin creased his face. He then continued without missing a beat. With that said, the people have nothing further to add. Thank you, Your Honor.

Judge Harper craned his neck and locked eyes with Detective Mike Johnson, who sat behind Callahan with a smug expression of victory etched across his face. His cruel eyes danced with humor. Harper gave a faint nod at the detective and then brought his attention on Varus.

Very well, he said gruffly. Mr. Varus, a jury of your peers has found you guilty for the heinous crime of murder in the first degree of a Mr. Morris Stokes, a human being. You have demonstrated no remorse or contrition during any of these proceedings for your terrible crimes against this great state and the people who reside in it. In addition, you have failed to take any responsibility for your crime, giving this court no reason but to believe that you are anything but a cold-blooded reptile that should spend the rest of its life in prison, and die there. It is the duty of this court to protect the public from such monsters.

Trent’s wife continued to weep behind the bar. It’s all a lie, she whispered through strangled breaths. He’s a good and gentle man.

Judge Harper rolled his eyes and continued. Is there anything you wish to say to this court and to the people whose lives you’ve destroyed? He practically spat the words—disgust dripped from his tone.

Trent wrinkled up his nose at the stench of the judge’s words. What can I possibly say to you or anyone else that could matter now? he said, keeping his voice calm, cool, and controlled. This is not over, and it never will be until everything is set right.

Judge Harper’s jaw set. Bent on staying stoic and chilling to the end, huh?

Trent craned his neck and smiled at his wife. I will love you forever, Connie, he said.

Connie stood in a dignified manner; tears rolled down her cheeks. I love you too, Trent, she said bravely. And I am right here waiting for you, no matter what it takes.

Strengthened by her resolve and the love in her unshakable devotion to him and their marriage, Trent faced the judge, proud and defiant. Nothing could defeat him nor wear him down. He stood on uncompromising principle, refusing to bow before the corrupt set of eyes leering down at him. His wife loved him, and that was all he needed to sustain him. Let’s get this circus over with, he said, prepared to face whatever nightmare might lie ahead.

Judge Harper picked up the gavel. His hand was trembling in anger. Trent Varus, this court sentences you to the term of twenty-five years to life in the state prison. He brought the gavel down on the hard wood with a thunderous boom.

CHAPTER 1

I n the heavy stillness of uncirculated air on the first floor of the lavish two-story home, directly below the upstairs master bedroom, the mercurial temperature inside the robust television area infiltrated every square inch with a miserable stickiness. The slow approach of evening shadows brought on by nightfall did very little to lower the triple-digit degree or diminish the uncomfortable conditions normally found in forgotten marshlands.

Shadows in the fading light slowly crept across the carpeted floor and stretched over a pair of expensive boots worn by Trent Varus, who sat comfortably in an ergonomic chair with his legs crossed. One booted foot bobbed up and down in rhythm to music only heard by his ears. The tune was a beloved one he had listened to during the drive over, which had left a lasting impression on his mind. He had not spoken a word since turning the dial to the off position on the CD player over an hour ago.

After sixty agonizingly slow-moving minutes, satisfied that he’d maintained a level of practiced patience long enough—a learned discipline that had taken years to master under the worst conditions imaginable by the human mind—Trent finally surrendered to the aching temptation that had tugged at him since he’d broken into the residence. He tilted his head back and gazed up at the tiny tendrils of smoke curling upward from the burning cigarette he held pinched between his fingers. Thin swirls of diaphanous gray slithered like phantom snakes and dissipated before they touched the fourteen-foot ceiling. The ghostly dance of smoke reminded him of how easy the trick had been that had allowed him to circumvent the district attorney’s outdated security system without leaving any trace evidence that an intruder had breached the electronic sensors. He now marveled at how useful the men incarcerated in the worst prisons of his home state had proved. Over his long years of incarceration, he had made friends with many of the country’s notorious cat burglars and bank robbers willing to teach him the best ways to bypass security alarms—and all for the modest price of legal assistance, a small bag filled with individually wrapped Top Ramen soup, and a sixteen-ounce jar of Folgers coffee. The idea that a bizarre twist of fate had resulted in such a perversion of poetic justice brought great pleasure. Manipulating the woefully antiquated alarm system inside the plush residence had proved little more than child’s play to a professionally readied cat burglar.

