Here's a sneak peek at SMUGGLER'S BLUES:
“Captain Logan,” a voice boomed to
his left drawing his attention. A corpulent man who was sweating
bullets through his velvet waistcoat held out a pudgy,
sausage-fingered hand.
Logan took it and firmly pumped it
twice before letting go. “You must be Mr. Boudreaux. Pleasure to
meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.” The man’s
eyes held a wolfish gleam, one Logan was not entirely comfortable
with.
“And please, call me Big Daddy. Everyone does.”
Big Daddy’s hand came to rest on
Logan’s shoulder, a toothy grin wrinkled the fat man’s veined
cheeks.
Removing the offending hand, Logan
shook his head. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick with
Mr. Boudreaux.”
“Daddy issues?” The man laughed and
snorted.
“You could say that.”
“You can call me whatever you like,
just don’t call me late for dinner.”
Logan forced a smile on his face.
“Shall we adjourn to my private
booth?”
Leaning over to Jacques, Logan spoke in
his first mate’s ear. “If I’m not back in an hour, come rescue
me.”
“Oui, mon capitaine. “
Jacques threw back a shot.
Logan followed the fat man. “Mr
Boudreaux, how is it that you run such an obvious nightclub in the
RSA without getting raided and shut down?”
“Captain, I run six such clubs. All
it takes is a lot of friends and a lot of bribes.”
Well that made sense. Logan had bought
himself out of a scrape or two, but this…this club offered every
manner of excess and debauchery. It flew in the face of all the
Reformers supposedly held sacred. The body was a temple, sobriety,
piety and chastity being their own reward. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Judging from the crowd, there were plenty of Reformed Americans more
than ready to befoul their temples.
Big Daddy led the way upstairs to a
loft space that held a small bar manned by a bartender who stood at
the ready, an enormous horseshoe shaped booth and was staffed by five
of the most stunning showgirls Logan had ever seen. The redhead in
the group fluttered her fingers at him, a flirtatious hello. Logan
dipped his head, trying to be polite.
“I see you like my private stock.”
Big Daddy huffed, scooting in to the booth.
“To be honest, it’s all a bit rich
for my blood.” Logan took a seat on the opposite end of the
horseshoe.
“Is it now? I must’ve gotten some
bad information. I’ve heard Captain Loco Logan is quite the wild
man.”
The flirty showgirl set a double shot
of bourbon in front of Logan and some sort of pink mixed drink in
front of Big Daddy. She stood next to Logan, bouncing to the strains
of music that filtered up from downstairs.
“It’s true, I used to be, but I’m
just an old married man now.”
“Hell, live a little son.” Big
Daddy motioned for the girl to get closer to Logan which she hurried
to do. “Just cuz you’re on a diet don’t mean you can’t sample
the menu.”
“I don’t think that’s how the
saying goes.”
The man’s snorting laughter alone
made Logan feel dirty, but the girl’s hand skittering up his thigh
made him feel even worse. How old was she? Maybe eighteen or nineteen
at best?
He caught her hand, shaking his head.
“Young lady, I am old enough to be your father.”
“This is Mabel. She has daddy issues
too so it’s all right, Captain. What happens at The Tailfeather—”
“Would get me kicked out of my own
house and rightfully so.” Logan interrupted. “What’s say we get
down to business, Mr. Boudreaux.”
“What ever you’d like, Captain.”
With a flick of his hand, Big Daddy dismissed the girl. “Just
trying to show you a good time.”
“I get that, but like I said, I’m
just on old married man these days.” Logan took a pull from his
glass. The smooth bourbon warmed his chest.
“Gotcha.” Big Daddy took a sip of
his drink. “So here’s what’s on the table.”
The man went on to detail the
complicated supply chain from his distillery in Republic occupied
Gulfland to the seven clubs he owned in the RSA. All were located
along the Gulf Coast between New Orleans and Tampa. He’d had a
steady source for two years until last month when said importer ran
afoul of a Reformer AK47.
“The work isn’t without its risks,”
Big Daddy drawled, “which is why I’m willing to pay good money.”
“What’s good money to you?”
“Twenty thousand Republic credits a
month.”
“Fifty.”
“Oh you’ll have to do a lot more
for me than run moonshine for that kind of money, Captain.
Twenty-five.”
“Thirty-five and I’ll make the
drops to each of your clubs. That way you don’t have to move the
stuff over land.”
Big Daddy mulled it over. “Fine.
Thirty-five…if my shipments are on time and in tact.”
“Don’t worry about that. I run a
tight crew. They’ll be no barrels that come up missing.”
“I’ve heard that about you. I’ve
also heard you go where other men fear to tread. You come highly
recommended.”
“I get the job done.”
“Then we have an agreement.” Big
Daddy held out his hand. Logan shook it brusquely, releasing as
quickly as he could.
“I’ll need first month’s payment
up front.”
“Mabel, bring Daddy his briefcase
from the safe and another round of drinks. We have some celebrating
to do.”
A half-hour later Logan descended the
stairs, a brand new duffel bag stuffed with Republic credits in tow.
Jacques greeted him with a sly smile.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“It is…and then some. I got the
motherfucker for thirty-five.”
His grin broadening, Jacques crowed,
“Laissez les bons temps roulez.”
“Yeah, except let’s get the hell
out of here and to a real bar.” Logan settled his black Stetson on
his head and sauntered toward the door.
___________________________________________________
Look for SMUGGLER'S BLUES releasing later this year at Ellora's Cave
Haven't read book one LANDLOCKED?
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