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enough. Just a wife checking on her late husband. But Angie knew, even through
her fuzzy haze, that calling Buck from her phone was out of the question. The
alcohol, however, had helped her rationalize that if she used a public
phone…
    So once more, she slipped to the back of the bar, found more
coins, and dialed his cell from the pay phone. The same four buzzes, then his
voice mail. “Hello, you’ve reached my mobile number. Since I can’t take calls
right now, you know what to do. You can also try my office number…”
    Same old yada yada. As the night came on, her anger veered
toward a sick, depressed feeling. Like rocks in her stomach. That was how she
had described it as a child, when she’d made the mistake of talking to a DHS
case worker. The dull woman with bad dentures and a sickly sweet lavender smell
had found it easier to go with her stepfather’s story of an out-of-control teen
than believe a foul-mouthed kid, it turned out. It had made Angie feel like a
chewed up chicken bone, tossed to the ground. So she had lived with rocks in
her stomach until she ran away at fifteen.
    Disgusted, she threw money down on the bar and wandered out
into the deserted street. She didn’t know whether she wanted to cry or kill
somebody.
    The storefronts were dark except for one at the end of the
street—the Crazy Horse Saloon. Music from there poured out onto the sidewalks.

Chapter 21
    Under his smelly hood, Buck heard the garage door scrape
open. Meatface and Jorge’s feet hit the ground as they jumped up.
    Through a wall of pain, he’d been listening to them talk
nonstop pussy and bitch about their busted up hands from the beating they’d
given him. He had felt like telling them to come over and check out what was
left of his face.
    Blood had dried up in his nose and he was back to struggling
for a decent breath. He was afraid even if the hood came off he wouldn’t be
able to see. It hurt even to blink his swollen lids.
    A raw fear had gripped him since the moment he’d been
grabbed in the alley. These guys were paid muscle, no one to reason with. Maybe
he could figure out a way to approach the anorexic Twigs, but she was even
scarier than the men.
    Buck knew he had been worse than stupid. It had been
reckless and dangerous not to check in with these people as soon as the sun
came up. He was sure now of some kind of invisible network that somehow relayed
his winnings even before he left the game at dawn.
    At first he had been terrified they would kill him. Then he
realized the situation was not that simple. They needed him alive to get their
money, but they would never let this pass before inflicting a tough lesson.
    The sound of bags being set down and then Twig’s dry raspy
voice announced, “Pizza and a twelve-pack, boys. Who’s hungry?”
    Jorge and Meatface scooted to her. “That’s why we’re in love
with you, jefe ,” Jorge said, slurring a little.
    “Dig in,” she said and strolled over to the couch. “How’s
our boy?” She pulled off Buck’s hood. “Wow, you fellows had yourselves quite a
Friday night, didn’t you?”
    “We had to bring him back around three times,” Meatface
offered. “Our Sooner honcho has lost his stamina.”
    “You said call you while he can still talk,” Jorge said.
    Twigs stood over Buck. “Hey, look at me, High Roller.” Buck
just sat, head drooped.
    Suddenly Meatface, waving a pizza slice in one hand, scooted
over and whopped him upside the head. “Hey, show the lady some fuckin’ respect
when she tells you somethin’.”
    “It’s okay, sweetie,” Twigs said to Meatface. “Enjoy your
pizza.” Then she sat beside Buck and spoke low, intimately, with him.
    “The boys get a little excited sometimes when I let them
loose. Looks like they went a little overboard.” She looked back up at them.
“You give him the ‘ludes?”
    “Sure thing,” Jorge said a little too quickly. In fact, his
eyes looked like he’d taken them himself.
    “Alrighty then.