by Meg Benjamin
On impulse he walked into the shop they’d come from, although it didn’t look like the place had much he’d be interested in. Still, with a name like Republic of Texas, there was always the off chance that the owner was a Cowboys fan, willing to exchange information for an autograph.
A man stood at the front window staring after Ames’s truck. From his expression, Craig guessed he wasn’t any more impressed with Ames than Craig was himself. Although the guy didn’t look like he had much room to feel superior, given his shaggy hair and general lack of personal hygiene. Craig doubted those teeth had seen a dentist since the nineties, if then.
The man narrowed his eyes. “You want something?”
“Just looking. This your place?”
He nodded once, still regarding Craig as if he were a potential sneak thief.
“Just noticed a friend of mine in here,” he said easily. “Little brunette. Maybe you know her—Dee-Dee Brandenburg. She one of your customers?”
The owner looked like he might have spat on the floor if he weren’t standing in his own place. “Bought a couple of tables and chairs off me. If she’s your friend, what’s she doing with the pissant Ames?”
Craig’s jaw tightened. “Ames is just after her money. She’ll figure it out.”
“Her money?” The owner raised an eyebrow.
“Her old man’s money. Big John Brandenburg’s got enough to buy and sell Ames ten times over. My guess is he will when he finds out Dee-Dee’s been hanging out with him.”
“John Brandenburg?”
Something about the man’s voice made Craig take a closer look. His eyes seemed a lot brighter all of a sudden. But given that the guy was probably a typical Konigsburg moron, Craig didn’t give him credit for much in the way of brainpower. He probably needed things spelled out for him.
“John Brandenburg,” he said impatiently. “Brandenburg, Inc. Girl’s been spoiled rotten by her daddy. He’ll have something to say about what she’s up to now. Probably pay Ames off and take her back home to Houston with him, one way or another.” That was, of course, if Craig didn’t pry her loose himself, which he was planning to do as soon as Hardesty could get his ducks in a row.
The owner turned back to the window again, his eyes narrowing. “I imagine so,” he muttered. “We’ll have to give him something to think about, then.”
Craig stared at him. Clearly the man had at least one screw loose, and possibly more. He turned and headed back toward the door.
The owner didn’t seem to notice when he left.
Sunday night was as quiet as usual. Chico sat propped on his stool across the room, watching the Steinbruners play a fairly inept game of pool through half-closed eyes. Now and again, Sylvia sat beside him. They didn’t seem to talk much, but Tom thought Chico’s expression might actually have moved closer to a smile when she was there.
In between pouring drafts and mixing the occasional margarita, he watched Deirdre move gracefully between the tables. She didn’t usually work Sundays, but Marilyn had asked for the night off, and Deirdre volunteered to fill in. He did his best not to think about their activities for the past couple of nights since that led to a general lack of attention to his job. The tourists regarded her with awe, while the small but steadily increasing number of locals sat back to enjoy the view.
When she came to the bar with an order, she looked up at him through those wondrous lashes again, and he suddenly felt short of breath.
“Two margaritas on the rocks and a scotch straight up,” she said, then blinked at him. “Is everything okay?”
Tom realized he was staring at her. Probably not the smartest thing to do. “Sure,” he said and turned back to fix the drinks.
His hands had a slight tremble all of a sudden, and his heart was racing. He wondered briefly if he might be having a heart attack. Not that kind of heart attack, moron! He poured the scotch, then set the glasses on her tray, managing not to meet her eyes until the last moment.
“Thanks.” She gave him a smile that set off another small heart episode.
Tom watched her walk away, telling himself this was nothing to get excited about. He’d been involved with women before. This was just the initial hormone rush that would settle down soon. Right. Keep telling yourself that, moron.
“Man, you got it bad. I can see all the signs.”
Tom glanced at Nando, who’d taken a seat at the bar while he was fixated on Deirdre. So nice to have an audience!
