Joe flicked a speck of detergent from the mug and continued polishing. He remembered all the movies that had bartenders polishing mugs and realized it was no bullshit, he was always polishing or dusting.
The bar had a big crowd this afternoon. Low conversations spattered across the tables. Joe scanned over the patrons, making sure everyone behaved themselves, knowing they would. Sam Phillips walked over to the bulletin board and pinned up a note to sell stolen merchandise. Joe didn’t hate Sam, which was high praise from Joe. Sam was a dirtbag, but a smart one that wasn’t afraid to get dirty. He was a garbage man in Vegas. While making rounds, he took mental note of which houses had thrown away boxes for expensive electronics, power tools, perfume, or anything of value. He’d come back when the residents were away and load up a truck. The bulletin board where he tacked the note was notorious among the underground. Pinned to it were wanted posters, job offers, and job needed notes in an array of illegal activity. The posters were proudly updated by their subjects when bounties increased. Wanted posters had a different purpose in the bar; they gave handlers something to survey. Joe and others used them to splice together teams of gunmen or thieves; though most avoided men on the FBI's hot list.
Joe provided an invaluable service to the criminal element. His bar was for bad guys—all bad guys, all the time. It served as a much needed stop between Reno and Las Vegas where money could change hands, plans could be made, personnel could be hired or a wanted man could lay low and have drink. Being in the desert and far off the highway, wanderers did not drift in. Most importantly, it was neutral ground for any lowlife, crook, con-artist or gunman in the business. Rival mobs and gangs had to put their animosity on hold while in one another's presence. Joe upheld the neutrality with only his presence, almost majesty. Nobody wanted to face him, and not because he was a valuable asset. The stories were Joe’s favorite part of his bar. Everyone had a theory about Joe’s past. When asked, he wouldn’t confirm or deny anything.
Everyone knew that Joe had Nevada in his pocket and inexhaustible funds. No one knew when he built the bar or how he got his money. In Joe’s favorite story about his past he had gotten his fortune by killing and assuming the identity of some Euro-prat. There was also one about him being a computer pirate that ripped off the government for billions. He was a psycho blackmailer once; that was cute. He overheard that he was a war profiteer in Vietnam that smuggled drugs into the country in soldiers’ coffins. Joe wished he had thought of it, but he didn’t.
The guys who really mattered, the gunmen, knew everything they needed to know about him. They ignored stories and observed him. They could tell he had killed before. Many times. It was an immediate recognition between all gunmen. It was always in the eyes, the way a guy surveyed a room, looked over his shoulder, observed reflections, watched his flanks. When one of them would come into Joe’s bar, he saw the recognition in their movements of the eyes and shoulders. A series of glances between them and the important information was exchanged: Joe was dangerous. It was atmosphere, mood; “vibe” they called it. That’s why Joe liked gunmen the best—no bullshit. Ever.
Joe was looking forward to today. His two favorite gunmen were coming. And they had money for him. Joe sponsored a Job for the pair in Tijuana. For a cut of profit, Joe ensured the authorities stay away. Nobody but Joe knew how he pulled it off.
Desert heat swirled in behind them, kicking sand at Butch and Sundance's heels.
"Well, well, well!" Joe yelled from behind the bar. "Lookie what the Tijuana whore dragged in! How was Meh-hee-co, boys?"
"Took a bullet," Butch said.
"Took two," Sundance added and winced.
Joe apparently found this much funnier than the other two because he belted laughter. Butch scowled and Sundance rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Butch said as he leaned on the counter. "Shut the Fuck up, fat boy. We got a job...needs three men since we're a bit banged up. Came to check the board." He pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the bar. "And here's your cut from Tijuana."
Joe counted his money. It was good, as it always was. Butch and Sundance were reliable business partners. Their leads were solid, they didn't double-cross, skim off the top or back out on deals. When Joe was finished counting, he stared intently at the two men before saying anything.
