by L E Franks
“Don’t move!” I jabbed a forefinger for emphasis, and he shook his head—his fedora somewhere underfoot.
I ducked as someone threw a chair at my head, watching in horror as it splintered against a wall a foot away. I grabbed the few customers still sheltering under tables, covering their retreat to the back exit.
Punching the panic bar, I cringed as the alarm sounded and shooed them into the cold clear air of our Tennessee night—we had maybe five minutes to get this under control before the cops showed.
There were too many people in the small space, and as they fell into the main room, the violence spread like dominos falling one after another as a fresh punch landed on another half-drunk customer.
Diving back into the mess, I found Mickey pinning Cam to the wall with a hand to his throat. Without thinking, I jumped between them, taking the blow. Mickey had tried to pull it at the last second, and I was grateful, because it already felt like a freight train punched me in the face, any more would probably kill me.
Fuck that hurt.
“Ya better get Rory and get the fuck out of here, Mick—cops’ll be here any second.” I spat out a glob of red, wiping my face on the bar towel I found tucked into my waistband. Ignoring the brilliant red stripe I left behind on the snowy terrycloth, I abandoned the pair to their fate. I was done rescuing people.
At least, I was until I saw Christine being hauled from behind her station by an enormous biker.
There must be some bar-fight-smoke-signal, or underground, because I wasn’t recognizing half the combatants or the club patches from my days working a sawdust bar. That didn’t stop me. No one fucked with my staff.
First step was distraction.
Unfortunately, Mick’s blow must have knocked a few brain cells loose because I chose to channel a 1940s gumshoe.
“Hey, Sasquatch. Ditch the broad and beat feet.”
The distraction part worked—he dropped Christine like last week’s sushi and turned on me. I saw Christine scurry back, dragging Juan protesting along behind. She was going for help. She was getting FatBoy. She was….
The pain was absolute. He wrenched my arm and threw me across the room. I was as effective as a teddy bear, landing in a pile a broken tables and chairs and my head whiplashing into the wall.
Blinking, I watched him draw near, curled fists the size of milk jugs, and I prepared to die.
* * * * *
The blow never landed. I’d closed my eyes to the coming pain, and when the time to plan my funeral had passed, I opened one sticky lid—the swelling from Mick’s earlier blow already making the flesh around the orbital bone puffy and hot, not to mention painful to the touch.
Instead of Sasquatch, there was FatBoy pinning the monster facedown on the ground a foot away. He was stretched the length of the biker’s back, riding him like a mechanical bull. It hurt too much to think of sex, though the contortions of the biker struggling to get free translated into lovely undulations of FatBoy’s ass. I squirreled away the visual for another time.
“Where’d you come from?” I was honestly surprised. I’d been trying to spot him from the moment Lorcan went down.
FatBoy just gave me a sly grin. “This was my first chance to rescue the princess, Princess. You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun? Besides…” FatBoy yanked up on the biker’s arm, making him squeal. “I’m not particularly happy when someone I lo—someone I care for… is hurt.” He gave another yank for effect.
I was about to call him on his slip—to get him to clarify—when a wall of black rushed us and I found myself buried once more.
Chapter Seven
Sunday March 17
The knee in my back wasn’t helpful in determining who was pinning me now, but the plasti-cuffs being threaded around my wrists was enlightening. The Plexiglas riot shield dropping in front of my face also helped narrow my choices to the city’s Immediate Response Team—SWAT in everything but acronym.
I’d mixed more than one cocktail for the boys in black, a fact not likely to be much help—the cavalry had come sweeping in and pegged me as one of the bad guys. I gritted my teeth at the control hold he used, my thumb bending in an alarming direction and the pressure the IRT officer was putting on my injured shoulder, sent jagged white lightning bolts of pain as he cuffed me.
“Fuck, can you take it ea—”
“Shuddup, punk.” A meaty hand palmed the back of my head, shoving my face into the gritty floor. I squeezed my eyes tight, afraid of the glass shards and splinters biting into my skin.
My face throbbed, keeping company with my shoulder, my wrists, my mouth… maybe even my knee. I fixated on that a while, figuring it got caught in something when Sasquatch tossed me.
Mr. IRT kept me stretched out in the wreckage of my bar. Every time I tried to move, he’d growl and jam a heavy booted toe into my ribs and I lost track of time.
FatBoy was closest to me when the police arrived, but with my face pointed away from his last position, I’d lost track of him in the chaos. I was straining to hear, but blood was pounding in my veins, surging against my eardrums, the world outside my pain was muffled except for the shouting.
“One more in here!”
“Two back here!”
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Clear.”
“Meyer!” The voice came from above me, and at least, I had a name for my guard.
“I’ve got one, come over and help me get the little whiner up…” The footsteps that had been crunching through the debris field, kicking open doors, or just walking around the bar, now walked with purpose, stopping just shy of my body.
“What’s his story?” Steps came closer, and I risked cracking an eye, though all I could see was black pants stuffed into steel-toed military style boots joining the first officer.
“Who cares? He was brawling with el Diablo’s crew. Someone with a higher pay grade can sort that shit out. My job is to tag ’em and bag ’em.”