Trent snickered. Time to play with my old friend, I guess.

He lowered his head and leveled unsympathetic eyes back on the district attorney securely bound to a chair no more than a few feet away from where he sat. The cloak-and-dagger escapade he had planned for so many years, to his surprise, did not quite measure up to everything he had predicted. Something critical was missing. He furrowed his brow, wondering why the expected euphoria rumored to accompany revenge did not trigger anything that might erase his pain. The more he dwelled on things, the less satisfying his desire for revenge felt.

Disillusioned about the rush of anticipated vengeance finally fulfilled, Trent pressed his lips into a fine line and sighed. His sworn commitment to set things right decades earlier now seemed so far away, and he could not deny the emptiness that still filled his heart and mind. What is wrong? Why am I not thrilled over this? Shouldn’t I be tickled friggin’ pink? No matter how hard he searched his mind to answer the nagging questions that now plagued his thoughts, nothing of meaningful substance came to mind.

A guttural groan slipped from his lips as the specter of doubt raised its thorny head. His nerve to follow through with his preconceived plan started to falter, and he had to shake his head to rid his conscience of the voice attempting to dissuade him from completing his long-awaited mission.

Grant no mercy; receive even less, he said.

His focus returned to the nightmarish suffering he had endured at the hands of the man seated only a few feet away. He weighed the magnitude of the man’s crimes against that of granting him any semblance of forgiveness. He needed no more than three ticks of the second hand on a watch to reach the only conclusion. It was too late to simply back out and go home. Revenge had demanded its pound of flesh decades ago, mercilessly haunting all those years spent in a concrete cage. If he did nothing, no one else would, and the destroyer of lives would continue to do to others what he had done to him.

Trent narrowed his eyes, his revulsion for District Attorney Walter Callahan pumping anew in his veins, rekindling his true purpose for coming in the first place.

Don’t punk out now! Trent took a deep breath. So, let it begin.

Trent then reached out and removed the blindfold that covered Callahan’s frightened eyes. His blood ran cold and deadly in his veins. Do you remember me? he said.

Callahan moved his jaw to speak, but the gag taped over his mouth muffled his attempt to form words. He started to struggle against the restraints on his legs and arms, but then he stopped his futile fight when Trent snubbed out his cigarette and slid the butt into his front shirt pocket. He returned to working his jaw against the gag.

Trent cleared his throat. You seem a little distressed, he said. I wonder why that is, Mr. Callahan. Now, answer my question.

Callahan nodded. His wide eyes spoke volumes of terror. Sweat beaded his forehead.

Trent withdrew an enormous hunting knife from a hidden sheath tucked behind his back. I’m impressed, he said. Good to see you, I suppose. He cut away the gag with a precise flick of his wrist.

Callahan jerked his head forward. Please! he blurted. I’ll give you anything you want—anything. Just don’t hurt me. Just name it, and it’s yours.

Trent sneered at the disgusting offer made by the sadistic coward, and Callahan’s attempt to weasel his way out of paying for his past sins only added fuel to the fire that had burned in his heart for years. He chalked up the bribe to the predicted actions of a typical bully.

The district attorney’s eyes sparked with life, and he ran his tongue over his lips. Name your price, he said. I have money, a lot of it, if that is what you’re after, Varus.

Trent shook his head, sickened. He had never found another human being more repulsive. You have nothing I want or need, he said. That is, except for your miserable, bloodsucking life.

Callahan jerked in the chair. I don’t understand, he said. What are you saying?

Trent leaned toward Callahan’s now pale features. You will forfeit your life to me, or I shall kill your entire family, he said, one by one, right in front of you. I will end them, cruelly, sadistically. First your children will fall and then your wife. He held up the knife and twisted the blade to punctuate his point.

Callahan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. You c-can’t just ask me to agree to let you murder me, he said. His voice cracked on the last two words. Tears pooled in his eyes.

Trent chuckled. Who said anything about asking? he said. I’m demanding, and it’s not open for debate. He pointed the tip of the blade at Callahan. You will sacrifice your life, or I will throw your family tree in the damn furnace. At least I am giving you a choice, unlike the one you denied me in another lifetime.

Callahan’s mouth fell open with a whimper.

