Jimbo smiled at Slick Steve like a hungry crocodile. Slick Steve was tall and rangy. His size usually was intimidation enough for most people, but Jimbo wasn’t most people. Jimbo was not only big; years of hard labor at the docks had made him as dangerous as a crazed bull. The only hint that he was about to explode was the twitch in his left eye every time his jaw clenched. The twitch was the result of a deadly brawl at the docks.
Jimbo’s left eye was nearly closed shut from the spasm of his anger at Slick Steve. Jimbo didn’t like the effect Steve’s meth was having on Tina and it was beginning to get under his skin. Slick Steve had long ago learned the lesson of Jimbo’s angry twitch and it scared the livin’ shit out of him. He moved around to the other side of the bar. The distance afforded little protection from Jimbo, who could easily reach across and yank Slick Steve over the bar. But it gave him some time to try and cool down the situation.
Slick Steve didn’t have much going for him except the gift of gab. “Look, Jimbo,” he said cautiously, “we don’t need to create a scene here. Bandit don’t like it. Hey, Tina, why don’t you pour our friend here a beer on the house.” Slick Steve busied himself with cleaning glasses as Tina nervously spilled beer into a frosted mug. “Oh, shit,” Tina spat as half the beer foamed over the top of the mug.
Jimbo spotted a ring of crank powder around her right nostril and pulled a clean bandanna from his hip pocket. “Clean up that nose,” Jimbo said, turning his attention to the shaking speed freak. She nodded and took the bandanna, handing him the tall brew. His voice changed to a softer tone. “What the hell are you doing hanging around with that loser?” Jimbo jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Slick Steve. The motion made Slick Steve jump almost as much as the crashing trash can had earlier.
“Jimbo, I gotta’ pull two shifts. I need the money for rent. I’ll be working ’til closing.” Tina said it as if it were an excuse for using the drugs.
“Look, I don’t mean to mess in your business. It’s your fuckin’ life, but if you need me…” Jimbo knew he wasn’t going anywhere with Tina. She was lost in her own destruction. All he could do was hope she would come to her senses.
Jimbo knew that if Steve wasn’t around she’d find another source of speed, but he still couldn’t stand the bastard. There was something about the loser that gave him the chills.
“I ain’t got nuthin’ to do with her problems. I got problems of my own,” Slick Steve butted in. Thinking better of it, he moved to the other end of the bar, busying himself with stacking mugs in the cooler.
“What the hell is that weasel talking about?” Jimbo jerked his head toward the retreating Slick Steve.
“I don’t exactly know, but a lot of weird stuff is going on around the Cantina lately.” Tina was glad the conversation had turned away from her. “I mean, Slick Steve got shot at last night by some kind of sniper with a bad aim.”
“Too bad he missed.”
“That and them Chinese guys and Marko acting a little more on edge than usual,” Tina said as she cleaned the tables.
“I know,” Jimbo said since he had been around during a couple of the daytime shootings. Something deep in his marrow told him that Steve was at the core of the problems, but he couldn’t pinpoint anything and didn’t care to. His concern was the girl bending seductively over the checkered table, wiping it down.
The feeling of tension had eased a bit for Tina, with Slick Steve and Jimbo at opposite ends of the Cantina. A customer waved his arm at her from a table and she walked over to find out what he wanted. She took his food order and strolled into the kitchen. The Chinaman had always been like a father to all the girls and he nodded to her as she handed him the food ticket.
“Keep your distance from bartender,” the Chinaman said.
“What happened the other night, Chinaman, sir?” Tina asked.
“It may be that his business is in the wrong territory,” he said. The Chinaman showed Tina the chicken bone charm. “Do you know what this means?” the Chinaman asked softly, losing the sing-song dialect he used as a sign of deference.
“Not a clue,” Tina responded carefully. “It looks very primitive. Is it some kind of Chinese voodoo?” Tina looked from the charm to the Chinaman’s face then back at the charm.
“It may mean death,” the Chinaman said. “Yes, in a way it’s a kind of voodoo charm. Actually it’s an identification of a tong or clan and a warning. It’s not a chicken bone. It’s the little finger of one of the elder clan members. That used to be the way a man demonstrated his loyalty and dedication to the clan, by cutting off his own finger in front of other clansmen. This was one of the tests of dedication to the clan in the old days. You don’t see much of this nowadays. But traditions linger.”
“I don’t like the looks of this,” the Chinaman continued gravely. “It may mean someone is marked for death or, even more dangerous, a turf war is about to begin in the harbor.”
“What does it mean to us?” Tina interjected.
“I don’t know,” the Chinaman said as the tossed fajitas mix on the grill and stirred it with a wooden spoon. “Hopefully we find before too late. Be careful!”
The Cantina had quieted down as the lunch crowd paid its bills and went back to the docks. There was a light breeze, but nothing could dispel the weight of dread and anticipation.
Jimbo finished his beer and noticed that Tina was suddenly friendlier. She’d made some distance between her and the slippery bartender, but Jimbo also noticed Steve slipped out the back door momentarily with a couple of dock working customers.
The ‘high-classed’ hypes were appreciative of his dependability and the quality of his goods, and were bringing friends around without hesitation. Steve seemed to delight in his new business.
Officer Hernandez strolled into the Cantina and a trickle of sweat ran down Slick Steve’s back. He was an idiot who felt his business was without responsibility. He looked around the room for Marko, and even to Jimbo as if they would come to his rescue.
