Royal Flush (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 6) Read Online Free PDF Page A

hair and moving down to the new leather jacket— I was sweating under the damned thing— and the shiny black Doc Martens boots.
    When Royal had recovered from the sight of me, he grabbed a paper napkin from under his beer, wiped off the next bar stool, and invited me to sit. I guessed that meant he was impressed by my disguise.
    “Uh, good to see you, Ja—”
    The bartender was at the other end, and no one else seemed to be listening, but I grabbed his hand and shook it, saying, “Shut up” under my breath. Then, through gritted teeth: “Yeah, kid, been a while since you and your old cousin Jason tossed one back together.” Meaning, Get it kid? I’m not using my real name. At least he hadn’t called me “Mr. Samson.”
    “Jason?” Well, I already knew he was none too bright.
    “Oh, that’s okay. You just keep on calling me Jase. You been drinking too much?”
    Light dawned behind his pale eyes. “How about a beer Jase?”
    “Sure.” There were a lot to choose from. Domestic on tap and in the bottle, Guinness, a couple of West Coast ales. A bunch of German beers.
    While he ordered the drinks, I looked around the dim bar. A big Confederate flag was tacked to the wall above the jukebox. A couple of the men wore them on their backs, one on a T-shirt and one on a leather jacket. Since he was the only other guy wearing his jacket, and he was sweating more than I was, I figured it was okay to take mine off. I draped it on my bar stool and sat on it.
    Most of the customers were men, and I wasn’t the only one over forty. The women covered a wide range too. The youngster with the shaved head, leather miniskirt, and nose ring looked underage. Another looked like she was in her thirties, had too much messy hair, wore a polyester dress and heels, and hung on the arm of an older guy dressed in suit pants and a frayed white dress shirt. She looked very excited to be there. Hey, so was I.
    The cook slid two plates of burgers and fries down the bar in the other direction, wiped sweat off his shaved head with a large red kerchief, and turned back to his grill. The bartender poured my beer. Domestic. On tap. No political overtones of any kind.
    A man who’d been sitting a couple of stools down was watching me. I nodded to him.
    He was about thirty-five, maybe an inch or two taller than my five-eleven. He was wearing boots, jeans, and a black T-shirt with a white skull on the chest. He had a black crew cut, wide-open pale eyes, and— there it was— a toothbrush mustache, straight and thick across his lip.
    He ran a large hand over the dark stubble on his head and nodded back at me. “Friend of Royal’s, huh?”
    “Cousin. Name’s Jase. Jason Dormeister.” Was that Aryan enough? Did it just sound stupid?
    Apparently not to him. He didn’t smile.
    “Floyd Burke.” He nodded again, this time in the direction of my feet. “Nice Docs. Ten-hole smooth. Like the greasies, myself.” He waved one of his feet at me. He was wearing black Docs too— I could just make out the “Dr. Martens” stamp in the leather above his ankle. Same smooth, rounded toe, same macho combination of work and combat boot. But his had a matte finish. I had tried on a pair of those “greasies.” They’d felt oily and looked grungy to me. I’d decided to go with the smooth.
    “Floyd’s a good friend of mine, Jase.” I thought Royal might be trying to tell me this guy was a member of the Nazi club, but we hadn’t set up any codes for the evening. I wasn’t sure Royal would have remembered them anyway.
    “Any friend of Royal’s…” A half dozen other idiotic phrases ran through my head, including, Hot enough for you? I didn’t say any of them out loud. I had to save something for later.
    Floyd slid off his stool and leaned on the bar next to me. He clapped me on the shoulder, grinning, his mouth wide and shark-like under the clipped face fur. “How about you and me pick out some music on the jukebox? Something a little more