Trent walked over to where a black medical bag rested on a small end table. He opened it and then removed a pair of surgical gloves, a Polaroid picture, and a hypodermic needle. He placed the needle on the table and donned the gloves with two sharp snaps.

Callahan twisted in the chair. What’s that for? he said with a tiny squeak. His eyes widened at the sight of the syringe.

Trent held up the items, smiling with cruel intentions. That depends on the choice you make here today, he said. Like I said, it’s not open for debate. One way or the other, you are going to die today. The only question is whether you’re taking your family with you. He moved toward Callahan on catlike feet and set the picture on his lap for an unobstructed view.

At first, Callahan appeared confused as to why the man would bother showing him a picture, but then a look of crystal clear understanding seeped in once he lowered his eyes and realized that it was a recent picture of his wife and two little girls lying on their marital bed upstairs.

Do you hear what I’m telling you, now?

You filthy bastard! He glowered. Do you have any idea who I am? Do you know what kind of people cater to my every whim? I have real power, and I will destroy you and everything in your lousy convict life.

Trent gave a snort of derision at Callahan’s feeble threat and snatched up the picture. He waved a nonchalant hand through the air. That’s the word on the street, he said humorously. Save your false bravado for someone who intimidates. He then backhanded the DA across the face. I don’t want to hear your empty threats. You are not in charge here. I am. You have nothing with which to threaten me. I lost everything a very long time ago, and all I have left in this stinking world is my revenge.

Callahan ran his tongue over his sore lip. Please. You don’t have to do this, he said. His demeanor changed in an instant, and he looked around the room, his face stricken. They’re innocent. I’m responsible, so blame me.

Trent grinned at the man now begging for mercy. You’re embarrassing yourself and wasting your time, he said. The time has come to take your medicine.

But my family needs—

Another hard backhand across his mouth stopped him from finishing the sentence.

Trent turned livid, his hands shaking in fury. Don’t you dare finish those words, he said. He retrieved the syringe and slid it into his shirt’s front pocket. I remember a time when I made a similar claim, back in another life—before I became the creature you now see standing in front of you.

There’s a big difference. Callahan’s features pinched.

He looked down at Callahan. Not to me, he commented dryly. You knew that I was innocent, that I never committed a crime in my life, and you didn’t care. It was just business as usual. Am I right? Just doing your lousy job, and I’d wager that you never lost a wink of sleep over what you did to me and mine. Bitterness swelled inside of him. Single-mindedness had driven him to this very day, to this homicidal moment, and he glared at the evil serpent that had destroyed his Eden. You will be held accountable. Of that you can be certain.

Callahan cringed back in fear. I’m sorry, he cried. Okay? I’m sorry for what I did to you.

Trent moved his face within inches of Callahan’s. Not yet you aren’t, he snapped, spittle flying from his mouth. You killed my wife. You murdered my son. My mother and father are gone because of you, you disgusting maggot. He straightened up and took control of his pent-up hostility before it boiled over.

Callahan winced. I can—

Trent placed a finger under his chin and tilted his face upward. Trent narrowed his eyes. Save your apologies for God, he said, because you will receive nothing from me. I am not your father confessor.

Callahan’s eyes turned wild in fear. You’re crazy, he said. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never met your family, and I certainly didn’t murder anyone.

Trent removed his finger. Shut up! he said. He turned and walked over to the medical bag. He retrieved a long, rubber tube; a legal tablet; and a pen. He tucked the tube in the back pocket of his pants.

Callahan wriggled against the restraints. What’s going on? he said.

Trent sauntered back over to Callahan with the pen and paper in hand. Any last words? he said.

Like what?

He shrugged. I don’t know and don’t care. He set the items on the table and then pointed at them. You’re going to write your suicide note, and you’re going to make it credible. I’ve studied your writing style, so don’t even try anything funny, or, in this case—he chuckled with mirth—stupid, because I will know.

What makes you think I’d ever agree to do this?

Trent looked down into his eyes, savoring the coward’s feigned courage. If you don’t, then I’ll just hippity-hop upstairs and slit all three of their throats. After that, I’ll come back down here and start chopping pieces off your body, starting with your toes and working my way up. He shrugged. It makes no real difference to me. I have no plans for tonight.

Callahan pursed his lips, no doubt mulling over the words. How do I know you’ll keep your end of the deal?

