William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

“This joint ain’t big enough for the two of us, pilgrim,” Christina said.

Ben looked at her blankly.

“Get it? Pilgrim? Sleazy western saloon, thugs, bad side of town. It just seemed to follow—”

“I understood, Christina.”

“Oh. Pardonnez moi .” She looked hurt.

His lips turned up slightly. “Smile when ya say that, pardner.”

She did.

Ben scoped out the clientele. The crowd looked seriously tough. Lots of muscle, tattoos, and stubble. Several men were wearing jeans jackets with matching emblems on the back. They were all members of something and Ben suspected it wasn’t the Moose Lodge. At the table closest to the bar, two men were taking turns stacking upended shot glasses. The tower already rose above the level of their shoulders.

Meanwhile, over in the darts area, the game had taken a nasty turn—the dart board was replaced by human beings. It was a local variant on mumblety-peg; players alternated between standing against the wall and throwing the darts. Apparently, the object was to throw the dart as close as possible to the sucker on the wall without touching him. Two throws, then the players switch places. Closest throw wins. Thrower’s option as to what part of the body to aim toward. Flinching was an automatic forfeit, although striking the target body with the dart merely resulted in a reduction in points.

“Well, I’m thirsty,” Ben said. He and Christina wedged themselves into a small opening at the bar. “I believe I’ll have an amaretto sour.”

“Get a beer,” Christina said curtly.

“What?”

“You heard me. Beer.”

Ben looked confused. The bartender, a burly mustachioed fellow in a red-checkered shirt, walked up to them.

“What kind have you got?” Ben asked him.

“Just say beer ,” Christina whispered.

“Beer,” Ben obeyed. “Two.”

The bartender nodded and moved toward the taps.

“An amaretto sour,” Christina muttered. “These guys would use you for a dust mop.”

The bartender brought two mugs of beer and set them in front of Ben and Christina. Ben tossed a five onto the bar.

A thin, wiry man with a red steel wool beard and a cap saw the five go down. “Were you in the service?” he asked. His voice was like gravel.

“I beg your pardon?”

The man’s teeth were tightly clenched, even as he spoke. “Don’t beg my pardon, man. Don’t ever beg my pardon. I hate beggars, man. Fuckin’ hate ’em.”

He pounded his fist against the bar so hard that Ben’s beer wobbled and bounced. “I asked if you were in the goddamn service !” He was shouting. The smell of beer and booze and tooth rot was thick on his breath.

“Uhhh, no,” Ben said quietly, not looking him in the eye. “Were you?”

“Damn right I was. Damn right.” He pounded the bar again. “I don’t suppose you fought in the war?”

“N-no—”

“Hell, no. Too goddamn good to be in the war!”

Ben had the distinct feeling he wasn’t handling this very well. “I spent a year in the Peace Corps,” he said softly.

“You think that’s an excuse ?” The man spat as he yelled. He emphasized the last word by knocking over his beer with his fist.

“Let’s go,” Christina whispered in Ben’s ear. She tugged at his sleeve. “Pronto.”

Ben took a step back from the bar.

“You know what I ought to do with you? Do you?” The man followed Ben. They were practically nose to nose. Ben took another step back. The wiry man followed.

A few others at the bar turned around to watch the fun. The man who had been standing to the right of Redbeard jabbed a friend and pointed.

“Leave him alone,” the bartender said as he popped the lid off another longneck. “He’s too young. He doesn’t know. Here, have a beer on me.”

God bless the bartender, Ben thought. But the bartender’s offer didn’t seem to make any difference. The man kept coming. Ben kept backing up.

There was a sudden, loud smashing sound. Ben whirled. He had backed into the nearest table and knocked over the tower of upended shotglasses. The supreme effort of the combined lifetimes of the two bikers lay dashed and broken into a million pieces on the floor.

“ Sonovabitch! ” the larger of the two men exclaimed. He was wearing a jeans jacket with a skull-and-crossbones appliqué on the back and had silver chains looped around his waist. He threw his chair back and stood up, pounding one fist against his hand. A dark-haired woman from the back of the room came forward and laid her hands on his shoulder. Ben couldn’t see either of them clearly in the dark haze of the bar.

“Oh, God,” Ben mumbled, trying not to sound too pathetic. “I was just backing up. I—I—”

“He didn’t mean it,” Christina said, stepping between the larger of the two thugs and Ben. “This brain-dead bully over here was forcing him backward.”

“This what ?” Redbeard echoed. “Whaddas that mean?” He shoved Christina aside, not gently.

By this time, most of the people in the bar were rubbernecking for a better view of the show. Ben had nowhere left to maneuver. Opposing hands clamped down on both his shoulders. He knew he was finished. What Redbeard didn’t do to him, Skull-and-Crossbones surely would.

“All right, nobody moves,” Ben said, swallowing hard.

Skull-and-Crossbones laughed heartily. “What the hell?”

“Nobody moves,” he repeated, taking a deep breath. “I’m an undercover cop. Kincaid, Tulsa PD, Vice. Badge number 499.”

The two men looked skeptical. “Yeah?” Redbeard said. “So show us your badge.”

“Can’t you see I’m in disguise, idiot?” Ben muttered. “Undercover cops don’t carry badges.”

Skull laughed. “The one that busted me last year did. Nice try, though.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, guys, I got an idea. I think it’s time for a game of darts.”

He dragged Ben into the darts quadrant and shoved him against the wall. Two other thugs wearing matching jeans jackets held Ben in place in the target area.

“I don’t play darts,” Ben protested. “I wouldn’t be a challenge for you.”

“Not true,” Skull said as someone handed him a fistful of darts. “I haven’t played in years.” He aimed a dart at Ben’s face.

“Ben!” someone squealed. It seemed to come from the dark-haired woman hanging on Skull’s shoulder. “It’s Benjy!”

Ben squinted his eyes and peered into the darkness. “ Mona ?” he whispered.

It was Mona. It wasn’t a face he was likely to forget. The current spouse of the senior partner in his firm was there, at the Red Parrot, with this biker. She was dressed in a dark-blue denim jacket and a black, hip-hugging, leather miniskirt, with some cheap metal jewelry dangling from her ears and wrists.

Skull asked, “You know this weasel?”

“Yes, yes,” Ben said quickly. “I know her. We go way back.”

“You been with my woman?”

Ben stuttered. “Buh … well, no … I mean, not—”

“Hell, what do I care?” A deep and scary laugh erupted from Skull’s lips. “Who hasn’t been? She’s older than this bar!”

Mona’s face seemed to melt. The product of hours of skillfully applied cosmetics disintegrated in an instant.

“I do know him,” she said softly. “You’d better leave him alone. He is an undercover cop.” She winked at Ben.

“Really? Christ. Why didn’t you say so?” He turned halfheartedly toward Ben. “I thought we knew all the narcs around here. No hard feelings, huh? Just having some fun.”

“Right,” Ben said, nodding.

Christina appeared behind his right shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Show him the picture. While we’re buddies.”