“Your buddy Drew’s playing tonight,” Karla screamed at him over her shoulder.
Drew? She mean Desmond? “RaspberryHead?”
“They’re The SugarThumpers now. A bit gay, right?”
In the back was the row of pool tables and at their end the small dance floor. And that’s where he found her. “She looks fine to me,” he told Karla.
Marissa didn’t wear ivory cargos so much as they rode blissfully low on her hips. A misty blue silk camisole revealing her smooth tummy and her hair in a braid evoked a girlish summer simplicity. She was part of a writhing mass of sexually charged feminine lines and arcs, a posse of salubrious jezebels dancing to a woman on the juke assuring the world that everything was going to be alright, no one no one could get in the way of what she was feeling. So many dangerous curves and dangerous looks, he didn’t remember girls being so wiggly and jiggly in his day, then again these weren’t girls. His daughter was a girl, he couldn’t imagine her on that dance floor, thank God it was ten years away, plenty of time for her to consider the convent life.
Something burly and smelling god-awful bumped him hard in the shoulder and he sucked in air as pain shot his vision with snowy stellar phantoms.
A head tilted a slovenly, crooked-nosed face at him. “’Member me?”
“Not really,” and not really caring to, just trying to get the stars to subside, the burn up his back even more so.
“Din’t think so” the big man sneered and strutted over to a pool table, jerking his thumb back and scoring a high-five and laugh with his buddies.
“That guy’s still a prick!”
McConnell turned. “Des.”
“KK. Wanna go play carnival?”
“In your dreams, Drew.”
The rocker cackled, extended a black-nailed hand to McConnell. “How’s it hangin’, man?”
“Little to the left.”
“I feel ya, I feel ya.” He sucked down half the mug of beer in his hand, nodded to the shapes and verve on the dance floor. “Damn, those honeypots own a room. Oh, hey, forgot, really sorry man to hear ’bout your bro. First Anj, then Sean. Jee-sus, what a fuckin’ year.” He raised his mug. “Here’s to those who’ve gone ahead.” He tossed the rest back. “Ahh. Yeah. So?”
“So?”
“How long you been tappin’ that bodacious ass?” He nodded in Marissa’s direction.
“Haven’t been.”
“That’s not what Karla says.”
He looked at the diminutive brunette. “Karla’s full of shit.”
She stuck her tongue out at him.
“Why the hell am I here?” he asked her.
“Hey Drew!” chorused a gaggle of girls.
“Ladies,” Desmond replied, swarthy smile intact.
“John?” Marissa appeared at the end of the gaggle, a man vaguely familiar in tow. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Desmond tossed his dreads, draped an arm around her shoulder. “Missy babe! So how long you guys been bonin’?”
She lifted his arm, dropped it like a dead snake. She shared a look with Karla, then a glare.
“I’m too old for this shit,” McConnell said and made for the exit.
Two steps into his exodus a hand grabbed his. Vivacious little gems of glittering kryptonite in sultry heat stopped him. “Karla said you were in trouble,” he explained.
“She lied. She does that.”
His eyes flicked to the rutting buck behind her. Something about his eyes, his sneer. Yeah, I’m gonna bang your chick, what of it?
Not much. Wasn’t his chick. But he still didn’t like that sneer.
He turned to leave again. Click.
He turned back and faced Aaron Desmitt. One of Mitch’s Terrible Trio.
“You with this guy?” McConnell asked Marissa.
Her confused look said no. “Who?” She glanced at Desmitt. “Do I know you?”
“C’mon,” McConnell said, jerking her over to him. The crowd didn’t care for that. Neither did Marissa.
She pulled back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Desmitt saw his fifteen minutes light up. “Get your hands off her, McConnell.” His nervous eyes settled down with the crowd’s encouragement and he gave McConnell a shove. The crowd liked that. Desmitt shoved him again. He went for a third and McConnell grabbed his arm, put it in a hold. Desmitt dropped like a sack of whimpering spuds to the ground. McConnell released the hold and nudged Desmitt over with his knee.