You don’t, Trent said bluntly. However, I would not have gone through the rigorous effort of drugging them to make certain they were excluded from our personal business if I intended to kill them. As far as they will know, they merely fell asleep on the bed. I took great measures to make sure they were not included in any of this. He pushed the table closer to the chair and plucked the syringe from his pocket. He popped the cap, dropping the orange piece of plastic in his pocket.

His brow knitted. And if I refuse?

He tightened his grip on the knife. You won’t, he said matter of fact. Now, I’m going to cut your right hand free so you can write. Don’t be a false hero.

Callahan watched his every move, clearly looking for some way to sneak his way out of the situation.

Trent moved behind him and gently slid the knife between the Terry cloth towel and zip tie—he had used the cloth to avoid any incriminating evidence of bruising—and then cut it loose with a sharp tug of the blade. Very good, he said when Callahan offered no resistance, keeping the blade poised at the ready.

Callahan raised his wrist and checked it for any sign of redness. There was no sign of trauma. It’s still not too late to call this off, he said, reaching for the pen.

Trent pointed the tip of the knife at the tablet of paper. Write! he ordered. You have nothing to say that I want to hear. As far as I’m concerned, you’re getting off light. He swished the knife through the air. Come on, hurry up. We need to wrap this up. I’m a busy man, and you’re the first on a long list of people I intend to visit. He gave him a shove. Write.

Callahan placed the tip of the pen against the paper. His trembling hand failed to move. This is so twisted and demented, he said in a shaky voice.

Trent remained stoic, unfeeling. He accepted the fact that one man extorting another to jot down his eulogy was monstrously sick. After all, how could any man explain to his wife and children why daddy was about to kill himself? What could any man hope to write that would suffice? How could any woman ever hope to explain such a selfish act to their children? He smirked at all the empty answers and poked the back of his victim’s neck with the point of the knife.

Callahan wept softly. Tears dripped across the paper. Another poke at the back of his neck got the pen moving and the ink flowing.

Oh, that’s good, he said with a sinister giggle. Try to spill a few more crocodile tears on the paper. It will do wonders for overall effect.

You’re a cold-blooded bastard, he said, pure evil incarnate. His writing hand picked up speed. More tears struck the page and smeared some of the ink.

Trent tapped the side of his neck with the blade. Good boy, he said. You just might save your family after all.

After Callahan finished writing his final farewells, Trent quickly snatched the pen and paper.

This isn’t right, Callahan said.

Trent shook his head. Nothing ever is, he said.

Callahan tilted his head back and glared up at him.

Trent read the letter, nodding his satisfaction as he walked over and set the materials on a matching table. It’s a good letter, he said, placing his hand over his heart. I’m all choked up, and there might even be tears.

Screw you!

Yeah, you wish. Trent removed the rubber tubing from his back pocket. Like I haven’t heard that a time or two before, old buddy.

What now?

I’m afraid to say that our business together is about to reach its inevitable conclusion. He held out the tools of the drug trade. I want you to tie off and shoot up with the morphine in this rig. There’s 4 cc’s, so that will be plenty to take care of the deed. He gave a wink. I’m aware of your prior tangles with chasing the dragon, Mr. District Attorney, so everyone will buy a severe backslide. In the end, dope fiends never change.

Left with no chance to escape his fate, Callahan wrapped the rubber tubing around his bicep and made a fist. He slapped at his arm several times and then looked up at his executioner. Hatred burned in his eyes, as he rested the point of the needle against the thick vein in his arm. Do you promise not to hurt them?

Trent nodded. That is the deal, he said. Good-bye, Callahan. I hope you burn in hell.

Callahan pierced the vein. I’ll see you there.

Probably, he said.

He depressed the plunger.

The effects of the Class A narcotic were instantaneous. Callahan’s head lolled side to side, twisting on his thin neck. His eyes rolled back, just as his body sagged in the chair. With three quick flashes of his wrist, Trent severed the remaining zip ties and watched his sworn enemy crash onto the floor in a near lifeless heap.

Trent held the knife at the ready and stared at the syringe still embedded in Callahan’s arm. He nudged him with a foot. Are you dead yet?

There was neither sound nor movement.

