Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [3]
He flashed me a moronic smile. “Now, don’t go getting that look on your face, Miz Mercy. I knew you was back there changing the keg, and I thought I’d help you out.”
“By pouring yourself a free pitcher?”
“I was clearing the line of foam,” he huffed. “Thought you’d be grateful.”
The balding, fiftysomething midget could barely reach the beer taps. “Get out from behind my bar, Tiny, before I squash you like a bug.”
He focused sulky eyes on me. “I was just helpin’.”
“You wanna help? Figure out what the fuck is wrong with the toilet in the men’s bathroom.”
Tiny flinched. “Ain’t no need to use that kinda language.”
“Chauvinistic much? Men can say fuck whenever the fuck they want, but I can’t because it’s unladylike?” I crowded him. “Do I look like a lady who gives a shit what anyone thinks of the fucking language I use?”
“Ah. No.”
“Good answer. Now, can you fix the toilet or not?”
His shoulders slumped. “Prolly.”
I handed him the plunger. “Get it working and I’ll pick up your tab tonight.”
“Now I wish I woulda been drinking whiskey instead of beer,” he grumbled, and headed toward the bathroom.
The door banged open. A barrel-chested biker named Vinnie waved at his buddies, then ambled toward me. “Hey, pretty lady. How about a pitcher of Coors?”
“Coming up.” I glanced at the clock after I shoved a plastic pitcher under the tap. Two hours until closing time.
“Where’s your boyfriend tonight?”
I squinted at Vinnie. “What boyfriend?”
“That slicked-up dude from the oil company hanging around when you’re working.”
Damn Jason. I wished he’d find another bar to antagonize the locals and not drag me into it. “Haven’t seen him. Besides, he isn’t my boyfriend.”
“I ain’t surprised. A gal like you don’t need a boy—you need a man. A real man.” Vinnie rested his elbows on the bar top, gifting me with a smoldering stare.
Vinnie might’ve been attractive—oh, two decades ago. He clung to the biker look: long hair; an unkempt, graying beard; a faded POW-MIA T-shirt; oil-stained jeans draped with chains, and a knife sheathed in a leather case.
Yeah, I was having a devil of a time resisting his charm. I reclined against the bar with equal provocation. “Know what I really need, Vinnie?”
“What’s that, sugar? Name it.”
“Five bucks for the pitcher and a night off.”
Vinnie dug in his front pocket and tossed me a balled-up five-dollar bill. “You’re a cool one.”
“Stone cold . . . or so I’ve been told.”
His lame attempt at picking me up foiled, he joined his fellow ZZ Top clones beneath the big-screen TV and watched whatever passed for entertainment on the Speed Channel.
Time dragged on like a preacher’s sermon. I started closing duties early, and when I returned from the storeroom, he was sitting at the bar. I ducked under the partition and stopped in front of him.
He said, “Hey, South Dakota.”
“Hey, North Dakota.”
“Heard any good jokes lately?”
I shoved the box of straws beneath the counter. “Did you hear about the two seagulls flying upside down over North Dakota?”
“No. Why were they flying upside down?”
I mock-whispered, “Because they couldn’t find anything worth shitting on.”
He laughed. “Where do you come up with those, Gunny?”
“Are you serious? Making fun of North Dakotans is our state pastime.” I couldn’t help staring at him. It was just so . . . uncanny he was here.
Uncanny? Or intentional?
“Once again you’re looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’d have to look the same for the comparison to work.” The first time Major Jason Hawley had wandered into Clementine’s, I’d barely stopped myself from blurting out, “What the hell happened to you?”
“Just wait until you’ve been out more than a few months.” He gave me a critical once-over. “You still practicing? Keeping your skill set current? Running five to ten miles