by Rob Buckman
CHAPTER FOUR:
Mike walked away from the Sheriff's office with Max in tow, unaware of what he'd started. Trouble, like a distant storm was fast approaching and some sixth sense made him stop in at the local gun shop and pick up extra ammunition. He made a few more purchases around town, heading back to the ‘Buckhorn’ for a short beer. Somewhat to his surprise, a line was forming outside as he walked up, and wondered what it was for, then remembered that it was Saturday night. Charley's place was the only bar for miles to have a live band on Saturday night, so it was the place to go for the locals, as well as tourists who wanted to kick up their heels. Max didn't appear to like all the people and noise and with a soft woof, he trotted off into the shadow behind the building. Mike watched him go with a smile, thinking that maybe he had the right idea, but he had promised Charley, so he walked up to the entrance, about to push pass the large bouncer guarding the door and checking ID's. He was not one of Charley's regular people and grabbed Mike's left arm as he tried to walk passed.
"Where do you think you're going sport?!" He asked, giving Mike a dirty look, his tone anything but friendly. It turned even dirtier when he felt the knife under Mike's jacket against the back of his hand.
"Move it or lose it!" Mike said, looked first at the hand then into the man's eyes. The look shook the bouncer, as most tough guys who said that he could take in less than thirty seconds. The look in this guys eyes said he'd hand him is head if he didn't let go. He let go.
"You get in line with the rest of them." He said, pointing over his shoulder with a thick thumb and backing towards the door behind him.
"What on earth for?" Mike asked, puzzled. Reaching inside the door, the bouncer pressed the button just inside, flashing a light that said he had more trouble than he could handle. A moment later, another man, even larger than the first bouncer showed up, taking a quick look round.
"What's the trouble Freddy?" He asked, nodding to Mike.
"This guy!" Freddy said, indicating Mike.
"Hi Mike, what's up?" He was a bit puzzled. Mike had been here before, and was not one to cause trouble. As a friend of Charley's, he had access to the place any time he wanted, day or night on direct orders from Charley.
"You know this guy?" Freddy asked.
"Yeah. He can come in, no problem. By the way," He said to Mike as he passed. "Charley's expecting you, he's reserved a seat for you at the end of the bar."
"Thanks." Mike said as he entered. The first bouncer grabbed the other one by the arm, pulling him close and whispering in his ear.
"This guy is armed, a Bowie, I think, under his left arm."
"So what, Charley said let him in any time, and that all right with me. Besides, this guy you don't want trouble from."
"But what about the..."
"I don't give a shit if he's carrying a fucking RPG in his back pocket. If Charley says he goes in, in he goes, all right?"
"You're the boss." He answered, but he didn’t like it.
"Just cool it. If, there is trouble, don't look for this guy to start it. A beer and a chat with Charley is all this guy comes in for."
"You've got it." He said, returning to the line, and the sixteen year old girls with phony ID's. He didn't like it, not one damn bit.
Mike didn't wait for the whispered conversation to be over before going in. Once inside he immediately stepped to one side, his back to the wall, scanning the room. It was pretty crowded right now, and as the evening wore on it would get worse. Like Max, the noise and this many people made him feel a little uncomfortable. The ‘Buckhorn’ roadhouse was one giant room, the shape of a rectangle with a dance floor and the bandstand at one end. Between the dancers, Mike could see the gleam of the high polish on the floor, showing it had been freshly done, not that it would stay that way too much longer, as the damp sawdust that covered the remainder would soon be tracked out there. The sawdust did help soak up the spilled beer and keep the place smelling clean and fresh. Most of the sawdust was cedar, from the local sawmill, the owner putting it aside especially for Charley. The remainder of the room was cut off from the dance floor by a waist high wooden rail that ran all the way round, except for three openings that provided a way on and off the dance floor and kept the drinkers and watchers from gradually stealing the available dance space. High up, out of arms reach, a wide shelf supported military memorabilia from around the world. Old muskets and antique guns, festooned the walls, interspaced with photos from three wars, the Second, Korea and Nam, with unit flashes and ensigns plus country, and battle flags from half the nations of the world. For the local military crowd it was a comfortable place to hang out, acting as the unofficial American Legion post. Now that Charley was out of the service he had no prejudice against anyone, all services were welcomed here, foreign as well as domestic. The horseshoe shaped bar at the other end of the building sported brews from around the world, most of the civilians never having heard of half of them, even fewer willing to try them. That was perfect with the military crowd that came here on weeknights. It left more for them to drink.