A second shout of “Meyer!” got them both moving, and before I could warn them, or protest or beg that they be careful—it was too late. They’d hooked me under the arms, pulling me upright and I almost puked.
As the room stopped spinning, I only had a split-second’s worth of focus before they had me moving again.
Long enough to see my bar in shambles.
I wanted to weep.
Fucking holidays.
We passed the hostess station, stepping on the remains of Natalie’s holiday decorations—the vase with its green rose arrangement lay broken on the parquet floor of the entrance, the flowers trampled and mixing with the mush of the cardboard glitter shamrocks, her swear jar a lost cause. I slipped on a cascade of quarters and Meyer yanked me outside.
The parking lot was lit up like a patriotic noon from the flashing reds and blues and the floodlights from the emergency responders. Broken glass spread in a glittery arc across the sidewalk twinkled back, making the destruction almost festive.
A barstool still teetered drunkenly in an empty window frame as if it had just landed, though that seemed impossible, and I looked beyond it, back inside for a glimpse of FatBoy, back to where more men in black still milled, maybe looking for someone to subdue.
I turned my attention to the others already on the ground—the hurlers and the rest of my customers who were either too drunk or too stupid to get out when the riot started—huddled together in shared misery.
Some of the Irish were unimpressed by the display of tactical vehicles and the men positioned to guard them with assault rifles at the ready. They shouted for their manager, or their consulate, or maybe their mothers—between the drinks and the mix of Gaelic, the words rattled in my head, but I recognized Corwyn’s furious call.
“Fuckin’ shut yer gobs.”
Into the resulting silence, Meyer moved me next to a line of bikers all cuffed and docile and, for the life of me, looking bored. He pressed down on my shoulder, hard, until my knees collapsed and I hit the pavement.
The pain was screaming, leaving me gagging and gasping for breath.
Officer Meyer hissed as I knelt at his feet, horking out mouthfuls of bile and blood, narrowly missing his spit shine.
“God blessed damn it!” he cursed, and I froze. If he was going to kick something, I wasn’t in the mood to add broken ribs to my list of injuries.
I must have made some wounded animal sound because Meyer’s partner came over.
“Leave him, Meyer. I’ll watch him.”
I must have looked as crappy as I sounded because he crouched down, staring at me for a second before leaning forward for a closer look, maybe to assess me for injuries or possibly probe the swelling around my eye with his finger.
His partner must have thought so too when he barked at him to get back.
“Careful, Harper, you’re not wearing your gloves.” The warning that I might be diseased wasn’t lost on me. Maybe Meyer was afraid I’d give his partner cooties, not that Harper seemed to share in the concern, at least Meyer didn’t call me ‘fag’ to my face, though it looked like he wanted to. We called that progress in this part of the world.
Harper barely gave Meyer a glance, keeping his attention on me with a half-smile. The cop had nice eyes, almost silver in the low light, his back to the floods. He fixed them on me, maintaining eye contact. I wondered if he was checking my pupils for drugs or a concussion.
“Do you need a hospital?”
The concussion might be spot-on. When I thought about my head, the ache returned like a bull crashing through a barnyard fence—one second, it was contained; the next, it was completely out of control, rampaging through my skull.
I leaned over and vomited on his shoe, Harper frog-hopping backward, cursing.
“Fuck!”
“See, that’s what you get for bringing your California sensibilities along on the job.” Meyer loomed over us, fingering the utility belt of his tactical uniform, laughing. “Shoulda left the bleeding heart crap for the social workers back at the station.”
“Towel.” I was barely able to lift my head, using it to gesture behind me where I felt one still tucked into my waistband at the small of my back.
Harper looked, then took me up on my implied offer, yanking it clear.
Even in the dark, I could tell it was gray with dirt, no longer the pristine snowy white it once had been. He didn’t seem to care, just folding it inside out to clean the toe of his boot before tossing it aside. It was Meyer who reacted, staring at the discarded bar towel.
“You work here?” He loomed over me, pissed, like I had been holding out on him.
“Uh-huh.”
Meyer thumped two fingers on my chest, rocking me back on my heels like I wasn’t paying enough attention. “You’re Valentine.”
The last didn’t sound like a question, but I nodded again and spat to clear my mouth.
He huffed, stomping off, and Harper moved back in gingerly. He’d found a bottle of water from somewhere—my attention seemed to be fragmented, broken into little pieces like chapters of a book, rather than a seamless video recording. Somewhere I’d lost time. I wasn’t sure how much, maybe only fractions of a second, but it made me nervous.
I let him dribble enough water to rinse my mouth, this time politely spitting away from the officer.
“More—” I croaked, opening my mouth for a proper drink. He held the rim to my lower lip, the hard plastic threading digging into tender flesh where it was split. I wouldn’t have traded the tepid water trickling down my throat for the world’s most expensive champagne. I almost let my mind wander off track as I considered what the world’s most expensive champagne might be—Officer Harper drew me back.
“Had enough?”
I nodded. I couldn’t trust myself to speak. I’d had more than enough.
Behind me lay the ruins of more than my job—Frisson was my home.
