Page 30 of The B!tch is Bad

Town swiped his palms from side to side. No Patience.

I held her hand and kissed her on the cheek. “We’ll take care of this asswad.”

She remained firm. “I don’t want him ever, ever going back to Fingerhut. Find out what was on his phone, how much he told Fingerhut already.”

“Got you.” I wondered if my smile was assuring enough.

I entered the windowless room just as Ford, at the head of the U-shaped table, banged a gavel. I took the only empty chair toward the door next to Slayer and Gray Whaley, a newly patched member. Gray flew to LA a lot as an extra in films, but when here he ran the Hip Quiver, the club’s archery range. The elders ringed Ford, and members became smaller in stature as they neared the door. Me being the most insignificant.

Collapsing in a chair in the corner by Ford was good ol’ Joe King. Battered about the face with grape-tinged bruises blooming, his skull slumped on his shoulder. Good. Maybe they’d beaten some intel from him.

Ford yelled, “I motion to pump this nozzle for any and all information. Why he’s following Patience. Who sent him. Funkhauser, what did you find?”

Funkhauser had been the one in the elk corral kicking Joe King. His forked beard wobbling, he said, “This dirtbag is like nailing Jell-o to a wall, but I got the info that a weird asshat named Paul Fingerhut sent him from Oklahoma.” Fingerhut from Oklahoma. We were right. “His wife is Constant Azarin, otherwise known in P and E as Patience Bedford.”

Ford butted in. “We uphold everyone’s right to privacy. We assume Patience had a good reason for ghosting Fingerhut and coming here. But this tracker, this fucking narc, we can’t have him in our turf. And he knows too much to go back to his own.”

To my shock, Ford leaned a little and addressed me. “Creed Trucks. We have great respect for you, running that amazing vineyard in Seeker Valley. Your wines are the top sellers here.” He grinned, easing the formality. “You even got Lytton talking about peppery Cabs, and Tuzigoot wants to start a blind tasting club.”

Tuzigoot nodded. “Yeah. You put the bottles in plain brown paper bags and number them, then you write your critiques on cards.”

“Right,” agreed Duji. “Say things like ‘with legs like a six-foot stripper.’”

“It has the ruby hue of a horrific crime scene,” added Faux Pas.

I couldn’t fucking believe they were sitting here discussing blind tastings while this informant lingered in the corner. What the fuck were we gonna do with this moron? He’d utterly lost the pristine Chalamet vibe and now was a beaten, boneless goon sliding down his chair. Was he even alive?

Slayer stood, taking the floor. “Outlaw code says we must bring a gun to a knife fight. Let God do the accounting when it’s over.”

Everyone nodded and murmured, at what exactly, I wasn’t sure. So I raised my hand and stood, uncertain of the protocol. “Men, men. My beloved’s life is at stake here. I agree with not letting this douchebag return to Oklahoma. Did anyone get his phone? How much has he told the Oklahoma scumbag?”

Funkhauser rose, fumbling a cell from his inner cut pocket. “We got it. Our tech guy Tobiah looked at it, did whatever dweebs do. Fact, Joe King did keep Fingerhut informed of Patience’s every move.”

My heart dropped. I mean, I really felt it hit the floor in the soles of my feet. “Then what’s to stop—”

“We redirected Fingerhut.” Wolf Glaser got up. Today his belt only clattered with a clip-on pepper spray and taser. He’d left the bottled water and dildo behind for this dignified event. “We—well, mostly me—texted him a ton of misleading info from Joe King’s phone. Stuff like, ‘Here I am in New Orleans eating some po’boys and gumbo. Look at this picture of your wife nearby, also eating gumbo.’” He chuckled with satisfaction. “But it was really Patience at Pictures of Lily eating shish kebab.”

Most men chuckled along, some raised questions, and I yelled the loudest. “Wait a minute, Wolf. I’m presuming Joe King already told Fingerhut which winery Patience was really in.”

Wolf spoke earnestly. “Yeah, like I said, misdirection. We last texted this morning with no photos, just saying we were following her into the Everglades going fishing.”

“Fishing?” I spat. “For what? Crocodiles?”

Some men protested that you could nab pretty good crappy, bluegill, and even stone crabs in the Everglades. Some told Wolf he was stupid.

Ford banged his gavel to silence everyone. “Wolf. I think the basic question now is, can’t Fingerhut just ping King’s phone and find out where he really is? This leads to your next official run. You’re taking that phone on a little road trip to New Orleans and Florida or wherever the fuck you told Fingerhut you are.”

Men roared and clapped. Many howled “whoo!” Sock Monkey pointed at Wolf and shouted, “Rock on with your bad self!”

Ford yelled, “And you’re taking Tobiah with you for tech skills.”

Wolf morphed from crestfallen to proud the more men clapped for him. Fist pumping, he declared, “I am the champion, my friends! I’ll keep on fighting ‘til the end!”

Meanwhile, I hadn’t noticed Town opening the only door leading back to the Bum Steer’s bar. I was so enraptured by the drama unfolding before me, it wasn’t until Patience grabbed my sleeve that I spun to see her.

I’d witnessed her in many phases of distress and worry, but never like this. In fact, she was yanking my sleeve to get me out of the way so she could shriek at Joe King. He remained mostly unresponsive in his bloody chair, but his eyes opened under their swollen hoods.

“You scumbag! You complete and utter fuckwad! Do you know what you’ve done? Fingerhut is an abusive rapist, a massively sadistic, cruel butcher! And you’re helping him track me down? I hope you feel proud of yourself, you scummy scum-sucking rat bastard. How would you feel if it was your girlfriend being raped, punched, tied to a chair and left for dead? Oh wait, you do feel like that, now that this upstanding club has given you a taste of your own medicine.”