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

grown-up?”
    “Sounds like a good idea, Floyd.” The heavy metal was giving me a headache, so I meant it. But he was being too friendly. Checking out the stranger. Was he in charge of that? I’d have to watch myself with this guy.
    He led the way, weaving through the growing crowd. I wouldn’t say the place was packed, but it did a good enough business. The jukebox was newer than half the music it offered. Along with the heavy metal, and some groups I’d never heard of— Curb Stompers?— there was some good Fifties stuff and a bunch of male crooners.
    “What do you think of the selection?”
    “Looks okay.”
    “Notice anything unusual about it?”
    Was this some kind of test? He was smiling, but his fishy eyes were narrowed. Yep. This was a test.
    I studied the titles. No “Horst Wessel Song,” no “Deutschland Über Alles.” What was I supposed to be looking for?
    “Hey, Floyd, gimme a hint.” I was trying for a macho whine, and I think I achieved it.
    He laughed smugly. “Don’t see no Whitney Houston.”
    “No…”
    “Don’t see no Hammer. No Nat King Cole.”
    There was definitely a pattern there. I decided to keep looking dumb, because he seemed to appreciate stupidity.
    “No Ink Spots, either.” He grinned at me. “Not an ink spot anywhere.”
    “Oh, I get it…”
    “This is a jukebox for white men. What do you think about that?” He punched in a few numbers.
    I think you’re a dickhead, I thought, but out loud, I guffawed. “Hyuck hyuck.” A sound guys like Floyd make when they’re trying to bond with each other. “I think that’s just fine with me.”
    “Yeah?” He punched me on the shoulder. A little too hard. “Go ahead, there’s two left. You pick.”
    I chose “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” and “I Did It My Way.” I knew he wouldn’t get the message.
    “You like The King?”
    I nodded enthusiastically, but the truth was that my Elvis knowledge was pretty limited, and I didn’t want to get into a deep discussion of “Don’t Be Cruel.” Then, of course, there were those friendly punches on the arm. I couldn’t stand there bonding forever. I had people to meet and plots to overhear.
    Excusing myself from Floyd’s presence to go to the john, I strolled slowly through the bar taking mental notes. Another underage girl, this one with very short hair. She was saying something snide to a bald young man about someone being a “freshcut.” I’d have to make a vocabulary list. Since she had some hair, was she still a skinhead? Or was she some other kind of neo-Nazi? Did the women count? She must have noticed me looking at her; she gave me a sullen stare that was probably meant to be flirtatious.
    Some of the men looked like blue-collar neighborhood guys. One was dressed in business clothes, a cheap gray suit. I counted four in fatigues, half a dozen in jeans and boots and buzz cuts, a few with shaved heads. Lots of suspenders on the younger people. Lots of patrons in black and two guys wearing, I swear, brown shirts. They all looked mean as hell, but any jerk can look dangerous if he dresses for the part and sneers a lot. At least that was what I kept trying to tell myself.
    As I squeezed between two beer bellies in fatigues, I noticed a tattoo on the hand of one of them. A double lightning flash. Kind of like a disassembled swastika. I’d have to find out what that meant. Mental note: I was going to need vocabulary lists and tattoo translations. The same guy also had a buck knife in a sheath snapped over his belt. Now that made me nervous.
    A little skinny guy, forty, forty-five, and dressed all in black, was talking softly on the pay phone near the toilets. He stopped talking when I came near and watched me, deadpan, as I passed. He didn’t start talking again until I pushed open the men’s room door.
    By the time I got to the toilet, my skin was crawling and I felt slightly sick to my stomach. Every drop of my non-Aryan blood was chilled, and my only