Page 16 of A Handsome Devil

Alessio held his palms toward my roommate. “Not like it looks, Gunning.”

“Wait!” I yelled. “Yes. Yes, it is like it looks. Sorry, Gunning. We got carried away a bit.”

Alessio looked at me as if to say, “A bit?”

But Gunning was already calming down. He waved a dismissive hand at us. “No big deal, you guys. I’m just glad you made it back, Alessio.” He turned his shaded eyes to me. “I’ve got news about that tranq.”

It was Alessio who responded. “Tranq? That shit makes BB fillers.”

I frowned. “BB fillers?”

Gunning explained. “Body bag fillers. Dead people.” He tossed his head. “Cumon. Let’s go to the kitchen.” He must know more prison lingo than me.

We all filed out of there almost eagerly, like fans rustling into a Foo Fighters concert.

“Yeah,” I said, clutching Alessio’s sizzling shoulders. “Let’s get some coffee.”

“Fuck that,” said Gunning. “I’m having me a beer.”

CHAPTER SIX

Alessio

Standing by the open fridge door with eyebrows raised, Gunning gestured at me with a bottle of Modelo.

I didn’t want to feel pressed to ask Truman for permission. Wasn’t I the Dom in this relationship? Did I need his permission? Would it be all right if I indulged once in awhile on a substance that had not been my curse? It was another sublimely awkward moment in my recovery process—and there had already been thousands of them.

Truman shrugged, so I calmly took the bottle. I was heart warmed when he took a bottle too, and we sat at the breakfast table, a rectangle of sun lighting up Truman’s shoulder.

“Okay,” he said, once again the capable proprietor of The Establishment Club. “Who’s this dickwad selling tranq and killing people?”

Gunning’s face was firm. “Les Moore is the fucktard. Down in Barstow.”

Truman asked, “You think you can find him?”

“Fuck yeah. He runs an In-n-Out burger there.”

I had to say something. “Would he actually be there? Most owners aren’t really present at these franchises. It’s just side income for them.”

Truman nodded, lush lips grim. “Good point. Anything else on him?”

Gunning glanced at the floor. “Well…my informant talked to Les’ wife. She said he mowed the lawn, grilled something, went out to get cigarettes and never came back. He was later found living in an Econo Lodge.”

“Okay, well that’s a good start.”

Again I felt compelled to mention, “He can’t be that great of a drug dealer, living in an Econo Lodge.”

Truman frowned. “It’s enough to start on. I think I’ll take some time off work. You in for a cruise to Barstow, Gunning? We can get Dr. Hawk’s nephews to help him at the club. I want to nail these assholes in person.”

Gunning’s mouth fell open, like a crow eating a walnut. “Seriously? How are you gonna nail them? Shoot them?”

A heavy pause ensued. Truman had clearly not thought this through. “Well, I can tell them the government is onto them.”

A major lip fart exploded from my mouth. I think I even slapped the table. “You really think that’s advisable, bro? Even a low-level fiend like this Les Moore is entirely capable of just molly whopping you.” Was the beer getting to my feeble, clean brain? “Even if you go there strapped with Glocks, I know you’re not going to use them. And I hope you don’t.”

Truman and Gunning straightened their spines with the indignity of it all, but I’m sure they knew I was right. I didn’t want to piss off Truman. But I also didn’t want him killed. “Then what do you suggest?” he asked.

I couldn’t believe I said what I said. But I would honestly go to the wall for Truman. “Well. First of all, you get some road dogs a tad more frightening and capable than—excuse the shit out of me, Gunning—this sincere dingus.”