“You drinking? Or does that interfere with your advice sideline?”
Nando shook his head. “I’m on duty. Wouldn’t say no to a soda, though.”
Tom filled a glass with cola from the bar, then set it in front of him. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Real quiet. Had some news about that little ruckus you had the other night, though.”
Tom’s shoulders tensed. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “What did you hear?”
“At least one of the boys was hired. He got picked up in Johnson City on a DUI, then started talking to the cop who brought him in. Of course, he was plastered, but the Johnson City guy said it sounded possible.”
“Hired by who?”
Nando shrugged. “Somebody from out of town, I guess. The drunk didn’t know him. Just took his money.”
Tom rubbed harder. “I figured as much. But if I don’t know who’s hiring them, I can’t do much to stop it.”
Nando raised an eyebrow. “You got any guesses?”
“Maybe.” Tom shrugged. “Not anything I’m ready to talk about.”
“Well, watch your back. There could be more coming.” Nando took a sip of his cola. “Plus you’ve got Margaret Hastings with a hair up her ass now.”
Tom frowned. “Margaret Hastings? Hell, I don’t even know her except by sight. She’s the one with all the angels, right?”
Nando nodded. “Got that Angels Unaware shop back on the other end of Main.”
“So what’s she pissed off about? I don’t buy enough angels?”
“She’s a teetotaler, one of those who thinks everybody else should be too. And that all places that sell demon rum should be shut down.”
Tom felt a drip of ice down his spine. “So one fight and she wants to close me down? Hell, the old Faro had a fight every week.”
“And Margaret Hastings did her best to get them closed. Kip had his liquor license suspended a couple of times because of her. Best watch your back there too.”
Tom blew out a breath. On the whole, he’d rather face the barroom brawlers than Margaret Hastings. “Any other good news?”
“Nope. That’s about it.” Nando turned to survey the room again, grinning when he saw Sylvia rest a hand on Chico’s knee. “I better take myself off. Looks like cupid’s running amok around here. I need to steer clear.”
Tom gave him a slightly forced smile and went back to watching Deirdre. Even if he had the feeling doom was approaching, at least he could enjoy the view until it did.
Chapter Nineteen
Monday night was usually slow, although they seemed to have a few more people than usual this Monday. It was hard to tell what was usual at this time of year, though—they were still drawing tourists even though the summer rush was over.
Deirdre thought she could see tension in Tom’s shoulders, but it might just be exhaustion. They really should cool it on work nights. Even though they’d gotten away at midnight last night rather than two, they’d still stayed up an extra hour or so. Of course, staying up had been the whole point.
Deirdre smiled, turning toward Tom again. He was talking to Harry and Chico, his face half hidden by Chico’s massive back. But she could see the chill in his expression, and the tension in the way he held himself.
She shivered as a ribbon of anxiety snaked across her own shoulders. Something was up. Something he hadn’t mentioned to her. He didn’t want to worry you. That should have made her feel better. It didn’t.
She took another order for beers from a group of four men, wh
o might be frat boys but didn’t exactly look the part. Maybe the Faro was beginning to pull in more people from around town—she recognized a few faces scattered among the other tables. A couple of locals were playing pool with the Steinbruners at the end of the room, the click of the balls serving as a kind of counterpoint to their voices.
Deirdre did another quick survey of the room. Nothing seemed out of place. But she thought she could feel something now. A strain vibrating through the air, just below the surface. She moved her shoulders uneasily, then told herself, again, to knock it off.
It was Monday night, for god’s sake. Nobody seemed to stand out. Nothing weird was happening. She put her tray on the bar. “Two Buds, Dos Equis, Lone Star.”
“Drafts or bottles?”
“Bottles. And a bucket.” She leaned against the bar, watching Tom pull bottles out of the cooler then lodge them in the tin bucket of ice. “Slow night.”
“About usual for Monday.” His gaze darted around the room before it settled on her again. “Any problems?”
