Saturday Night at the Bucket O' Blood
by Scott Roche
Special Agent Dustin “Dusty” Rhodes threw back the shot of cheap bourbon like the pro he was. The roadhouse he and his partner Special Agent “Mustang” Sally Williams sat in was typical. Sawdust covered the floor to soak up beer and blood. Cracked oxblood vinyl covered the upholstery on the barstools and banquettes. The crowning glory was the stage corralled in chicken wire, held in place with raw two-by-fours.
Dusty looked out of place in his blue overplaid slacks and waistcoat, straight out of the 1940s. The wide, blood-red tie and crisp white dress shirt practically glowed in the dim light. He'd combed his dirty blond hair back into a Duck’s Ass and his ice blue eyes dared anyone to fuck with him. His compact 9mm sat snug in an ankle holster. The ivory-handled switchblade he always carried was tightly sheathed in black leather at the small of his back.
Sally looked more at home in blue jeans, a flannel long-sleeved shirt in purple plaid, and shit-kicker boots with silver points on their toes. She’d forgone a cowboy hat, her hair done in cornrows. She had a taser on her belt, hidden by the untucked shirt, and both of their Glock 19s in her oversized backpack purse.
As Sally sucked on a frozen virgin pina colada, she took in the bar via the mirror. They’d both gotten their share of looks since they’d been here. So far, no one had taken what was pretty obvious bait. They didn’t belong here. The Bucket O’ Blood was one hundred percent white and one hundred percent straight. That was more than could be said of either special agent. Still, the bartender had given them their drinks and charged them double without batting an eye.
Dusty sipped his ice-cold, watered-down piss beer then returned the glass to its coaster.
“Bartender.” He pulled a folded twenty-dollar bill from his pants pocket, hidden behind a picture. “Have you seen this man tonight? Goes by the name of Wren.”
He slid the picture and the bill across the bar.
The bartender didn’t touch the offering. “Don’t know anyone by that name. He doesn’t look familiar.” The drink slinger didn’t look to be the brightest bulb in the joint. He had more teeth than IQ points. “Could be you’re in the wrong place.”
Dusty took back the picture and the twenty. “Oh, we’re in the right place.” He grabbed his beer and swiveled in the chair. It was nearing nine o’clock on a Saturday night and the place was starting to hop. The six pool tables were full, at least four people circling the orbit of each one. A dozen couples were grinding on the dance floor to some rockabilly. The rest were sitting at tables scattered around the stage. The band was due to go on any minute.