He went to a single knee and placed two fingers on Callahan’s carotid artery, finding no pulse. His grin faded. He was not entirely certain as to what he should feel, but he was relatively sure there should have been something more, a whole lot more. He furrowed his brow as he contemplated. Did he feel true satisfaction? Not that he could tell. Had murder quenched his desire for revenge or changed anything at all? Nothing he had done had cured one damn thing.

Again, he nudged the body with his foot. Hey, this isn’t cutting it, pal, he said with a disgruntled growl. Stunned by the unexpected revelation, Trent sat down on the floor next to the now dead Callahan. For the first time since bypassing the alarm system, he looked around at the plush decor of the room. All bought with blood money, he thought grimly. He shook away the reverie.

He then peered into his victim’s vacant eyes. Time to go, sport, he said. He gave him a pat on the head and stood up.

He quickly gathered up all the evidence that could possibly allow the crime scene experts to infer anything except suicide. Only after he had double-checked everything did he head upstairs to where the rest of the family lay in a heavy, drug-induced sleep.

CHAPTER 2

B enny Maldonado—ex-con and three-time loser—had been involved in the sexually tantalizing world of exotic dancing since he was just a punk kid, starting at the ripe age of seven. Like many children from broken families with missing father figures, Benny had spent most of his youth knowing his mother was twirling around the stripper pole under the hypnotized eyes of the lowliest drunk and drug-addled minds the town had to offer. His mother could only on the rarest occasion afford to pay for a babysitter to watch him in the run-down tenement in which they lived, so she had little choice but to drag her impressionable son to work, where he fraternized with the immoral customers no one else welcomed.

Fifty years later, nothing much had changed in Benny’s world. The only real difference was that time had moved on without him. Now it was too late to expect anything pure out of life. He was sixty years old, he felt a lot older than his actual age due to the hard miles traveled on the road to hell, and the bitter pill he swallowed each morning only seemed to grow worse with resentment. Times were different, he was different, and all his hopes and dreams had died long ago, left to stink on a stretch of rotten highway that defined his life as a total failure.

The only bragging rights he had to anything, if such could be deemed as an accomplishment, was that he had become the owner of the infamous strip club the Mousetrap after he had served his last prison term of five years.

Benny was still reminiscing over his disappointing life when he heard the familiar squeak of the back door, which led to the filth in the alley, shoved open. He turned and sucked back on his lower lip. The last thing he needed today was another headache. His tax returns for the year were proving migraine material.

Contrary to his best prayers, he did not need a second guess to know who had just entered, unwelcome, his place of business. His morning had started out with a broken jukebox, and nothing since the repair person refused to come and fix it had improved.

He stole a quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall and rolled his eyes, knowing his day was about to take a huge dip in the sewer. It was still too early for any of his regulars to show up, and only two types of people ever sneaked into the strip joint before the noon hour. His uninvited visitor was either one of the local riffraff that had wandered in from the street in search of something to eat—usually still on a drunken bender or completely whacked out on drugs—or a dirty cop bent on abusing his authority and blackmailing Benny into forcing one of his girls to have free sex with him. It was a vicious circle, one in which he had been dancing around for years in order to keep his liquor license valid and his doors open to the public.

With a nasty grunt of malcontent, Benny sauntered over to a round table, where his twin nephews sat across from each other drinking a bottle of his best bourbon, and slid into an empty chair equidistant between them. He looked to the left and then to the right. A groan of despair slipped from his aged lips. He had never known a lazier pair of brothers.

James set his glass on the table, wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, and burped loudly. His bloodshot eyes sparked with humor. What’s up, Uncle Benny? he said in a slightly slurred voice. You don’t usually come and sit with us. You say we’re nuts and disgusting. He snickered.

Benny ran an impatient hand over his pate. His unwanted patron would enter the main room in a matter of only minutes, and he had to think fast. Look, you idiot, I don’t have a lot of time to explain the particulars to you, but I need for you and your brother to move behind the bar, give me a little room, and relieve Tabitha. He pointed in her direction.

Can we ask why? James said.

Benny shook his head in irritation. No, you can’t, he snapped. Just do what I say, and don’t ask me any stupid questions. I’m running this thing here.

Jim brought an open hand down on the table with a loud smack. Wood cracked beneath the power of his arm. That ain’t fair, Uncle Benny, he said with a sneer. "We’re always getting screwed and disrespected. We were here first. Why can’t you go and sit somewhere else? I don’t see your name on this