She shook her head, then took a breath. “Are you expecting some?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Is everything okay?”
He looked at her directly then, ice-blue eyes sharp. “Sure. Everything’s terrific.”
Sylvia stepped up beside her with her own order, and Deirdre turned back toward the tables. The prickle of unease played across her shoulders again. Something was up, and Tom wasn’t sharing.
After she’d placed the bucket of beer in the center of the table and collected the money, she drew back to study the customers again. Mostly men, but that was usually the case except when they had a band. Mostly young. Or youngish. Mostly… She sighed. She hadn’t really paid much attention to the crowds before, truth be told. She didn’t exactly know what she was looking for. If she wasn’t sure what normal was, she couldn’t really tell what abnormal was either.
Chico leaned next to the beer garden door, looking deceptively sleepy. Deirdre could see him checking out the tables just as she had been, only he probably knew what constituted a problem. He stayed in place, his arms folded, but his eyes were sharp, like Tom’s.
“Waitress?”
She turned toward the voice. Another table, this one closer to the pool tables. Two men. Twenties. Jeans and T-shirts. Accent sounded like East Texas. Was that supposed to be ominous?
“Can we get a bucket like that?” He gestured toward the bucket of beers she’d placed on the table nearer the door.
“Sure. Are you ready for more?”
The man raised a questioning eyebrow at his friend, then nodded. “Yeah. Bring us two Coronas.”
Deirdre headed back toward the bar again. Behind her, somebody near the pool table whooped in triumph, but she managed not to jump. Maybe the atmosphere was getting to her more than she wanted to admit.
She gave Tom her order and turned back to consider the room again. Men talking and laughing. The smell of beer and cigarette smoke mingled with sweat, the noise of the pool game and men’s voices layered over the distant sound of the jukebox. Deirdre sighed. For the life of her, she couldn’t see anything that didn’t look like every other night at the Faro.
The door to the beer garden swung open and Chico half-turned toward the men walking in. As Deirdre watched, a fist smashed into his face.
Almost simultaneously, one of the men at her table stood up and swung the bucket of beer by its handle, bashing it against the back of Chico’s head. Chico’s knees seemed to fold beneath him as he sank to the floor. Across the room, Sylvia screamed. And then chaos erupted all around them.
Tom leaped over the bar, yelling Chico’s name. From the corner of her eye, Deirdre saw Harry grab the sawed-off pool cue, swinging it toward a pair of men who ran toward him from the front of the room.
Bottles exploded on the floor and the hanging light over the pool table shattered when a thrown bottle connected. One of the Steinbruners yelled, but she couldn’t tell whether it was from fear or outrage. She heard the crash of tables overturning, and something splintered on the far side of the room.
She whirled back to where Tom was wading through the crowd toward Chico’s prone body, pushing men out of his way and landing a few punches when they didn’t want to move fast enough. Deirdre grabbed a bottle of Dos Equis and her tray and started after him.
Behind her, she heard splintering glass and Harry’s shout. Across the room, Sylvia pushed men out of her way as she stumbled toward Chico. The Faro was a whirlwind of sound and movement, bodies sprawling into her path, flailing arms that she pushed away from her face.
And then suddenly, everything seemed to focus on a single point—a man from her table was raising a bottle behind Tom’s head, ready to bash it into the back of his skull.
Deirdre threw herself forward and hit the man in the face with her tray. He blinked at her, shaking his head as if his ears were ringing. Without thinking, she whacked him on the side of his head with the beer bottle, then watched him slump against the table. When she turned back, Tom had reached Chico’s side.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted at her. “Get back!”
Deirdre didn’t answer, largely because another man beside her had picked up an empty beer bottle and was headed toward Tom. She tossed the Dos Equis bottle in Tom’s general direction, then hit the new combatant across the back of his head with her tray. One of the Steinbruners grabbed the front of his shirt and threw him against the wall, so that his head bounced. Deirdre stared at him, watching his eyes flutter before he sagged.