The center console behind the bar was covered with bottles and hunting trophies, unit flashes, photographs, beer mugs and glasses of every size, shape, and description. Some of these had the names of regular customers on them while others Charley had picked up during his years of service in different places. Mike couldn't see it from where he was standing, but the last four feet of the bar on the other side of the horseshoe was lower than the rest. Roped off, with a white stripe painted on the floor, and strictly reserved for service personnel and others who now needed mechanical means of locomotion. They could pull up to the bar and order, or just sit, drink and talk to Charley. More than one tourist had been thrown out on their ass for making despairing comments about that area. Mostly the Saturday night crowd complaining about not being able to use the space. They found plenty of space to use out in the parking lot, after picking themselves up, and dusting off their clothes and bruised egos. One such disgruntled customer stood near an empty stool at the end of the bar, nursing a short beer, and nodded to Mike as he walked up. Mike moved over and sat down, nodding a greeting in response.
"You'd better not sit there." The patron said, leaning over and muttered to Mike.
"How come?" Mike asked, playing along.
"The owner don't like people to sit there. He's already kicked three people off it."
"How come?"
"Said something about it being a man's seat, whatever the hell that means." Mike shrugged, hiding a slight smile. Just then, Charley walked up, placing a beer in front of Mike. He gave the guy a withering look that had cowed three generations of recruits into total obedience. Then, using his parade ground whisper to get over the sound of the music, he said.
"Had to toss three wimp's off that seat already tonight. Thought you might have changed your mind!" He gave the poor guy another look, sending him scurrying away to a quieter corner near the amplifier. "So what did the Sheriff have to say?" Charley asked, grinning as he watched the guy walk away.
"How did you know?"
"Called me right after you left, wanted to know if I knew anything about you."
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing."
"Did he believe you?"
"Don't give a shit if he believes me or doesn't, I didn't vote for the sucker." Charley stuck a cigar in his mouth and looked sour.
"I take it you two don't see eye to eye."
"Hell! You can say that gain. He's a dickhead, couldn't pour beer out of a boot with the instructions on the heel." Mike chuckled, neither could he. He'd drink the beer first, then read the instructions.
"Enough about him, I want you to try this, Captain." Mike gave him a sharp look, seeing nothing on his face that would indicate he knew anything. Charley was an old poker player, and let nothing show. He noticed Mike's critical look. Suspecting he'd touched a nerve somewhere. The question was where?
'This' turned out to be a shot glass full of amber liquid from a
bottle off the back shelf. Mike eyed it suspiciously, then picking it up, taking a small sip. It felt and tasted like warm velvet, flowing over the tongue and down the throat as soft as a lover’s kiss. It lit a slow fire that gently spread through his body, leaving an after taste of wood smoke and peat in his throat and nostrils. Mike leaned his back against the rear wall, letting the feeling spread slowly though his body. Waves of contentment spread outward from his soul.
"Wow!" Mike said, when his voice returned. "That, undoubtedly has to be the smoothest example of the distiller’s art that it has been my good fortune to come across." Charley's face broke into a smile that threatened to break it in two if it spread further.
"That sir is the finest Kentucky sipping whiskey anywhere in this country, maybe the world."