The crowd enjoyed that. Marissa didn’t. When he reached for her arm again she slapped at him. “I’m not your property, John.”
“Jesus, what the hell—”
Desmitt’s three compatriots were helping him up but that’s not what made McConnell stop midsentence. He knew one of them from earlier now. Burly bump-the-shoulder guy. Could that really be Mangiano?
He looked rough, smelled worse; beer, sweat and stale shit. Six months of a dentist’s house payments leered above a gray sleeveless shirt stained down the front, as if food and beer found his mouth so repulsive they chose to leap to their death instead. His jeans had seen better days a decade ago and he looked another decade older than he should; crow’s feet raked downwards to sagging jowls, eyes bloodshot through yellow.
Behind him was a lanky redhead and a giant of man a good head taller than McConnell with a shaved head in a biker vest. Odd bedfellows. His immediate prejudice was they were a rape gang on the prowl. Maybe that was just his bias. Maybe that didn’t matter.
“Nice fuckin’ hair. Still think you’re the shit, huh McConnell?” Mangiano’s turn to shove him.
The music on the juke switched tracks. Rush, Working Man.
Mangiano grinned a pumpkin’s leer. “Playing my song. Wanna dance, motherfucker?”
“Only if you brush your tooth.” He glanced at Marissa who was between them but off to the side. “Come over here. Please.” He extended his hand but Mangiano knocked it down.
“You thinking of runnin’, pussy? Nah, nah. I’ve been waiting for this payback for years. Gonna beat your ass like I did your brother’s.”
McConnell was too old for bar fights and much too sore. As his luck was going that probably didn’t matter very much.
“Where’s your ringleader? He out rustlin’ Boy Scouts for you to bugger?” He turned to Marissa. “What’s French for ‘Boy Scout buggery’”?
Mangiano drew back but he was slow. McConnell cracked him hard in the face twice. He spun as Biker guy bore down on him. Marissa stepped in front of the big man and he batted her away like a rag doll. She fell to the floor, a hand to her face.
McConnell’s world went red.
He put a size twelve into Mangiano’s chest. Arms flailed as the fat man fell backwards to the floor. Out of the corner of his right eye he glimpsed movement and braced his arm just in time to take the brunt of a barstool that would’ve shattered ribs. His right arm tingled up to the shoulder as someone whacked him with something in the lower back and he fell against a pool table, his hand finding something round and nectarine and he winged it at Biker, the three ball hitting the big man’s left eye socket with a meaty Thock! Biker roared, staggered against the wall, sending a mirror of those stalwart Clydesdales shattering to the floor.
Lanky swung a pool cue at him again, this time at his head. He caught it on his left arm, grabbed and yanked, and as Lanky came forward, snap-kicked him in the gut and was rewarded with a whoosh! as the air left Lanky’s lungs and he fell to his knees hugging his sides.
He sensed more than saw the barstool again and dropped to the ground and kicked out at Desmitt’s knee. Desmitt screamed and dropped down next to him, the barstool too, but before McConnell could lay into him Mangiano was over him, jabbing him in the jaw. He arm-locked the follow-up right punch, used the leverage to pull himself up and in the same motion spin the fat man around, grabbing the back of his head and slamming his face against the felt-covered slate and with a squishy crunch broke Mangiano’s nose for the second
time in their lives. The once wrestling champion slid to the floor with a nasal wail.
Desmitt leapt on his back and McConnell sent him sailing over the next pool table to land with a hard thump and groan on the other side. The crowd scattered, men screamed, women cheered as McConnell looked for someone else to hurt.
Someone hit him in the back and head again. Lanky back for more and swinging away, tougher than he looked, but before McConnell could react a great weight plowed into him and Biker drove him across the floor with an enraged battle cry. They smacked against a wall, his back erupting in a mad funhouse of screams. Biker stunk almost as bad as Mangiano, the gash above his eye spilling a red cataract down his cheek as he wildly swung meaty fists, too furious to really connect, then flung McConnell back the way they had come. He landed at the feet of Mangiano, who, his face a bloody mess, kicked while Lanky swung his cue stick, both battering McConnell as he struggled to get his feet, hand fumbling on the felt and finding a plum, the four, made sense, he threw it, this time taking Biker in the kneecap who screamed in pain but McConnell was too busy trying not to get killed to enjoy it. Lanky missed wide, the cue smacking the felt and McConnell’s hand grabbed and snatched the stick away. His turn at bat. In a wide arc he connected with Mangiano’s neck, then swung back the other way to knock Lanky in the temple.
