an extra twist of rpm’s to announce himself. The first one in entered with a grin, hair blown back, T-shirt and jeans, neither of them black. He worked his way past the group at the middle of the bar and took the stool next to the quiet man. The second one entered with an amphetamine smile. He went straight to the rail.
“Hey, little blondie, come on down here with a bottle of Jack,” he said, loud enough to make sure everyone noticed.
Marci took a shot glass with her. The head of the middle group turned too quickly and took in the character: Big guy, hair ruffled up from the wind, wearing the requisite black vest over black T- shirt. No jewelry but the poorly done, single-color prison tattoo was a dead giveaway to the quiet man, but he sipped his beer, watched the smaller, calmer brother next to him in the mirror and listened.
The group turned back to their conversation while the speedballer downed two shots of Jack Daniel’s and pointed Marci down to where his brother was putting down the money. He then insinuated himself on the gathering in between.
“Well ain’t this a boring party,” he squawked and draped a meaty arm over one of the women’s shoulders.
“Christ, this isn’t gonna last long,” said the brother, maybe to himself, maybe to the quiet man who was looking ahead into the mirror. The brother went to put money into the juke and the volume of some overplayed rock song obscured the conversation going on down in the group. The quiet man snuck a look at Marci, who caught his eye and rolled her own. When the music stopped the argument seemed to ratchet up, like it was trying to fill the void. Suddenly the speeder and the rooster were facing off.
“You’re a fucking liar, man. You didn’t do no three years in fucking Starke,” the big brother was yapping.
The rooster had turned but was leaning back, both elbows still against the bar.
“I’ve been inside,” he said. “And I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe it.”
“And I’m calling you a lyin’ bitch,” said the speeder, lowering his voice and sneering the words. “I’m out three months and the only way you was inside was as somebody’s bitch.”
The quiet man was watching the speeder in the back mirror now, waiting to see if a blade was going to come out of a back pocket. Marci stepped up on a beer case behind the bar and said: “Come on guys, settle down, all right. Settle down, we’ll have one on the house.”
The rooster hadn’t moved his elbows. Dumb ass, thought the quiet man.
“See!” yelped the speeder. “Proof’s right there. Nobody inside gets called somebody’s bitch and then just stands there.”
The guy strutted away from the group, point made, and came over to his brother, who was keeping his head low. “Shit, Bobby. Thought that bitch was gonna bend over for me right there,” Speeder said, sniggering and taking one of his brother’s shots off the bar.
The quiet man could see him in the mirror and tell he was still excited by his low-life conquest. His shoulders twitching, eyes jumping.
“So, who we got here, brother Bob? This a friend of yours?”
“Yeah, he’s a old friend. Drinkin’ buddy, right?”
The brother’s voice was nervous. He’d probably spent his whole life trying to avoid getting sucked into his shit-head sibling’s trouble.
“Well, hell, drinkin’ buddy. How bout linin’ up some drinks, then?” the speeder said, leaning into the quiet man and putting a pale forearm on his shoulder.
The stench of dried sweat came off him, mixed with the sweet sting of gasoline and exhaust. When the speeder removed his arm to turn and ogle and insult another woman passing through the bar the quiet man caught Marci’s eye and he ordered a single shot of Maker’s Mark. When she set it in front of him, he reached into his pocket as if to pay but brought out his police badge folder instead. He turned the shield face up and put it next to the shot, the silver of the official department seal glinting in the overhead lights.
Brother Bobby saw it first and looked at the side of the quiet man’s face. The quiet man was still staring straight ahead and in a low voice he said: “Tell your fucking convict brother if he touches me again he’s going back in the slam and the trip won’t be pretty.”