“Was anyone hurt?” I sat up, straining to look Harper in the face.
“Plenty were hurt, none seriously—" He paused and peered at me again with those mirrored eyes, maybe trying to assess if I was about to prove him a liar by toppling over. “You should get checked out, though…”
“No—I mean the staff. Did any of my people get hurt?”
He smiled faintly.
“As far as I know, they’re fine. The responding officers are taking statements inside.”
“This is my bar—well, Blake’s—but I manage it for him…” I babbled on a little.
Harper “hmmmed” then stood, walking over to the line of police vehicles without another word.
I watched him beeline to the only officer in blue I recognized. Deputy Chief Dupree had a fondness for college football—his wife, did not. Harper stood with his back to me, a small cluster forming around him.
As one, they turned, and I felt their judgment from across the parking lot.
There was some head shaking, and Dupree might have patted Harper on the back before he peeled off from the group. I watched him disappear between the tank and a souped-up Mustang. As my only tangible link to normalcy, I was sorry to see him go, especially since it was Meyer, all gloved up, who came to help me into the van.
* * * * *
When I was a kid, I never wanted to be a fireman, or an astronaut. I wanted to be a policeman. As far as I could tell, they spent all their time driving fast cars and having shootouts in the middle of the street. I was six and infatuated with the detective with the green eyes and the dimpled chin, but the blondes he kept on his arm from one episode to the next never registered. The shiny glass bottles and amber liquids of his favorite bar, however, did.
At eight, I liked the local beat cop in our neighborhood, although he was old and only walked around a little. We usually found him drinking coffee at the diner, but he was nice to me—called me ‘sport’ and ‘champ’—told me I’d be tall like my dad. He retired long before I understood my attraction to that TV detective.
When we moved from the West Coast, my new middle school butted up against the high school practice field. I’d drag my feet walking home so I could watch the varsity team practice, and forgot all about my previous law enforcement ambitions. I was too busy sneaking copies of 'GQ’ and Body Builder out of the minimart, too embarrassed to cough up the cover price, and hiding them from my parents.
When the officer who confiscated the February issue of 'Men’s Health’ I’d hidden under my WildCat’s sweatshirt caught me, all he gave me was a harsh warning, one that conflicted with the look of sympathy in his eyes. I was grateful, and terrified. I spent the next six months waking in a cold sweat, dreaming he was at my front door telling my folks I was a thief and a pervert.
That was the last time I stole anything, and the last time I wanted anything to do with the police.
One short, brutal stint living on the streets of Baltimore a few years later reinforced that notion, where I’d walk blocks out of my way to avoid a patrol car if I could, never quite able to shake the feelings of guilt and self-loathing they conjured from the depths of my psyche.
Until I moved here.
Blake was friends with everyone, and as I continued to work for the man, he drew me into relationships with business leaders, government officials, and one police officer: Deputy Chief Dupree, and through him, the other men in blue, the ones he called friends, those who would join him as he nursed a single beer through six hours of football, then tip us like he’d had eight.
So while I recognized and understood the loathing and contempt of men like Meyers, it was a relief to see a friendlier face steady me as I lurched up into the van.
“Hey, Nick! Howz it hangin’?”
I shuffled sideways on the bench. “To tell you the truth… I’ve been better.”
Officer Reggie Lincoln laughed.
“I hear ya, man. Talk about your blowouts!” He’d already moved to haul in another riot refugee before I could ask about FatBoy or Blake—or Christine or God… Natalie.
Shit.
“Rather not, Reg… rathe
r not…” I muttered under my breath, shifting to ease the strain on my shoulder.
One of my regulars slumped down on my right. His suit jacket was missing and one shirtsleeve was torn away, pooling unnoticed around his elbow and exposing a very fine and well-defined bicep. For a second, I wished away the rest of his shirt. Then he breathed on me.
Ugh. It was official. St. Patrick’s Day had edged out Valentine’s Day as the most reviled holiday in my calendar.
Whatever it takes, we were cancelling it next year.
What. Ever. It. Takes.
“You’re that bartender!”
I looked over at the end of my bench. Mr. Three Martinis, Two Cosmos, and a Bud sat there swaying unconcerned. His pink polo shirt still neat, though his chinos had smears that might be blood. Probably not his. He’d splayed his feet, riding the shifting of the van, and I tried it myself. It helped. A little.
“Hell of a night!” They’d left the light on inside, so I could see him clearly. Only his eyes showed the effects of a long day drinking—glassy and rimmed with red. As I recalled, he’d been there with a group of fraternity brothers at the start of the basketball game.
“Where’re your buddies?” I was desperate to distract myself.
“They left hours ago.” He flashed his veneers and made a motion that might have translated into a shrug if he wasn’t also hogtied. “They were done drinkin’, and bored… showed them—missed all the excitement!”
“There’s a lesson in there,” I agreed.
Probably not the one you’re thinking of.
I didn’t bother sharing my thoughts. Sarcasm was usually lost on the drunk and stupid, and he was in the running for both titles.
The thought of being inside a police station made me shake—the reptilian part of my brain stampeding in panic with no place to go.