He shakily regained his feet, snapped the cue in two across a knee—why settle for one when you could have double the fun—brought both sticks down on top of carrot top’s noggin, one-two, one-two, took a step towards Biker and gave him a couple good whacks then whacked Mangiano who had one hand holding the red mash of his face, the other at his throat, then drummed on Lanky again, back to Biker, back to Mangiano, Neil Peart in action, he raised up the splintered shafts to strike again and again—
Big, powerful arms slipped him into a full nelson and yanked him backwards off his feet.
“Enough Johnny! Jesus Christ, enough! It’s Mace! It’s Mace!” grunted the big man.
After a few moments of immobility, he began to calm as a crescendo of cheers exalted his bloodthirsty work. The broken cue fell from his hands to bounce on the floor next to men moaning, groaning and bleeding.
“I’m done,” he whispered hoarsely as the roil left him, the ravaging sear up and down his back returning him to his senses. Mace held onto him anyway until his bouncers were present.
“Jesus! What the hell I pay you fuckers for?” Mace jerked his head. “Get this shit outta my bar.”
The crowd eagerly assisted ushering the bloodied foursome out with jeers, common law at The Whore joyfully enforced.
“I’m done, Mace,” McConnell repeated.
“Should hope so,” Desmond said, taking in the carnage, rubbing his knuckles. “I was just getting started, myself.”
Mace released him and McConnell caught his breath. “I’ll pay for damages—”
“Get the fuck outta here before the cops get here,” Mace scowled.
Marissa was studying him from the front of the crowd. Her left cheek was a ripe red.
“Are you okay?” he asked her.
She nodded, a bit adrift, as Karla appeared by her side.
He nodded back and for the third time that night he made for the exit through the riled up throngs, his body quaking from adrenaline, aching and burning from everything else. Almost through the stifling masses The Whore’s door swung wide.
“Evenin’, Mace.” The barkeep swore. “Now that we’re through with the pleasantries, mind explaining the four assholes bleeding on my goddamn curb?” Sergeant Anders glowered.
CHAPTER 38
AUGUST
Spokane, Washington
The pea-green walls held no clock. Even the waiting room of the jail felt like jail. Just a long room with a long plastic bench opposite a sturdy door and long glass windows looking onto a few desks where Judge Scolari paced, one hand in his khaki shorts pocket as he motioned John to sit next to the lugubrious redhead icing a nasty blue and purple goose egg budding from his forehead. A young cop in the room sat on the edge of a desk next to the other three combatants who looked just as miserable. One had stitches above his eye, the other a bandaged nose, the last in pure dejection with his chin in his hands.
Scolari gave John a look, gave a look to heaven, gave Marissa a look and a wink through the glass then began moralizing. John’s eyes met hers. Was he worried or apologetic? Maybe both. You are such an asshole.
The side door opened.
“Judge’s on it,” Sergeant Anders assured, sipping at his cup. “Sure you don’t want anything?”
She smiled politely and shook her head. The deputy, despite having hauled John to jail, which he most assuredly deserved, had been very attentive, bringing her an icepack and checking on her regularly.
“I still don’t understand why he’s here.”
“Who? The judge? He’s a friend.” As if that explained it.
“Who’s friend?”
He shrugged.
Nice guy but about as enlightening as a donut.
“You said you and John go way back’?”
He grunted. “Since we was eight. Beat me out for shortstop so I tried to beat him up after practice.”
“How did that go?”
“Been second base ever since. How you think it went?”
“He beat up everyone he knows?”
The Sergeant grunted.