"You can say that again." Mike took another sip. He didn't swallow it, but simply let it permeate through the tissue of his mouth and throat. "This is the nectar of the Gods. Tell me. Where did an old reprobate like you manage to lay his ham like hand on something as precious as this?" His expression said that he was not prepared to hear anything less than the truth, or else. Charley chuckled.
"Would you believe, my younger brother sent it to me?"
"No!" He said, straight and simple.
"Well sir, you have better back off and put your fists up and be prepared for a knock down drag out fight!" He started to roll his shirtsleeves a little higher.
"How come?" Mike asked in surprise.
"I don't take kindly to a man calling me a liar!" Mike reconsidered his options.
"You say your brother sent this to you?"
"Sure did." He said proudly.
"Where, might I inquire, did your brother, excuse me, younger brother lay his ham like hands on something so precious?"
"That's easy. He owns the distillery."
"Get the fuck out of here! Owns?"
"Yup! He was the smart one in the family. Made his money and bought an old distillery down South. Been out of business since the Civil War so I'm told. Place was heavily damaged during some battle or other and never completely rebuilt"
"This didn't come out of a ten year old, or even a twenty year keg!"
"No sir it didn't. While they were rebuilding the place, an old cellar was uncovered that not even the family who owned the place now knew about. There were dozens of casks down there. This is a sample of one of them."
"That young man has found himself a gold mine. Did he also manage to get the recipe?"
"So he said. He sent me this bottle and told me he was going to send one each month by special delivery."
"I'm honored that you would share it with me. Thank you." Mike meant it from the heart.
"That bottle has your name on it from now on."
"Charley? I..."
"Are you going to insult me again?" Mike smiled, shaking his head.
"No Gunny, I wouldn't dream of it. Thank you again. You are a true gentleman." Mike raised his glass, saluting the grizzled Marine. Charley raised his in return. Just then, a throaty female voice that sent shivers up Mike’s back cut in.
"Are you Mike Grainger?" The voice was soft, yet cut like a diamond through the background noise.
Mike looked around at her, his eyes traveling from the floor upward, liking what he saw. Expensive western boots tucked under form fitting blue jeans, emphasized her long legs. Tight and snug, showing the curves around the hips, bottom, and waist. The dark blue, long sleeve silk blouse highlighted rather than concealed her trim figure, and high rounded breasts. He never reached the avalanche of chestnut hair crowning her head. Instead, he fell into her beautiful blue/green eyes as if they were a clear mountain pool. It took a supreme effort to pull himself out. Shaken, and tingling all over as if suffering from a mild case of electric shock, he found those eyes were full of fire, instead of cool water.
"Yes, I am." He heard himself say, not even thinking about using his usual come back of. "Who wants to know?"
"I do, you son of a bitch!" she snapped, swinging her fist.
For Mike, time slowed down at moments like this, until they existed in their own tiny corner of the universe. Her right arm came round, not in a slap, but a punch, aimed for his chin. It never landed. In a reflex action, his left arm moved out, first blocking the punch, then carrying on forward and grasping her hair. His body all ready in motion off the stool. He pulled, swinging her around to his left, turning her so she ended up half sitting on the stool he’d just vacated and half standing. Her back hit the rear wall with a thump, knocking the breath out of her. Mike's right arm snapped back, the hand cocking backward and locking, presenting the heel of his hand to her upper body and face, prepared to strike. His left hand grasped her hair, forcing the head back, exposing her throat, chin, or nose to the blow. Time stopped then, holding the moment frozen. There was no sound, no emotion, and no color, except her blue/green eyes. Mike looked into them, expecting to see fear, hatred or anger. Instead he saw calm acceptance, and a curious sense of wonder and something else, something that he didn't understand. Admiration? Time speeded up as Charley shouted something and lunged across the bar. His arm shooting out to stop the blow, recognizing it. If he struck her, she'd be dead, or in hospital. His movement felt like they were in slow motion. When his hand grabbed Mike's wrist he felt he had already relaxed, deciding not to strike. Times speeded back up to normal as he heard Charley's explosive. "NO MIKE!" But it was already over. He knew that the moment he grabbed Mike’s arm. The decision not to strike had never transmitted itself to his hand.
