woman. The tableful of men, still in their working clothes, laughed more than the answer warranted, but then they’d had a lot of beer.
I raced back to the bar to get three bourbon-and-Cokes from Terry Bellefleur, Portia’s cousin, who was working under pressure. Terry, a Vietnam vet with a lot of physical and emotional scars, appeared to be holding up well on this busy night. He liked simple jobs that required concentration. His graying auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his face was intent as he plied the bottles. The drinks were ready in no time, and Terry smiled at me as I put them on my tray. A smile from Terry was a rare thing, and it warmed me.
Just as I was turning with my tray resting on my right hand, trouble erupted. A Louisiana Tech student from Ruston got into a one-on-one class war with Jeff LaBeff, a redneck who had many children and made a kind of living driving a garbage truck. Maybe it was just a case of two stubborn guys colliding and really didn’t have much to do with town vs. gown (not that we were that close to Ruston). Whatever the reason for the original quarrel, it took me a few seconds to realize the fight was going to be more than a shouting match.
In those few seconds, Terry tried to intervene. Moving quickly, he got between Jeff and the student and caught firm hold of both their wrists. I thought for a minute it would work, but Terry wasn’t as young or as active as he had been, and all hell broke loose.
“You could stop this,” I said furiously to Mickey as I hurried past his and Tara’s table on my way to try to make peace.
He sat back in his chair and sipped his drink. “Not my job,” he said calmly.
I got that, but it didn’t endear the vampire to me, especially when the student whirled and took a swing at me as I approached him from behind. He missed, and I hit him over the head with my tray. He staggered to one side, maybe bleeding a little, and Terry was able to subdue Jeff LaBeff, who was looking for an excuse to quit.
Incidents like this had been happening with more frequency, especially when Sam was gone. It was evident to me that we needed a bouncer, at least on weekend nights . . . and full-moon nights.
The student threatened to sue.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Mark Duffy,” the young man said, clutching his head.
“Mark, where you from?”
“Minden.”
I did a quick evaluation of his clothes, his demeanor, and the contents of his head. “I’m gonna enjoy calling your mama and telling her you took a swing at a woman,” I said. He blanched and said no more about suing, and he and his buds left soon after. It always helps to know the most effective threat.
We made Jeff leave, too.
Terry resumed his place behind the bar and began dispensing drinks, but he was limping slightly and had a strained look in his face, which worried me. Terry’s war experiences hadn’t left him real stable. I’d had enough trouble for one night.
But of course the night wasn’t over yet.
About an hour after the fight, a woman came into Merlotte’s. She was plain and plainly dressed in old jeans and a camo coat. She had on boots that had been wonderful when they’d been new, but that had been a long time ago. She didn’t carry a purse, and she had her hands thrust into her pockets.
There were several indicators that made my mental antennae twitch. First of all, this gal didn’t look right. A local woman might dress like that if she were going hunting or doing farm work, but not to come to Merlotte’s. For an evening out at the bar, most women fixed themselves up. So this woman was in a working mode; but she wasn’t a whore by the same reasoning.
That meant drugs.
To protect the bar in Sam’s absence, I tuned in to her thoughts. People don’t think in complete sentences, of course, and I’m smoothing it out, but what was running through her head was along the order of: Three vials left getting old losing power gotta sell it tonight so I can get back to Baton Rouge and buy some more. Vampire in the bar if he catches me with vamp blood I’m dead. This town is a dump. Back to the city first chance