RATING: Adult for language and content
DISCLAIMER: The Bee has no rights or claim on any
of the characters or products named in this story and makes
no profit from them.
SUMMARY: This is the third story in the Rosebud/verse.
Tara has been abducted and the police rush to find her.
The other members of the Circle decide that they can do
a better job and begin their own investigation.
Who will find her first and will it be in time?
Huge thanks to Purpledodah for the amazing banner.
Whitey's was a dump. There was no nice way to put it. No
discreet terms or words existed that would improve the public's
perception of the business or it's clientele.
It sat at an end of town that no decent folk would intentionally
wander into unless they were making a quick weed buy or looking
to hire a hit man.
It was a bar.
Not a pub or a tavern, there was no food served there unless
you counted the stale peanuts that were sometimes tossed
into a bowl on the end of the long, wooden, bullet riddled bar.
There were no fancy fruity drinks with umbrellas.
You drank beer or whisky.
Smoking dope was a given.
It was an open room with a few tables for card games and a juke
box that no one would consider dancing to. Head banging music
was preferred but country was tolerated.
It was a place for skin heads. For Harley riding, tattooed, body
pierced, hard asses. Oh, and their bitches, of course.
Angel sat in his car in the parking lot. He had been there for
the better part of a half an hour trying to coax himself out.
He argued with himself, knowing he was way out of his element
and should probably just throw the gear shift into reverse and
haul ass out.
Yet, he didn't.
Something else was keeping him there.
Call it pride. Call it self respect. Angel had something to prove.
When he and Max broke up, Max had said Angel was not edgy
enough for him. He said that Angel had gotten soft, wearing his
little suit and tie and sitting in the safety of his office and over
stuffed leather chair.
Angel considered correcting him on the chair issue but it seemed to
be a mute point. Max had dumped him. At the airport as he was
again flying off to some exotic place in the far east. After a blow
job in the men's room. Bastard.
Crying had only gone so far in mending his broken heart and Angel
decided to take a long hard look at his life. Maybe Max was right.
Angel had chosen police work for the excitement, and the thrill was
It was time to get back to the basics.
When Angel got wind of the drug dealing that was reportedly going
on at Whitey's bar, he just knew this was his chance to prove he still
A big bust would bring him fame, fortune and maybe even the keys
to the city. If they still did that. He could clearly picture standing
on a platform next to the mayor, flashbulbs blinding him, reporters
shouting overtop each other vieing for his response.
It would prove he was as full of edge as ever.
Angel squared his shoulders. He checked his watch and saw that
it was 1 a.m. He knew that the longer he sat there the harder it
"Get the fuck out of the car" He muttered.
Finally, he reached for the car door and just as he stepped out, the
front entrance burst open and three men rolled out. Two men
jumped to their feet as the biggest one swung and broke a pool stick
over the head of the one still on the ground. A roar of cheering
approval boomed from inside.
Angel considered helping the victim. He wondered if anyone would
call 911. In the end, before he could do anything, the third man
staggered to stand. With blood pouring down the side of his face, he
jovially slapped his attackers on the shoulders and was helped back
inside for a celebratory drink.
Angel blinked. This was WAY more than he had bargained for and
he would have gladly left right there and then......if he hadn't just locked
his keys in the car. Angel placed his hands flat against the glass of the
driver's side window and looked as the rabbit's foot keychain swayed
happily in the ignition. He whimpered.
Still, he was almost relieved. The decision had been made for him.
Turning toward the booming, music driven action, Angel went into
his well practiced and, he thought, perfected, pimp walk.
With a swagger, a dip and an exaggerated arm swing, Liam O'Conner
headed for Whitey's.
The man at the bar laughed easily with his companions, tipping
his cowboy hat low over his eyes as he slammed back another
The guy he had been waiting to see had arrived less than an hour ago
and the anticipation burned in his belly along with the cheap whisky
as he waited for him to make contact.
There were few jobs on earth as tricky and as dangerous as an
undercover cop. Especially a narc working undercover.
He had been brought in from San Francisco nearly six months ago
and had been working this case almost day and night. It takes time
and several drug buys to build a rapport with your suspect, gain his
confidence and wriggle your way to the inside.
Now, it had all come down to this. He had it on excellent authority
that the main man, a character by the name of Rug Barnhart was going
to be here and would meet with him.
Lindsey scratched his armpit casually, making sure the microphone
wire was securely in place and he ordered another drink.
He had enough money in his tight back pocket to buy the kilos of
coke that would be the sealing evidence when Rug's arrest and
case went to trial.
So tonight was all about business. Everything he said and did would
be on the wire and played in court. It had to be a legit deal, no
hint of a set up, no illegal coercion, nothing that smelled like entrapment.
"You the fuckin' cowboy what's been lookin' fer me?"
Lindsey slowly swiveled around on his bar stool and gazed up at the
biggest, hairiest biker he had ever seen. Wearing a leather vest, matching
leather pants and shit stomper boots, Lindsey was slightly put off
by the fact that the man actually had more fur on his back than on his chest.
Lindsey wondered if there actually were biker werewolves.
Stretching his legs out in front of him and lifting his head to be able to
see out from under the brim, he looked the fat man up and down
slowly before answering.
"Well, seeing as how I'm the only cowboy in here, I guess it don't
take no genius to figger it must be me."
Rug stood silently for a moment and Lindsey was beginning to wonder
if he had overplayed his hand when suddenly, Rug threw his head back
and roared with laughter. He slapped Lindsey painfully on the back
and climbed up on the stool beside him.
"Ha! You're a fuckin' hoot. You know that? They told me you was
a hoot but I didn't believe 'em."
Rug waved to the bartender.
"Hey! Bring me and Hoot here a drink. What'll ya have, Hoot."
Lindsey considered correcting him on the name issue but decided that if
Rug wanted to call him Sally Sue, it was cool with him.
Setting a bottle of Jack on the sticky bar, the bartender made no comment
when Rug grabbed it with one hand and threw his arm around Hoot with
the other, leading them to an empty table in the back of the room.
He poured them both a shot and after slamming them back, he belched and
poured another. This time he waited before drinking.
"So, Hoot, I understand you need to make a purchase. They tell
me you are wantin' to buy in quantity. That either means you want to
resell, you got one fuck of a habit, or your a fuckin' cop, in which case
I'm gonna hafta blow your head off your shoulder's and bury your
worthless, ass fucked corpse in the desert."
With that, he smiled a black toothed grin and threw his head back,
swallowing the contents of the dirty shot glass.