Free Fire - C. J. Box [25]
“So get the hell out,” another man rasped.
McCann found his voice, said, “We don’t want this to get out of hand.”
Davis mumbled something inaudible.
“We can be friends or we can be enemies,” McCann said. “I’d prefer to be friends. That way none of us winds up in court.”
He turned to the bartender. “I’d like a cheeseburger, medium rare, and a Yellowstone Pale Ale.” His voice didn’t quaver and he was thankful.
The barman attempted to stare McCann down, but he couldn’t hold it. Sheepishly, he glanced over the bar at the still-silentcrowd. They were all watching him to see what he’d do.
McCann said softly, “Are you refusing me service? I’d hate to bring a discrimination suit against this place since everyone loves it so much.”
“Give him some fucking food,” Butch Toomer growled from his corner table. “The man’s got to eat.”
The barman looked down, said, “I just work here.”
“Then place my order.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
McCann nodded his appreciation to Toomer, who raised his beer in silent partnership. Sheila was practically devouring him with her dark, mascara’d raccoon eyes. She smiled wickedly at him, her eyes moist. And not just her eyes, he hoped.
“Tell you what,” he said to the barman, “I’ll order it to go. You can have someone bring the order to my office. That way your patrons can reel their eyes back in.”
“Good idea,” the man said, visibly relieved.
As he opened the door, McCann shot a glance over his shoulder at Les Davis and his crowd of burghers and fought the impulse to say, “Losers.”
On the way to his office two blocks away on Madison, McCannbought two six-packs of local Moose Drool beer from the dingy convenience store and carried them to his office. He fished the gun from his pocket and placed it on his desk, then sat in his chair and waited for his dinner to arrive. His nerves were still tingling.
The Journal reporter had made fun of his office location too, that his practice was on Madison Avenue, but not that Madison Avenue. This Madison Avenue, in West Yellowstone, Montana, saw more wandering elk on the sidewalks than it did men in three-piece suits.
There was a huge pile of unopened mail on his desk and he rifled through it. Hate mail, mostly, he assumed. He swept the pile into the garbage can. He’d done the same with letters sent to him while he was in jail.
The only letters McCann took seriously were from other lawyers threatening civil actions against him on behalf of the murdered campers. McCann knew they’d have a good case. Luckily, he thought, it could take years to get to trial, and he didn’t plan to be available when and if it did.
While he waited, he imagined hearing the sounds of a mob building outside on the street. Pitchforks and torches being raised. Guttural shouts morphing into a chant: “Justice . . . Justice . . . Justice . . .” Then the door would burst open and dozens of dirty hands would reach for him across his desk. . . .
So when there was a knock on his door he gripped the .38 with one hand before reaching for the handle with the other. Sheila D’Amato stood in the threshold with a large foam containerand a tray with two tap beers in mugs covered by plastic.
“Why you?” McCann asked.
“I offered.”
“I don’t remember ordering two beers.”
“I thought maybe I’d drink one with you.”
He nodded, let her in after checking the street to confirm there was no mob, and shut the door behind them. He gestured to the sack with the six-packs. “I’ve got more.”
“What you did to those people in Yellowstone,” she said, “it was just so baaaaad.” Her eyes glistened as she drew out the word. “And the way those people reacted in Rocky’s—wow.”
Wow, he knew, was probably the best she could do.
She drank beer after beer and watched him eat. He was grateful for her company, he admitted to himself, which was proof of his desperation.
He’d represented Sheila after she was arrested for shoplifting$200 worth of makeup from the drugstore. That was when she’d been around town for a few months, long enough that merchants had learned to watch her closely.