Split Second
Page 70
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“You’ve never been in here before,” the bartender said when there was a lull.
“Nope, first time.” Sherlock looked at the faded name tag over the bartender’s left breast—Trisha. Nope, Trisha didn’t have a clue, thankfully. “I was out trying to walk off my mad at my jerk of an ex-boyfriend who stole my beautiful light blue Corvette. It was mine, and it was gorgeous, sexier than Brett Favre’s butt in his Wranglers. I saw your sign and decided it was time for a beer. Or two. Wow, this Texas Espresso has hairy knuckles.”
Trisha poured three more Texas Espressos, lightly shoved the big, thick beer glasses toward a waitress, who scooped them up onto her tray with no wasted motion. Trisha said to Sherlock, “This is a good place for beer, and that’s a bummer for a bartender who lives off tips. I can make a mean martini, and there’s not much call for martinis here. Nope, folk come here to gulp down beers by the dozen, listen to country/western music, and munch on peanuts that have enough salt in them to make you thirsty again. Later on, when they’ve had one too many, they try riding that mechanical bull—his name’s Ivan—and I’ll tell you, old Ivan’s knocked many an urban cowboy on his behind.”
“I can’t believe you got that all out without a breath and still filled two more drink orders,” Sherlock said, and raised her beer glass toward the bartender.
“Yeah, I’m good that way. They used to call it working the bar; now they call it multitasking.”
“How old is Ivan?”
“He’s been here longer than I have. What is that—nine years come December. You don’t look like you’re crazy enough to climb aboard.”
“Give me two more shots of your Texas whoopee, and I might take a ride.” Sherlock sighed. “What I really want to do is drink and mind my own business. Trisha, let me tell you, this beer not only has hairy knuckles, the freaking stuff has big hairy legs.”
Trisha gave her a salute with a white towel. “I guess you’re not used to real Texas beer. Actually, neither am I. When I’m forced to drink some, I drink it even slower than you. I tell Gator—he’s the owner—he probably mixes the beer in his big Texas john.”
“Now, there’s a happy thought.”
An hour passed while Sherlock pretended to sip her hairy beer and listen in on stories told at the bar, mostly by an old man in a cowboy hat who claimed to have lost his shirt in Reno and was living in the backseat of his Chevy Impala, waiting for Lady Luck to knock on his window again.
Kirsten had arrived at eight last night, and it was eight o’clock on the nose. Sherlock went on high alert, hoping she wouldn’t hear gunfire, hoping Dillon would bring that psychopathic killer down hard and fast, without the need for violence, without anyone getting hurt.
Time passed slowly for her after that. Sherlock finally said quietly, “Another half hour gone, and still no Kirsten. Maybe she won’t show tonight.”
Of course, there wasn’t an answer, since she could only transmit. She saw Trisha’s hands flying. The crowd was two-deep now at the bar.
She’d forced herself to take the last drink of her first killer beer when she heard a mellow voice beside her right ear: “Hey, you all alone here?”
CHAPTER 40
Sherlock’s heart kicked a high step in her chest. It was Kirsten, and she was here, not outside, facedown on the sidewalk, handcuffs being snapped on her bony wrists, being read her rights. How did she get past Dillon, Coop, and Lucy? Had Bruce Comafield gotten past them, too? She’d have bet Sean’s favorite toy basketball Kirsten couldn’t ever get past Dillon, that he could sniff her out from across town. So somehow Kirsten had come in through the back, even though Coop had checked the alley door, made sure it was locked. And that meant Bruce Comafield had gotten past Dillon without being recognized, and then he’d slipped back and simply opened the back door for Kirsten. Had they followed the same routine the previous night? It made sense they’d be careful. Too bad Mrs. Spicer hadn’t noticed.
New ballgame, new rules; she hoped the good guys would still win.
Sherlock turned to look up into Kirsten Bolger’s thin, dead-white face, saw her dark eyes were glittering nearly as brightly as Mrs. Spicer’s. Her hair was short, spiky, and tonight not red but black as Morticia Addams’s. So she’d changed things up a bit. She was wearing a red blazer over a black turtleneck sweater with black jeans, and a red belt slung low. Kirsten had shoved her way through a dozen people to get to her.
“You’re a girl,” Sherlock said. “From your voice, I couldn’t tell. Nice throaty sound. I hope you’re not a smoker.”
