Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

He flapped the bar rag at me. “Charmer. You needing to absorb a little class away from your other watering hole, Miz Gunderson? Or out campaigning?”

I wondered if Steve would poke me about working at Clementine’s. “Neither. I’m looking for a beer and a break. What’s on tap?”

“The usual domestics.”

“Bud Light. Small one.” I admired his pour technique and said so. He slid the mug across the counter. “Is the kitchen still open?”

“You wanna look at a menu?”

“Nope. Hook me up with a hot beef sandwich. Extra gravy.”

“That was your dad’s favorite, too.” He yelled, “Order up!” and spun the ticket on the metal wheel. Then he rested his elbows on the bar top, settling in for a chat. “So I hear you found that oil fella who got himself killed.”

I nodded and swallowed a mouthful of beer.

“I ain’t surprised someone offed him. Nobody liked that guy.”

“You knew him?”

He shrugged. “He came in here a couple times. Always acted a little… twitchy. Like he was on drugs.”

My mug stopped halfway to my mouth. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. Met with some guys from the rez.” Steve scowled at someone over my shoulder. “I don’t like them types showing up in my place, spooking my regular customers. You have any problems with undesirables showing up at Clementine’s?”

“ ‘Undesirables’ describes our entire clientele,” I reminded him.

His crooked smile appeared. “Guess that’s true. How’d the event go at the school tonight?”

“As well as can be expected. Harold McCoy, who emceed, cut me off when I listed points on why we should all fight the pipeline.”

“I imagine Harold did shut you down. He’s another one of them who’s gung ho about the pipeline going through. Lemme ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“If this Titan Oil Company wanted us to believe the pipeline is good for everyone in the county, why didn’t they hire a local to convince us?”

“That’s easy. Any local person willing to lie to the landowners and the business owners about the supposed benefits of the pipeline is screwed because they have to live in the community afterward. Some guy from out of state doesn’t have to stick around and deal with the fallout.”

“Good point. But most of the business owners in Eagle Ridge are on board.” Steve pushed back and polished a spot on the bar top. “Ain’t you running into that mind-set while you’re campaigning in town?”

“I’m focused on campaigning door-to-door in the country. I figure Dawson has the town vote sewn up.”

“Probably.” Steve squinted at me as he lit a Pall Mall. “Why’d you decide to run for sheriff anyhow?”

“Bill O’Neil’s campaign committee asked me to fill in.”

“That the only reason?”

I smiled coyly. “What do you think?”

“I think your military service taught you to evade like a pro.” He shot a look at the guy two seats over and lowered his voice. “Here’s something you might not know about your competition. Nancy Greenbush, over at the feedlot, said Dawson promised them a closed-door meeting with the county commissioners about their right-of-way issues. What do you know about it?”

“Geneva filled me in. That issue has been going on a long time. But Nancy realizes a meeting with the commissioners is no guarantee the county will allow them to reconfigure their access road, right?”

“Nancy said it sounded promising for a change. Lots of folks are willing to vote for him if there’s something in it for them.”

Dawson’s platform was murky, mostly because he didn’t need one. “What else has Dawson been pledging?”

Steve flicked a column of ash off his cigarette. “Nothin’ major. Talking about adding more patrols. Harsher penalties for underage drinkers and the businesses selling liquor to minors.”

“Do you have problems with minors?”

“Owning an off-sale liquor license means there’s always kids who try to buy beer and booze. Usually the same ones. Chaps my ass they think I’m so damn stupid. But we’ve had two teenage drunk-driving deaths in the last year, so it is a problem.”

“Why isn’t Dawson already focused on that?”

“Exactly my point.”

The waitress dropped off my meal, and I tucked in. Thinly sliced roast beef piled on top of four squishy pieces of white bread, surrounded by homemade mashed potatoes, covered in thick, salty brown gravy. My near orgasmic moans of bliss sent Steve scurrying toward other customers.

More people wandered in, and the booths filled. Busy place. The panel of mirrors behind the glass shelves reflected the bar happenings. I recognized about half the customers. Two hotshot cowboys showed off their pool skills, attempting to catch the eye of the chippies rocking low-cut blouses, big smiles, and even bigger hair. Singles and couples socialized. Some couples even played bridge. Definitely a different clientele than Clementine’s.

Belly full, I focused on the TV screen above the bar, featuring ESPN Classic. I wondered why anyone would watch a sporting event for which the winning outcome had been determined years ago. Then I realized it wasn’t any different than watching a repeat episode of a favorite TV show or a movie. ESPN was running an encore presentation of the 2002 National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas.

South Dakota cowboys were well represented in the bareback and saddle-bronc categories. I groaned along with the two older Indian guys at the bar, when the heelers in the team-roping division had a devil of a time catching a single hind leg on the calf, let alone two. Trevor Brazile wore the sponsorship colors and insignia of the U.S. Army, which made him my favorite for the coveted all-around title.

The bulldogging section started. I liked watching buff cowboys launching off a galloping horse and throwing a steer into the dirt as much as the next woman, but nature called. And I did not want to miss my favorite event: bull riding.

A crowd in the bar meant a long line for the ladies’ room. Five minutes later I couldn’t cut through the mob to get back to my seat. No surprise a fight had broken out. I looked around for the bouncer and remembered Stillwell’s didn’t employ one.

About then the group shifted, and I saw a jock pummeling a cowboy half his size.

Money exchanged hands among the spectators. Betting on a fair fight was one thing. The scared-rabbit look in the cowboy’s blood-caked eye indicated he was way out of his league.

I looked at the bully-an Indian male in his late teens. A fatheaded, ham-fisted, mean-faced bully. When he smacked the cowboy in the jaw and his teeth clacked together, I’d seen enough.

Snagging a pool cue, I wound through the crowd of voyeurs and moved in behind the jock. I whacked him on the back of the thighs, dropping him to his knees. Then I pulled the pool cue across his windpipe and jerked him against my body, trapping his calves between my boots.

All this took about ten seconds.

His hands clawed at the stick that was cutting off his air supply.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded, directing my question to the bully as much as the worthless ghouls watching the scene unfold without stopping it.

Infuriated and humiliated, the cowboy regained his composure. He roared and charged, his pointed boot connected with the jock’s groin. Hard.

Male groans filled the air, and a few even cupped their nuts in sympathy.

Although I had zero compassion for the bully, I released the pool cue, allowing him to clutch his crotch and curl into a fetal position on the floor. Before I could enjoy hearing him gasp in pain, I was blindsided by a fist to the head.

Dots wavered in front of my eyes. Motherfucking son of a bitch, that hurt. On autopilot, I turned, blocked other blows with the pool cue, and swept the guy’s feet out from under him. Once he was flat on his back, with my foot pressed into his throat, I placed the chalked end of the pool cue on his forehead. “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t crack your skull open for that sucker punch, asshole.”