Read Online Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1) by T.S. O'Neil - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: T.S. O'Neil
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linoleum tables and faux leather booths, half filled with daytime drinkers—it was the perfect place for an ex-con to meet a felon on the run.
Tommy took a seat facing the entrance in one of the old wooden booths that lined the wall and waited. Jimmy had been standing at the bar, long hair and a beard making him unrecognizable from afar. He approached Tommy, who sat transfixed on the entranceway.
“Hello, little brother” said Jimmy, causing Tommy to jump—technically, they were cousins, but Tommy Finnegan and Jimmy O’Brien were closer than most brothers.
He knew the unmistakable raspy voice, the result of smoking non-filtered cigarettes since the age of twelve, and he had still been startled.
“I’ve been waiting to see if you were followed. Can never be too careful,” said Jimmy with a tight smile.
“Yeah, you almost made me piss myself,” said Tommy. Jimmy laughed and slid into the booth across from him. Aside from the long hair and beard, Jimmy looked good—he was dressed in a dark blue Guayabera, white cotton trousers and leather sandal. He even had the residue of a late summer tan.
“Just another tourist on vacation,” quipped Jimmy.
The bartender approached and Jimmy ordered whiskey.
“Johnnie Walker Black and leave the bottle,” he ordered.
“Sorry, sir, we don’t do that here,” he replied. Jimmy looked up at the bartender, with a slight grin on his lips and a quizzical look on his face. The bartender was a burly man with Popeye like forearms who looked like he had a limited supply of patience that Jimmy was already trying.
“O kay, how about this,” Jimmy offered, what’s a shot cost here?”
A dollar,” he replied curtly.
Jimmy reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a wad of bills held together with a silver money clip and deftly peeled off a crisp hundred dollar bill for the man to see.
“Let’s call it two dollars a shot, just leave the bottle so we can serve ourselves and give us a couple of chasers.”
“Sure, sir, that would be fine,” he replied as he snatched the bill and abruptly walked away—perhaps worried that Jimmy would come to his senses before he could grab the hundred.
Jimmy smiled. “See, bro, that’s called a win-win situation—everybody ends up happy.”
They drank and talked, each detailing what had happened since the ill-fated robbery that got their brother killed, Jimmy shot, and Tommy convicted and sent to Angola Prison.
“Funny that we both ended up here in Florida,” said Tommy.
“Hell, kid, that was always the plan, you just took a detour along the way.”
“Yeah, a detour is a funny thing to call a prison sentence, said Tommy.
“Well, whatever you call it, this is paradise as far as I’m concerned,” replied Jimmy as he downed his shot and followed with a swig of beer.
They poured another drink and Jimmy detailed his escape—the theft of the pills that got him dealing, the fact that his girl was raking at least five hundred a week as a stripper.
“There are a lot of opportunities to make more money working for my boss, Sally Boots,” said Jimmy.
“Doing what, exactly?” asked Tommy.
“Anything and everything, if it involves making money the illegal way, I’m all in.”
Jimmy smiled and fished out a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit the end with a matchbook, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke over Tommy’s head.
“We just did a bit of business last week. I jacked a truck of cigars that had just been loaded up at a factory in Ybor City and drove it to a warehouse where me and a mook named Ligio loaded the Puros onto another truck. I drove it to a diner on the Jersey pike just north of the turn off for Atlantic City where we met a couple of no-necks who took the truck and paid us in bundles of cash. My end amounted to two grand for a couple of days’ worth of work—not bad at all,” said Jimmy.
Jimmy thought he could work Tommy into some similar jobs—if Sally liked him. Tommy
Tommy took a seat facing the entrance in one of the old wooden booths that lined the wall and waited. Jimmy had been standing at the bar, long hair and a beard making him unrecognizable from afar. He approached Tommy, who sat transfixed on the entranceway.
“Hello, little brother” said Jimmy, causing Tommy to jump—technically, they were cousins, but Tommy Finnegan and Jimmy O’Brien were closer than most brothers.
He knew the unmistakable raspy voice, the result of smoking non-filtered cigarettes since the age of twelve, and he had still been startled.
“I’ve been waiting to see if you were followed. Can never be too careful,” said Jimmy with a tight smile.
“Yeah, you almost made me piss myself,” said Tommy. Jimmy laughed and slid into the booth across from him. Aside from the long hair and beard, Jimmy looked good—he was dressed in a dark blue Guayabera, white cotton trousers and leather sandal. He even had the residue of a late summer tan.
“Just another tourist on vacation,” quipped Jimmy.
The bartender approached and Jimmy ordered whiskey.
“Johnnie Walker Black and leave the bottle,” he ordered.
“Sorry, sir, we don’t do that here,” he replied. Jimmy looked up at the bartender, with a slight grin on his lips and a quizzical look on his face. The bartender was a burly man with Popeye like forearms who looked like he had a limited supply of patience that Jimmy was already trying.
“O kay, how about this,” Jimmy offered, what’s a shot cost here?”
A dollar,” he replied curtly.
Jimmy reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a wad of bills held together with a silver money clip and deftly peeled off a crisp hundred dollar bill for the man to see.
“Let’s call it two dollars a shot, just leave the bottle so we can serve ourselves and give us a couple of chasers.”
“Sure, sir, that would be fine,” he replied as he snatched the bill and abruptly walked away—perhaps worried that Jimmy would come to his senses before he could grab the hundred.
Jimmy smiled. “See, bro, that’s called a win-win situation—everybody ends up happy.”
They drank and talked, each detailing what had happened since the ill-fated robbery that got their brother killed, Jimmy shot, and Tommy convicted and sent to Angola Prison.
“Funny that we both ended up here in Florida,” said Tommy.
“Hell, kid, that was always the plan, you just took a detour along the way.”
“Yeah, a detour is a funny thing to call a prison sentence, said Tommy.
“Well, whatever you call it, this is paradise as far as I’m concerned,” replied Jimmy as he downed his shot and followed with a swig of beer.
They poured another drink and Jimmy detailed his escape—the theft of the pills that got him dealing, the fact that his girl was raking at least five hundred a week as a stripper.
“There are a lot of opportunities to make more money working for my boss, Sally Boots,” said Jimmy.
“Doing what, exactly?” asked Tommy.
“Anything and everything, if it involves making money the illegal way, I’m all in.”
Jimmy smiled and fished out a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit the end with a matchbook, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke over Tommy’s head.
“We just did a bit of business last week. I jacked a truck of cigars that had just been loaded up at a factory in Ybor City and drove it to a warehouse where me and a mook named Ligio loaded the Puros onto another truck. I drove it to a diner on the Jersey pike just north of the turn off for Atlantic City where we met a couple of no-necks who took the truck and paid us in bundles of cash. My end amounted to two grand for a couple of days’ worth of work—not bad at all,” said Jimmy.
Jimmy thought he could work Tommy into some similar jobs—if Sally liked him. Tommy
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