“Nope, first time.” Sherlock looked at the faded name tag over the bartender’s left breast—Trisha. Nope, Trisha didn’t have a clue, thankfully. “I was out trying to walk off my mad at my jerk of an ex-boyfriend who stole my beautiful light blue Corvette. It was mine, and it was gorgeous, sexier than Brett Favre’s butt in his Wranglers. I saw your sign and decided it was time for a beer. Or two. Wow, this Texas Espresso has hairy knuckles.”
Trisha poured three more Texas Espressos, lightly shoved the big, thick beer glasses toward a waitress, who scooped them up onto her tray with no wasted motion. Trisha said to Sherlock, “This is a good place for beer, and that’s a bummer for a bartender who lives off tips. I can make a mean martini, and there’s not much call for martinis here. Nope, folk come here to gulp down beers by the dozen, listen to country/western music, and munch on peanuts that have enough salt in them to make you thirsty again. Later on, when they’ve had one too many, they try riding that mechanical bull—his name’s Ivan—and I’ll tell you, old Ivan’s knocked many an urban cowboy on his behind.”
“I can’t believe you got that all out without a breath and still filled two more drink orders,” Sherlock said, and raised her beer glass toward the bartender.
“Yeah, I’m good that way. They used to call it working the bar; now they call it multitasking.”
“How old is Ivan?”
“He’s been here longer than I have. What is that—nine years come December. You don’t look like you’re crazy enough to climb aboard.”
“Give me two more shots of your Texas whoopee, and I might take a ride.” Sherlock sighed. “What I really want to do is drink and mind my own business. Trisha, let me tell you, this beer not only has hairy knuckles, the freaking stuff has big hairy legs.”
Trisha gave her a salute with a white towel. “I guess you’re not used to real Texas beer. Actually, neither am I. When I’m forced to drink some, I drink it even slower than you. I tell Gator—he’s the owner—he probably mixes the beer in his big Texas john.”
“Now, there’s a happy thought.”
An hour passed while Sherlock pretended to sip her hairy beer and listen in on stories told at the bar, mostly by an old man in a cowboy hat who claimed to have lost his shirt in Reno and was living in the backseat of his Chevy Impala, waiting for Lady Luck to knock on his window again.
Kirsten had arrived at eight last night, and it was eight o’clock on the nose. Sherlock went on high alert, hoping she wouldn’t hear gunfire, hoping Dillon would bring that psychopathic killer down hard and fast, without the need for violence, without anyone getting hurt.
Time passed slowly for her after that. Sherlock finally said quietly, “Another half hour gone, and still no Kirsten. Maybe she won’t show tonight.”
Of course, there wasn’t an answer, since she could only transmit. She saw Trisha’s hands flying. The crowd was two-deep now at the bar.
She’d forced herself to take the last drink of her first killer beer when she heard a mellow voice beside her right ear: “Hey, you all alone here?”
CHAPTER 40
Sherlock’s heart kicked a high step in her chest. It was Kirsten, and she was here, not outside, facedown on the sidewalk, handcuffs being snapped on her bony wrists, being read her rights. How did she get past Dillon, Coop, and Lucy? Had Bruce Comafield gotten past them, too? She’d have bet Sean’s favorite toy basketball Kirsten couldn’t ever get past Dillon, that he could sniff her out from across town. So somehow Kirsten had come in through the back, even though Coop had checked the alley door, made sure it was locked. And that meant Bruce Comafield had gotten past Dillon without being recognized, and then he’d slipped back and simply opened the back door for Kirsten. Had they followed the same routine the previous night? It made sense they’d be careful. Too bad Mrs. Spicer hadn’t noticed.
New ballgame, new rules; she hoped the good guys would still win.
Sherlock turned to look up into Kirsten Bolger’s thin, dead-white face, saw her dark eyes were glittering nearly as brightly as Mrs. Spicer’s. Her hair was short, spiky, and tonight not red but black as Morticia Addams’s. So she’d changed things up a bit. She was wearing a red blazer over a black turtleneck sweater with black jeans, and a red belt slung low. Kirsten had shoved her way through a dozen people to get to her.
“You’re a girl,” Sherlock said. “From your voice, I couldn’t tell. Nice throaty sound. I hope you’re not a smoker.”
