Bad Move, Tim

"Who the fuck is this guy?" Rick Santos put down the bottle of beer he had been nursing and eyed the new arrival to Rackers, the pool hall he considered his office. He didn't normally pay attention to every new person who walked into the bar, he paid guys to do that for him. But this guy was different. He was having a hard time putting his finger on what it was that drew his eye; the new arrival was flashier than a normal visitor to Rackers, wearing high heeled sandals and a short, tight red dress that showed off the underside of his tits, maybe that was it. Maybe it was the way the guy's date was scanning the room, as if she was assessing every person in the bar, considering who was a threat and who wasn't. Or maybe it was the way that one of the two big guys at the door that Rick paid to keep the riffraff out were currently showing the new guy to Rick's table, while the other was running to the bar to get him a drink.

"I dunno," T-Bar, Rick's childhood-friend-turned-lieutenant said, climbing to his chubby legs, "Lemme find out."

T-bar's real name was Tony, same age as Rick, but either due to genetics or the amount of stress he carried (mostly in his gut), seemed to have aged significantly faster than Rick. For a guy who spent his free time polishing his '76 Firebird, treating it like it was his baby, T-bar was a real rage-aholic. Back in the early days of his career, T-Bar had been an invaluable asset since Rick didn't have much of a stomach for hand's-on dirty work. Nobody pushed T-Bar around. Well, nobody but Rick. Rick was the only one that T-Bar felt threatened by. They were friends, but when Rick turned on the heat, T-Bar backed down. But with everyone else, T-Bar could be dangerous. If Rick wasn't careful, T-Bar was likely to flatten the newcomer for looking at him the wrong way.

Not that Rick would care much either way.

"That's close enough, short-stuff," T-Bar said, cracking his knuckles like a stereotype from a gangster movie. He fit the bill, overweight, balding, tracksuit, gold chains, so might as well lean into it.

The new guy stopped and crossed his arms under his tits. How some guys walked around with hooters as big as those was beyond Rick. The guy's back problems must have back problems.

"I'm here to speak to Rick Santos," the new guy said in a high-pitched, slightly nasal voice, the sound of a man who was used to being in charge weighted on it, "Just talk, that's it."

"Tim," his date, a hot black chick in tight jeans said in a low voice, "maybe we should go."

"No," the new guy, Tim, squeaked with finality, “We’re staying to talk.”

That shut the woman up. Rick could tell that this guy meant business. He looked the newcomer up and down. His smooth, hairless legs looked impressive thanks to the stilettos he wore in his dainty feet, not to mention how high the hemline was in his red dress. Thin waist, thin arms, it all added up to mean a man who wanted to make more than an impression. He wanted to intimidate.

“Mister Santos don’t want to talk to you,” T-Bar said, squaring his shoulders and making a fist.

“Have a seat, big guy,” the new man said in a singsong tone.

T-Bar obeyed, returning to his seat with a grunt. Rick would have been angry, but he heard the tone in the man’s voice. It was so commanding, so authoritative, it would be difficult to resist an order.

“I want to talk about Martina Delgado.”

Before he knew it, a guffaw of laughter had leapt out of Rick’s mouth. That unlucky chick made his life so much easier! All those bodies, all those deals, all would land on her head. Rick would be in the clear for years to come, not having to worry about the law, and any heat he'd had on him would disappear. All he’d had to do was slip a few bills into the hands is a couple detectives and a prosecutor, and abracadabra! All his legal problems just vanished in puff of smoke!

“Never heard of her,” Rick said, composing himself, “now get the fuck out of my bar.”

T-Bar laughed at that. The newcomer shot him a look, which quieted the big man down.

"I know you have," this Tim guy said, "and you need to help her out. She's innocent, and you need to turn yourself in."

Rick was about to jump up and slug the guy, but then he paused. There was something in what he was saying that made so much sense. Maybe he was right. He'd only met Martina a few times, but she didn't deserve what she was getting. She had her whole life ahead of her. If Rick would just go to the police station and confess..

NO! What the fuck was that?! Rick was no idiot. He knew what he had built, he knew what kind of man he was. There was no way he was going to get some clown walk into his bar and tell him how to do business. With his right hand, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his Ruger, placing in on the table in front of him.

"I don't know who you think you are, you piece of shit," Rick said, "But if you're not out of my bar in the next ten seconds, you and your girlfriends are going to be carried out in a body bag."

"Tim!" the black chick said through gritted teeth, "Let's go!"

"No!" Tim squeaked, "You, Rick Santos, are going to put that gun away and go turn yourself in."

This guy had some balls, but Rick was well past admiring the guts of an idiot who didn't know what was good for him. Yes, part of him wanted nothing more than to put the gun away and turn himself in. It made sense, and this guy seemed to know what he was talking about, but that part was squashed by the larger, angrier voice in Rick's mind that told him that anyone who came into Rick's bar and tried to throw his weight around like this asshold deserved to die.

He picked up the gun and aimed it square at the newcomer's face. Already the bartender was rushing to the front door to throw the lock and draw the blinds. No good having witnesses. Sure, the cleaners wouldn't like the mess he was about to make, but it wouldn't be the first time they'd have to put in some overtime. Besides, they were getting paid, weren't they? The look of uncertainty in the newcomer's eyes, quickly changing to panic, made it worth every penny he was about to spend as Rick began to squeeze the trigger.

There was no crack of the gun going off, though. In fact, there was no sound at all. Everything, all of time itself, with the exception of Tim, had come to a standstill.