“Deirdre,” Tom yelled, “goddamn it. Get over here!”
She pushed her way through the last couple of men, then braced her back to the wall beside Sylvia. “How’s Chico?”
“They knocked him out, those bastards.” Her voice sounded choked.
Deirdre glanced at her tear-stained cheeks. “We’ll take care of him.” Another crash echoed from across the room and Deirdre glanced back at the bar.
Harry crouched in front of the sink, wielding the pool cue like a baseball bat. At the other end of the bar, Leon swung his push-broom at shoulder level, jabbing at faces.
Deirdre heard a thump on her other side and watched the Steinbruner brothers toss fighters out of their way. They seemed remarkably cheerful about it.
Tom had grabbed one of the pool cues off the floor and was using it like a lance to drive people away from Chico. “Go out to the garden,” he yelled. “Call Nando. Now!” He grabbed hold of her shoulder, pushing her outside.
Deirdre stumbled to a table at the side, fumbling for her cell phone, then punched in 911. A woman’s voice answered. “Konigsburg police. You got an emergency?”
“I’m at the Faro,” Deirdre panted. “There’s a fight. A bad fight. Chico Burnside’s been hurt. Send us some help. Please. Hurry.”
“Wait,” the woman barked. Deirdre heard voices in the background, and then she was back again. “I need your name. Tell me what’s going on right now.”
Deirdre managed not to roll her eyes. “My name is Deirdre Brandenburg, and what’s going on right now is a fight, which means a bunch of men are punching each other and trying to smash up the bar. Now I’m going back inside. They need me.” She snapped the phone closed and pushed it into her pocket, then jerked the door open.
At least the situation didn’t look any worse than it had before. Several people had already left by the front door, and the ones who remained were concentrated around the pool table and the bar. Sylvia knelt beside Chico, holding his head in her lap. Tom had carved out an empty space in front of them, and was using his cue to help the Steinbruners, who still seemed to be enjoying themselves way too much as they threw a couple of men to the floor. Across the room, Harry and Leon pushed men back from the bar, but a lot of bottles had been smashed. The smell of spilled alcohol bit at her nostrils.
Suddenly, she felt Tom’s hand on her shoulder. “Down!” he yelled, a moment before glass shattered to her left. Something heavy struck
her back. Deirdre squinted over her left shoulder. The plate glass window at the front of the bar lay in shards, glass covering the tables and the floor.
The front door slammed open, and Nando Avrogado pushed his way inside. “Police,” he shouted. “Everybody freeze where you are!”
For a moment, everyone seemed to pause, and then men were stampeding for the beer garden exit, pushing Deirdre aside in the rush. Sylvia threw herself across Chico’s body to protect him, and Tom reached into the running crowd to pull one of the men out, shoving him back against the wall. “Not you, asshole.”
The man aimed a desperate punch at Tom’s jaw that landed on his shoulder. Tom grunted in pain and then threw the man across the pool table, shoving the handle of the cue under his chin. “Don’t you fucking move. I’d love to take your head off.”
Nando yelled at someone outside, probably another cop, and then stepped back into the room, pausing to take in the general carnage.
Harry and Leon slumped against the bar. The mirror behind them looked cracked and the floor in front was littered with broken bottles. Two of the Steinbruner brothers had dropped into chairs at the side, mopping their foreheads with the tails of their T-shirts. Sylvia was huddled against the wall, still cradling Chico’s head.
And Tom held the last man flat on the pool table, the cue jammed so tight beneath his chin he was gurgling. Deirdre had a feeling Tom was only holding himself back from more serious assault by a thread.
Nando stepped up beside him, laying his hand on his arm. “Okay, Ames, I’ll take it from here.”
Tom blinked at him for a moment, then stepped back, reluctantly moving the cue away from the man’s chin. “This is the SOB who started it. He hit Chico with a beer bucket.”
