Page 144 of Crow
CHAPTER25
A cigarette hungfrom Brutus’s lips as he hit the last striped ball. It rolled across the pool table and into the far left pocket.
“Fuck!” Aztec slammed the cue stick on the table and glared.
A cloud of exhaled smoke rose above Brutus while he scooped up the wad of bills and looked over his shoulder at Crow.
“How about a game?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Afraid you’ll get your ass kicked?” Brutus laughed.
“Get Raven in here and see whose ass will get kicked,” Muerto said as he shrugged on his leather jacket.
Brutus scowled. “She’s a pro, so what’s your fuckin’ point?”
“Nothing.” Muerto laughed. “I gotta get to work.”
Crow motioned Ink to bring him another tequila shot. He turned his attention back to the pool table and noticed Metal laying down a couple of Ben Franklins on the table.
“Do you want to get in on the poker game Friday night?” Goldie sat down in a chair next to him.
“I’ve gotta work.”
“We’re playing at ten.”
Ink set the shot glass in front of Crow and hurried back to the bar.
“I’m closing. Sorry.” He threw back the shot and then sucked on a lime wedge.
“What the fuck’shedoing here?” Eagle asked, glaring past Crow’s shoulder.
He spun around and saw the sheriff standing by the wooden front door. Wexler turned toward him, and their eyes locked. Instinctively, Crow knew the badge wasn’t there to be a pain in the ass.
“Let’s throw his fuckin’ ass out,” Scorpio grumbled as he joined the table.
“I got this.” Crow stood up and strode over to the door. “You want to see me?”
The badge looked down at the floor then back up. “Let’s go outside. It’s too loud in here.”
“Okay.”
Smudges of lavender, coral, and orange blended together in the sky as the sun began its descent into the depths of the horizon. Crow stood with legs apart, arms crossed over his chest, and jaw tightened.
The badge cleared his throat and fidgeted with a set of keys in one hand. He shook his head and fixed his gaze on Crow.
“This is never easy to do … ” his voice trailed off into an inaudible mumble.
Crow stood ramrod straight and quiet as a graveyard.
“A couple of teenagers found Jim Lawlor’s body about ten miles from here.”
White-hot rage burned through his veins. He didn’t move a muscle or say a word.
“We were able to identify him by an expired driver’s license in his pocket and fingerprints. He had a few run-ins with law enforcement over the years in Denver and Pueblo.”
“Same killer as the others?”
