The Rented Mule Read Online Free Page B

napkin and walked off. He laid a twenty next to the bottle.
    He lit a third match, held it with his right hand and drank his beer using his left.
    A tipsy blonde walked over and blew out the match, and then started singing “Happy Birthday” to him… until he finally convinced her to stop. She stared into his eyes and smiled. He admired her skintight cut-off blue jeans and equally tight white tank top as he returned the smile, but he was too edgy about his meeting to successfully flirt.
    He lit a fourth match and held it up. And so it went.
    While holding up the seventh and continuing to keep an eye on the blonde, the biker came back and laid a note in front of him.
    “Read it and burn it,” he mumbled as he leaned over the bar and grabbed a brown bottle from the beer box. “Put it on his tab,” he instructed the bartender pointing a massive finger at the nervous guy lighting matches and then disappeared into the crowd.
    Excited that he made contact, he turned over the napkin and read the scribbled instructions.
    The person he was supposed to meet was across the street at Zeke’s Marina on the boat
Mo’ Money
. He reread the instructions before laying the crumpled note in the ashtray. He dropped a burning match on top, watching it slowly incinerate. Never thinking about his tab, he stood to leave and then with a sudden rush of paranoia quickly started pushing his way toward the exit. He glanced at the energetic blonde dancing alone and wondered if she was undercover. Innate cockiness overrode suspicion, so he determined that she had just found him attractive. He winked.
    “Happy Birthday!” she yelled loud enough to be heard over everyone in the bar, singing along to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.”
    He mouthed, “I’ll be back,” holding up one finger, signaling that he wouldn’t be gone too long.
    He was excited, and this was just as he expected. A professional criminal wouldn’t talk shop in a crowded bar where someone could hear his conversation.
Nice form
, he thought.
    He pulled his BMW into the marina’s parking lot, and as he walked away, he locked the doors with his key fob. He heard the
chirp, chirp
. Heading toward the large fishing boats, he checked his pockets for his necessities.
    The piers were long deserted. All the boats were washed down and ready for the next day’s activities. The crews were most likely drinking at the Flora-Bama or at some less touristy watering hole. At the end of the longest pier, he saw a gaudy yellow cigarette-type boat. Almost halfway down the pier, he could see the name
Mo’ Money
painted on its transom. He slowly walked to where she was moored. Looking around carefully, he didn’t see anyone on board. He despised boats unless someone else owned them. They were black holes that floated on water rather than in space.
    “Hello… I’m the Client,” he called toward the boat.
    “Yo, man, shut the hell up with that ‘Client’ shit!”
    The voice came from behind him. He jumped and then wheeled around to see the silhouette of a huge man standing on the back of another large boat.
    “I got the note,” he volunteered, not really knowing what to say but compelled to fill the silence.
    After a long moment, “Pat him down,” came from the big shadow of a man.
    Another much smaller guy appeared and searched the Client with an electronic wand, after frisking him. He found the revolver and took it, but failed to find any form of active or passive surveillance.
    “He’s clean now, Dog,” the small man said as he stepped back onto the boat. He emptied the cartridges into the water and tossed the gun back to its owner.
    “What the hell did ya think you was gonna do with that piece?” the big man asked.
    “It’s for protection,” the Client sheepishly replied as he slid the gun into his pocket.
    “Bring another gun to a meet and you’ll need a proctologist to find it! You feel me?”
    “Yeah, uh… uh… I… I hear… I mean, yeah, I feel ya,”