Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Red-faced jock number 2 glared at me as he gasped for breath.

I hadn’t even broken a sweat. Fights lasted an eternity on TV and the movies, but in real life? Sometimes it just took one punch. I twirled the chalked tip of the cue across his brow, leaving a blue smear. “Get the hell out of here. Both of you.” I released him, gripping the pool stick like a baseball bat until they scampered away like cockroaches.

Murmurs started. The buzz danced up my spine like burrowing insects. People avoided me, including one stoop-shouldered man I recognized as my dad’s buddy, Denver Jordan, who gave me the stink eye.

I braced myself for his recriminations. Putting myself on display. My utter lack of femininity. Shaming my sweet-as-pie dead mother and smearing my dead father’s reputation-yeah, I’d heard it before.

“Folks, this is your candidate for sheriff. Mercy Gunderson.” He raised his mug. “Vote for her. Tell everyone what you seen here tonight, and tell them to vote for her, too.”

In addition to the relief Denver hadn’t lambasted me, I felt an honest-to-God blush rising up my neck when some people clapped. A bar fight probably wasn’t the type of PR Geneva hoped for, but, hey, word of mouth got my name out there.

As the crowd dispersed, Denver clumsily patted my shoulder and trudged outside.

I squinted over the lump swelling on my cheekbone and plopped back on my bar stool.

Steve passed me an ice pack and a fresh draft. “If you don’t win the sheriff’s race, maybe we oughta hire you away from Clem-entine’s as a bouncer.”

“With all due respect, Steve, I ain’t looking to stay in the bar business permanently. I’m too damn old.”

“You’re too ornery.”

“That, too.” I swigged my beer, holding the ice pack to my face, and focused on the TV. Good. Barrel racing had just started. Bull riding was up next.

I was so engrossed in watching the final ride I didn’t notice them until the hair on the back of my neck stood up. My gaze tracked their approach in the mirror.

Of all the nights not to be carrying.

Victor Bad Wound and Barry Sarohutu eased onto the bar stools on either side of me. I nonchalantly sipped my beer and watched the credits roll for the next program on ESPN Classic. Boxing.

Steve stopped in front of Victor. “Getcha guys something?”

“Two double shots of Chivas.”

“Don’t got Chivas. Crown’s the closest.”

Victor leaned in front of me to address Saro. “This is why we don’t come in here, bro.”

I made a mental note to tell John-John to stop carrying high-end whiskey. Might solve his “undesirables” problem.

Victor angled his head to speak to Steve, but kept me blocked in. “Two double shots of Crown.” As soon as Steve hustled down the bar to fill the order, Victor addressed me. “So we hear you like mixing it up?”

Since I hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about, I didn’t respond. I suspected a nonresponse would piss him off, and gee, I was in the mood to tangle with him.

Saro laughed. “Ain’t talking to us?”

I shrugged.

“Maybe you oughta give her an incentive to talk, Vic.”

That comment earned Saro a cool once-over. “Try it and see what happens.”

“You think you’re a tough chick?”

“Nah. She’s just stupid,” Victor said.

Come on, assholes, keep it up.

“Since you’re slow, and we ain’t got all night, I’ll spell it out. We don’t appreciate that you jumped into a fight that didn’t have nothin’ to do with you. Our nephew, Benji, ain’t none too happy you held him back, while you let a loser white cowboy kick him in the balls.”

Now this visit made sense. I finally looked at Victor. “That Indian kid is related to you guys?”

“Surprised?”

I laughed. “No. But I don’t know which makes your nephew more of a pussy. That a woman twice his age got the drop on him, or that he whined to his uncles and sent them to fight his battles. What a douche bag. Here’s my advice. Tell Benji if he ain’t got the fists to back up his big mouth, he’d be better off keeping it shut.”

Stunned silence. I doubted anyone spoke to them like that.

Victor got close enough to treat me to the booze on his breath and the stench of pot smoke clinging to his greasy hair. “Who the fuck you think you’re talking to?”

“Is your macho posturing supposed to scare me? Guess what? It doesn’t. So if you came here to get an apology from me for poor little Benji getting his feelings hurt? You might as well leave, ’cause it ain’t happening.” I jerked my thumb toward Saro. “Need me to spell it out for him, too? Since you ain’t got all night?”

Steve set down the two shots and hightailed it away. Smart man. Out of the corner of my good eye, I saw Saro upend his shot.

When Victor realized he couldn’t win our game of “don’t blink,” he quickly reached for his glass, expecting I’d flinch.

I didn’t. I didn’t break eye contact either.

He slammed the booze and backed off.

“Not smart to push us,” Saro said conversationally.

“It’s my nature.”

“Wasn’t your dad’s nature. He laid down like a beaten dog whenever he had to deal with us.”

“Which is hard to do when you’re old, crippled, and stuck in a wheelchair,” Victor added. “One time, the almighty sheriff even pissed his pants in front of us.”

“Rumor on the rez? Toward the end, Daddy Dearest pissed and shit himself all the time.” Saro’s fetid breath fanned my ear. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, tough girl? Since you weren’t around when Daddy was dying. Too busy planning on how you’d look trying to fill his shoes? Or should I say… shoe?”

An inferno of fury spread through me. I inhaled slowly.

“Didn’t think we did our homework on you? Think again.”

Victor leaned in and taunted me. “Looky here, bro, I think she’s gonna cry.”

I pictured snapping Victor’s neck. Seeing the last look of surprise on his ugly face before he crumpled to the floor like a bag of rotten meat.

“Why so quiet?” Saro mocked. “You burning brain cells thinking up a smart-ass response?”

“No. I’m just thinking about the differences between me and my dad, Barry.”

He stiffened slightly. Ah. He didn’t like being called Barry. Too bad.

“See, I’ve spent my life taking down bullies like you. And Barry, guess what? You’re not special. Bullies are the same across the globe, whether you’re wearing a towel on your head, a snappy suit, or braids in your hair. You prey on the weak. So fair warning. When I’m elected sheriff? Prepare yourself, because I will be preying on you. I am not weak. Not even fucking close.”

“That so?”

“Uh-huh. I will enjoy taking down your organization piece by piece. Body by body, if I have to.”

“Don’t start something you can’t win.”

“Don’t be too sure I haven’t already laid the groundwork and you’re the ones who’ll lose everything.”

Victor moved and grabbed me.

I let him keep his death grip on my forearm-it was hard as hell to do, but I had another point to make. I locked my gaze to Saro’s. “Tell him to let go of my arm, or I will break his fucking nose.”

A beat passed, and Saro inclined his head.

Victor released me.

I refocused on the TV, dismissing them.

They got the hint and vanished without speaking. And without paying for their damn drinks.

Again, the bar hummed with excitement. This type of confrontation was old hat to me and the customers at Clementine’s, but here… not so much.

I didn’t stick around long after that. My foray into reestab-lishing ties in the community, outside of Clementine’s, hadn’t turned out so well tonight-either at the high school or the local watering hole.