"You sure that's a good idea, takin' somethin' on in your condition?" Joe asked.
"Ain't got no choice. Now or never, y'know?"
Joe frowned and slightly shook his head. The boys were top notch gunmen with the Devil's luck, but they had a propensity for getting in over their heads; hence their names. They took on some of the most dangerous jobs in the business and somehow always managed to come out on top. But one day, if they kept overextending themselves, their luck would run out. Joe Hung around low life pieces-of-shit all day. Out of all of them, he liked these two the most. He didn't want them getting capped.
“Listen, don’t even go to the board.” Joe said. “I got the guy you need right over there. Name’s Mac.”
He pointed to a guy in the corner. Both Butch and Sundance recognized him as a regular of the place.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, that guy? The mute?” Sundance asked. “I’ve never seen him do anything except what he’s doing right now…look at him.”
Sundance threw his arm up towards Mac’s direction and winced when his wounds reminded him that they recently had bullets lodged in them.
Butch put his hand on Sundance’s shoulder to hold him still. “Settle down, Spaz.” Butch looked back to Joe, “What’s so special about him?”
Joe smiled, “Go ask him.”
Mac was clean-shaven and had well kept blonde hair. He wore an ordinary blue button up shirt and plain khaki pants. He was boring, typical and forgettable. The only thing that was atypical of him was his nonstop polishing of weapons. He was either cleaning a gun, tinkering with it, field stripping it and brushing the inner parts or adjusting, what seemed to be minor personal inconveniences of a particular firearm.
Butch and Sundance would sometimes watch the creepy fucker with vigilant fascination. He always cleaned guns and never talked. As a matter of fact, they weren’t really sure if Mac could talk. He never moved around on any given night and never seemed to be doing anything other than waiting for something to come his way.
Sundance rolled his eyes while clutching his side and got off the barstool. Butch felt the same way, but didn’t show it as he made his way over to Mac’s table. They had to humor Joe. Butch tried to talk as soon as he got within speaking distance. “Hey man, we were told to ask—"
Mac cut him off by handing him a packet of stapled paper that he’d pulled out of a briefcase when he saw them walking over. Mac never took his eyes off his immaculately cleaned and customized .45.
Puzzled, Butch examined the paper and Sundance looked over his shoulder. Sundance realized quickly that it was some sort of résumé. A résumé for a gunman? They glanced sideways at each other and turned back to the packet
It was neat and organized. It was mapped out in sections such as skills, where it listed what weapons Mac was sufficient or adept with. It was interesting, enthralling when Butch turned to the ‘Job Experience’ section. Page by page, as they examined the résumé, Butch’s eyes got narrower and Sundance’s got wider. Nearly every event listed was of some sort of respected story or legend.
“Holy Shit…that was you?” Sundance said as he reached over Butch and pointed at the paper, “Jesus Christ, I was in Europe and heard about that.” Still not quite believing it, he turned around to Joe for verification. Joe was already nodding and smiling. Butch was a little pissed off that someone claimed to be better than him. Sundance was already counting three ways in his head.
“Fine,” Butch said as he tossed the résumé onto the table, “Here’s the deal. We’re knocking over a drug exchange: two parties, lotsa guns, lotsa cash. You in?”
Mac holstered his .45 and nodded.
“Alright, we split it three ways if you don’t screw it up and get us killed. The two parties are very dangerous and very big time. The party arriving with the moolah has the most guns, so we wait ‘til the cases change hands. We’re going just for the cash, one and a half mil. Sundance here and I will go after the cash. We wait ‘til the party with the drugs gets some distance from the money party and then take them down.
“These two groups have been doing business together since the late nineties. They have a good business relationship and they want to keep it that way. So, once the party with the drugs hears gunfire, they come a runnin’. We need you to pin them down so we’ve got some breathing room to grab the money. Clear?”
Mac nodded.
“Do you every say anything?”
Mac nodded.
Butch hung his head and sighed. “Lets go.”
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