"Lady! You got to be one stupid idiot to do that around here. Jesus Christ! Back off and cool down!" He snapped. "That goes for you too Mike. Cool it!"
"Have a seat?" Mike said, indicating his stool. Mike’s voice sounded casual, cool. As if what he'd just done was the most natural act in the world, and maybe it was, for him. The girl sat down, shaking her head to rearrange her hair, fluffing out the back where he'd grabbed her.
"Here!" Charley said, slamming down two ice-cold glasses of water on the bar. "Cool off!" He said, glaring at them both, before walking away, muttering to himself.
They both looked at each other again and Mike grabbed himself before he could fall into her eyes. They both looked away, trying to find something to look at beside each other. At that moment, a hand pushed the girl roughly aside, and Mike saw a man about to take a swing at him.
'This is getting ridicules!' He thought. Before the man could even start to throw the punch, Mike was moving.
Grabbing the man by the shirtfront and the crotch he lifted, and threw him across the room where he made an ignominious landing on a table, upsetting several drinks before crashing to the floor. Here he gathered sawdust and a few splinters for his trouble, not to mention a few bruises and a ripped shirt. Charley waved the bouncers over, telling them to take care of the guy and the customers before it turned into the full-scale brawl. He seen this one and the guy had asked for it.
"So don't worry about this guy, he's not going to cause any trouble, you said." Freddy whispered to his friend.
"So I was wrong, sue me!" This friend snapped back as they lifted the dazed man off the floor.
"Having fun tonight, Mike?" Charley asked sarcastically as he walked over, looking at Mike. His grin looking like something out of a 'Jaws' movie, just before the shark struck.
"Charley, I ..." He started to say. Charley waving him to silence.
"Don't worry, I saw what happened this time. It's all under control. Is he a friend of yours?" He asked the lady. She looked a bit sheepish.
"He was my date. He's also my business partner." It came out sounding almost like an apology.
"Stupid jerk!" Charley commented walking away, motioning the bouncers to take him into the back room. That would keep him out of the way until he cooled down, and with luck until Mike left. After that, he lifted the phone of its hook and called Ruth at the house. The lady turned back and looked at Mike.
"So you’re Mike Grainger." She said.
/> "I thought we'd already got that out of the way. You are?"
He didn't dare look at her, not with those booby traps for eyes. If he fell into them again, he might never find his way out. Instead, he kept his eyes on the Force Recon plaque done in wood behind the bar. Noting the hand carving and the attention to detail.
"I'm Kat Ballard, Ms. Ballard to you, and I'm the one who's going to haul your ass into court and get my land back for a start!"
"What are you going to do after that?" Mike asked.
"Throw your ass in jail if I get half a chance." She could feel her anger getting fired up again and it made her feel good. It counteracted the effect he was having on her. From the second he grabbed her until now her mind had refused to function properly. It wasn't because he'd grabbed her, or thrown her up against the wall. She been hit harder than that falling off a horse. So what was it? The fact he could have struck her and didn't? No, a voice inside her head answered. That was part of it, but not all, something else then.
"Why is it that all you women's lib people like to use a title that sounds like a bumble bee with a lisp?" He commented. "And no, you're not going to throw my ass in jail, or get your land back." She only half heard the words, her mind elsewhere.
"I... what did you say about a bumble bee?" She heard the words but couldn't make sense out of them, "bumble bee with a lisp?" What on earth was he talking about?
"You heard me the first time. I brought the land legally from the county. So there is no way you can get it back. Even if it was yours, which I doubt."
"No I meant about the title ... no about the land ... I ..."
"It sounds to me as if you don't know what you mean."
"I know what I mean. You stole it!"
