Sick City by Tony O'Neill

broke!”
    Trina snatched the paper up.
    â€œI ain’t paying shit! The place has fucking mice, roaches, nothin’ works. The city TOLD me to stop paying rent until they fix that shit.”
    â€œDon’t sweat it, girl,” Cherry said. “They can’t do shit. They’re just trying to scare you.”
    Trina said, “Fucking A. That bitch can suck my dick!” She picked up her glass.
    â€œTalking of being scared . . . ,” Cherry said, “you know that little jackass Derrick? Last night, he more’n got his ass handed to him. So he was drunk, as usual. Over by the bar. He was talking shit. . . .”
    â€œHe’s a pervert,” Foxy said. “He keeps asking me to touch his dick and call him Daddy.”
    â€œWell, anyways, he’s pretty drunk—you know when he gets all sweaty and red-faced? And all of a sudden he makes a grab for my titty! And the little fucker spills a beer all over me. I told him to keep his goddamned paws to himself, and he gets up in my face—bitch this, and bitch that—I thought the little fucker was gonna take a swing at me.”
    Cherry paused for effect.
    â€œBefore I could even call for security he got grabbed from behind, and I guess Derrick knew who the dude was—because he was stuttering and apologizing . . . I mean, more to him than me! And boy, he couldn’t get his ass outta here quick enough. Derrick pulls out the bills for the drinks and tries to leave but the dude grabs him and then he gives Derrick this look. . . . Well, shit, then Derrick like totally empties his wallet out on the bar and splits. Left a hundred-dollar tip for two drinks. Derrick was scared of him, I mean really fucking scared.”
    â€œWho? Scared of Juan?” Trina asked, craning her neck to look at the door guy. He was sitting on his stool by the door, shoveling takeout pad thai into his face with a plastic fork. Manhandling a customer seemed out of character for Juan, who was a lazy motherfucker and only got the job because he was a cousin of the owner.
    â€œJuan? Please, girl! I’m talking about Pat! You know I heard . . .”
    Trina—and the other girls—leaned in as Cherry’s voice became barely audible over the music.
    â€œI heard he killed a man. Up in Frisco. Something to do with a robbery. Somebody tried to screw him on his cut and . . .” Cherry trailed off, and a look came over her face that suggested blood and vengeance.
    â€œNo, no, that ain’t how it went down!” interrupted Foxy. “It was a debt. Pat’s a dealer. He got more niggas underneath him than the fuckin’ World Trade Center. He’s cold . Friend of my cousin worked for him. That motherfucker cut off one of his thumbs over some money shit. Kept it, too. They say he got a collection. Every motherfucker who ever dealt with that bastard got a story.”
    â€œI heard he collects teeth,” Cherry said, her authority suddenly undermined by Foxy’s cousin’s friend, “that he’s half Cherokee, and that it’s a tradition. A ritual. You know, back when those people useta paint their faces and scalp cowboys’n shit.”
    â€œHush up,” Foxy said. “Speak of the devil. . . .”
    Pat was standing by the entrance, talking to Juan. Pat laughed, slapped Juan on the shoulder, and made his way into the bar. He had been making a daily pilgrimage to Crazy Girls for three weeks now. He appeared one day out of nowhere and insinuated himself into the daily workings of the club so seamlessly that it seemed like he had been there since the place opened. He was the only customer in living memory who’d ever received free drinks from the bartender. He’d come in at four p.m. and drink and flirt with the girls until seven. Then he’d check his watch, leave a pile of money on the bar and say “duty calls” with a crooked grin, and