“I’ve never seen anything like tonight,” she said. “I didn’t know he could be such a hothead.”
Anders grunted again. Must be a cop thing. “Nah. Now Sean, he was a hothead. John’s more”—he searched for the word— “dangerous.”
Oh. Well. That’s encouraging.
The big cop cleared his throat. “So you’re the reason he’s lost all the weight, eh?”
She let him change the subject, this new one just as intriguing. “Come again?”
“Well, I figured it was a woman. What with his new hair and all. Been dating long?”
“We’re not dating.”
“Oh.”
“Have you fixed a lot of trouble for him?”
She had learned more from this deputy in five minutes than John had shared about himself in, well, ever.
But Anders was no dummy. He just grunted again.
The judge’s voice rose through the glass as his graying head jerked, finger pointing first at John, then the others, then God, then back to John, who winced as the other four took some comfort in the floor at their feet.
“He scared me tonight.” And angered her. And excited her. And made her feel safe. A weird intoxicating concoction, an epiphany really. That’s why she was there. Why she had asked for his keys and followed the police car in his truck.
“He’d never hurt you. He likes to beat up bullies, though.” Anders sipped his coffee. She waited him out and he continued. “The McConnells learned to fight from their dad. Probably why they’re so good at it. You know, hanging on to the old man.”
John’s phone rang again. She didn’t answer. She had no idea what she would say.
Anders sat down next to her on the bench. “They used to spar in the backyard. Sometimes I’d go a round or two, never more than two.” He smiled, stroked his moustache, his eyes far away. “Fun as kids, but caused some trouble for me when I took up the badge.”
“You like him.”
The judge paused for a call, paced, John’s face relieved, the other participants too, though they all snapped to attention as the judge snapped his phone shut and returned to his harangue.
“Suppose that’s the word. He’s an anger ball. I can’t blame him but that doesn’t excuse it. Maybe you’ll remedy that.”
Remedy obstinately inaccessible John McConnell? Might as well ask her to fix the Hubble with a Q-tip.
She had witnessed the occasional bar fight but never such a demonstration of fierce brutality as John had put on tonight. His willingness, his readiness to mete out such violence had been horrific. And yet she couldn’t just leave him.
>
“Bastard’s lucky I do like him.” The cop smoothed his moustache and rose to meet a tall man in a dark suit and tie, his blond hair slicked back, throwing wide the side door with aggressive authority.
“Where is he?” he demanded, triumphantly marching into the room.
“Calm yourself, Detective Boucher.” Anders raised his beefy arm to block the way and gestured at her with his head.
“I want that fucker’s head on a platter! He fucked up big this time!” His grin evaporated as he peered over the big man’s shoulder. “Is that Scolari in there? What the—”
“Detective, this here’s Marissa, Angela Flynn’s little sister.”
She stood up as his pale blue eyes swept over her. “How’s she involved? Why’s Scolari in there, Anders?”
“Let’s step outside a moment,” the deputy said.
“I demand to know what the hell—”
“Detective Boucher! May I please speak to you outside? Please.”
The detective glared at him, then at her, at the assembly on the other side of the glass then spun on his heel.
She stared after them, then looked at John who was looking towards the door Anders and the detective had gone through, anger creasing his brow. The judge noticed, pointed and yelled at him again, but John never recovered his full attention, glancing at the side door. There was a bruise on his cheek. I bet his back is hurting like hell now. Serves him right. Was that, too, from a previous fight? Made sense. All kinds of things were starting to make sense.
Papers were passed around and the five would-be gladiators took turns signing them. Then they all reluctantly shook hands and the four limped out in their socks, Ronnie Mangiano with new red stains down his shirt. They dropped to the bench as a young cop slid a plastic bin along the floor filled with shoes and wallets and keys.
“I’m confident we won’t see each other again under these circumstances” The judge raised his gray eyebrows, hands in pockets.
The four chorused their agreement.
“Good. Anders!” he called out, peering about the room, spying her sitting and smiling. “Ah, my manners, apologies Miss Flynn, yelling in government, it’s the only way anything gets done. ANDERS!”
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