Tough Guy: A Hero Club Novel by Jamie K. Schmidt & Hero Club

Author:Jamie K. Schmidt & Hero Club [Schmidt, Jamie K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cocky Hero Club, Inc.
Published: 2021-02-20T16:00:00+00:00

Miles Carvello

“At least it’s not raining,” Highway grumbled.

I couldn’t even speak I was so angry. It was bad enough they evacuated my bar, but they also locked it down until the gas company sent someone out. It was hurry up and wait, so I sent the staff home, promising to pay them for the wasted night. Highway had decided to stay because he apparently thought I wanted the company.

I didn’t.

We were told to stand as far away from the building as possible. I went across the street and paced up and down in front of the pawn shop until the owner shooed me away. I settled for leaning against the bail bondsman’s wall and glared at the gas truck and the workers milling around trying to get a reading. They weren’t going to get one because there wasn’t a damn leak.

“This is bullshit. If we were on the Strip, we’d be back up again in the hour.”

Liu would have noticed if there had been a gas leak. Certainly, Highway would have. No, this had been an anonymous tip that was credible enough that the city cut the gas for the entire block and sent out an ambulance and a couple of squad cars until the gas company got there. Seeing the area cordoned off made me want to rip down and shred the tape. It reminded me of what Uncle Johnny’s club had looked like after the fire.

“Somebody’s fucking with us. I bet it’s those twat frat boys. I bet someone’s daddy is in on it.”

I grunted. It was possible.

“Did you pay protection to the Rivs?” Highway asked quietly.

That stopped me in my tracks. “No. They tried the gang shit with me two years ago. I told them to fuck off then and when they tried to make it ugly, I made it costly for them to continue on with the protection racket on my club. Leonidas and I have an understanding.”

Leonidas had a gang of thugs with their fingers in all sorts of nasty areas. Lucky for me, drugs paid off better than protection rackets.

Highway sniffed. “Then maybe it was these assholes”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of the pawn shop and the bail bondsman—“that called in the fake gas leak. They’re shelling out fifteen percent a week. Maybe they don’t like that you’re not.”

The pawn shop was owned by two German brothers who hated both Uncle Johnny’s club and, most recently, my club. They thought we cost them customers. I had told them if they kept the same hours as I did, they might pick up some business from tourists looking for quick cash. I remembered wanting to buy a laptop from them before I went off to Europe. My uncle bought me a brand-new one and told me to never give them a dime. The bail bonds office was owned by a snowbird from Massachusetts who couldn’t care less about anything but his skip tracers. I had thought about going into that line of work, but being a bouncer paid better.

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