The Accomplice by Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson

Author:Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2024-09-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Mr. Katz

Mr. Katz is on his third beer, and there isn’t much left in the bottom of the glass. He rarely drinks on the job, but today has been a special kind of fucked-up. Being in the biker bar might be a strange choice, especially when the walls are covered in Corbin Duchamp campaign posters, but Mr. Katz isn’t bothered by the atmosphere, the tribalism: biker club flags, colored bandannas, and license plates are nailed to the walls. The jukebox plays Patsy Cline, the Allman Brothers Band, and Toby Keith. Despite his deep love for classical music, Mr. Katz’s finds country songs amusing, particularly when they end in payback.

His cell phone vibrates. Another message from Dice, checking on things. Mr. Katz should call him back, but he can hold off until the gig turns around for the better.

“Another beer?” the bartender asks. He’s an older white man with sun-burnished skin and a long beard like the wizards from Harry Potter, which Mr. Katz watched on a plane once.

“Keep them coming.”

“One of those days, huh?” The bartender pours a dark ale into a frosty glass. “I had plenty of them in my day.”

Mr. Katz notices the bartender's tattoos: an eagle on fire, a rebel flag, and a skull with fangs. Getting inked is risky, so he’s avoided it. People remember tattoos more than faces; it’s better to be forgettable in his line of work.

“It’s a question of failure,” Mr. Katz says. “No one wants to fail, yet it’s sure to happen on a long enough timeline.”

“And sometimes it’s just about knowing when to quit. You know, like after four beers.”

“I know my limit.”

“Not so sure you do, pal. Time to close out. That’ll be twelve, even.”

Mr. Katz reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and removes a twenty-dollar bill. “Here,” he says, sliding the money to the bartender.

“How much do you want back?”

“Keep it,” Mr. Katz says. “We aren’t long for this world.”

“Speak for yourself, pal. I plan to live forever.”

“Lofty goal.”

“I’m talking eternal life, brother. But there’s only one way to achieve that.” He exhibits a tattooed cross on his forearm depicting a crucified Jesus—white skin, flowing blond locks.

“Fucking ridiculous.”

“Say what?”

“Jesus wasn’t Scandinavian.”

“Doesn’t matter what he looked like. It’s about what he can do for you, brother.”

“Are you trying to convert me at a bar? I don’t know if I should laugh or be offended.”

“Feel how you want, but you’re my brother in Christ. Doesn’t matter if you believe or not.”

Mr. Katz reaches into his shirt and reveals the Star of David around his neck. “I’m taken,” he says. “By the big bad Zionists.”

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t have done that,” the bartender says. “How about you finish that beer and head on out?”

“Gladly,” Mr. Katz says, gulping the ale. When he finishes, he slams the glass on the table. “Finito.”

“Look, asshole. I’m not standing for any of your bullshit.” The bartender reaches for the glass. Mr. Katz quickly wraps his fingers around his wrist and digs his thumbnail into the skin between the bartender’s thumb and index finger.

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