Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [97]
The bartender smiled. “Ahhh, one of those types.” He turned his back to Tyler, reached for a wineglass on the rack above him, then stooped so low Tyler lost sight of him for a few seconds. When he popped back up, he had a bottle of white wine in one hand. He set the glass on the coaster, filled the glass. “You wanna run a tab?”
“What did you mean when you said I was ‘one of those types’?”
The bartender shook his head. “Aww nothin’, man. Most of the dudes that come in here don’t drink wine. They’re beer drinkers. You look classy, ya know?”
Tyler smiled. He’d thought the bartender might’ve thought he was gay. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Thanks, man, I guess you could say that.”
“Cool. You just raise your hand when you’re ready for a refill.”
Tyler nodded. He positioned himself so he could watch the open area that led outside. Throngs of people walked the streets. Some wore bathing suits, others wore the usual attire: shorts, flowered shirts, and flip-flops. He heard a horn honk, someone hollered, “Fuck off,” and a loud group of underage girls giggled as they passed by the open door. Key West had something for everyone, he thought as he stared out at the busy street. Except him. There was nothing here for him. Hell, the goddamn blackmailer hadn’t even bothered to show up. He turned around, raised his hand in the air so the bartender could see. The bartender waved, held up his index finger indicating to him he’d be right there.
No longer interested in the nightlife in Key West, Tyler turned his back on the open door. He’d have one more glass of wine, then head back to the guesthouse. He removed his phone from his shirt pocket, checking to make sure he hadn’t missed a call. Nothing.
A group of rowdy drunks, who’d been taking up most of the seats at the bar, apparently decided to move on to the next watering hole, leaving Tyler as the place’s only patron other than those who were seated at the few tables scattered about. There were thousands upon thousands of business cards stapled all across the walls, the ceiling; everywhere one looked, there was a business card. Wanting to leave his mark, Tyler opened his wallet in search of his official Miami District Chief Officer of the Drug Enforcement Administration card. When he located one, he deliberately left it on the bar for a few minutes, hoping the bartender would see it. He tossed the card out there, waiting for his refill; then maybe he’d have someone to converse with while he finished his drink.
The bartender mopped up the spills at the end of the bar, then tossed his towel on a counter behind him. He bent down and grabbed the bottle of white wine. “Sorry, dude, those people were drinkers. This one is on the house.”
Tyler watched him pour the vanilla-colored liquid in his glass. Frankly, he thought each drink deserved a fresh glass, but this was Key West. Normal social graces and manners probably weren’t much in evidence in places like Sloppy Joe’s. He was about to take a sip of his wine when a loud female voice caused him to wince.
“I can’t believe this shit!” Sandra Martin said, as she and Pete Kelly pulled up to the bar.
Damn! Sandra Martin and Pete Kelly.
Wanting to keep his cool, Tyler looked over to where they were sitting. “I should have known. You’ve always had a big mouth.”
“Well, you just kiss my . . . my . . . you know what, Lawrence Tyler. Aren’t you supposed to be capturing drug runners and bullying female DEA agents?” Sandy slid onto the barstool with Pete’s assistance.
“Buzz off, Martin. I came here to relax,” Tyler said as casually as he could. Inside, he was shaking like a leaf. If Sandra Martin was here, chances were good that bitch Kate Rush wasn’t far away. If, and it was a really big if, Nancy Holliday walked through the open entryway, the last person he wanted to be seen with was Kate. No doubt she’d tell the entire bar how she’d kicked his ass.
“Good, because we did, too. Right, Pete?” she asked Pete, who was standing behind her.
“We’re here to have a beer, that’s it. Nothing more,” Pete said pleasantly.
“Good.