traditional Irish whiskey.
“You got it,” he said, opening the tap to fill a large plastic go-cup—French Quarter crystal, we call it. “How’s your team doing this session?”
“Struggling a bit, but we’re still in the running.”
Pete also shot on a league pool team, but I’d never really warmed to him or his compatriots. Though I still shot pool and was even co-captaining a team, it seemed I’d once had more enthusiasm for the game. I wondered in the back of my mind if this hobby would go the way of my sword-fighting club. Once, I’d been wildly enthused about that. But it had just sort of drifted away.
We chatted for a few minutes. Though I wasn’t especially enamored of Pete, good manners are valued in the Quarter. Besides, it’s good to collect as many familiar faces as you can, for those occasions when you might find yourself out of your normal prowl range. Sometimes people will come to your aid even if they only know you in passing. And you never know when trouble will come, or when you’ll need that aid.
Eventually I tried to edge the conversation around to the subject on my mind.
“I suppose you’ve heard about Sunshine getting tagged behind the Brewery last night,” I said, lightly, or as lightly as the statement could be made.
“Yeah. The guys were talking about it when they came off shift.”
“Any word as to what it was all about? From what I’ve heard she didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
Instead of answering, Pete favored me with a long stare, then turned and poured himself a short beer.
“I dunno if I should say anything about that to you, Maestro.”
I didn’t have to fake being surprised.
“Whoa, Petey. You lost me there.”
“If I recall, the last time you were asking about a case here in the Quarter, the perp turned up in the Charity ER about twenty-four hours later.”
I blinked at him, genuinely trying to remember what he was talking about. Then it came back to me. It had happened six or seven months back.
The perp in question was one of those who made a habit of beating up his women. In the final round with his latest girlfriend/punching bag, he had smashed a vodka bottle over her head, coming within a fraction of an inch of taking out her left eye. The doctors at the emergency room convinced her to swear out a complaint against the boyfriend and he got picked up. The next day he was out on the streets again.
I remembered now asking Pete about the incident only because I knew the girl and was concerned, and because it was league night and we were shooting against Pete’s team. I remembered Pete saying that the girl had dropped the charges.
The reason it had all slipped my mind was that I hadn’t hunted the dude down. In fact, I almost wasn’t involved at all. As it happened, I found myself sitting two stools down from the punk at Fahey’s, late, the night after he’d got out of lockup. He started bragging about it—bragging loud, as drunks tend to do.
“Damn straight she dropped the charges!” He said this to nobody in particular, puffing up his scrawny chest like a bantam rooster. You could tell just by looking that he was a mean little shit, but not brawny enough to take on anyone even his own size. “The bitch knew what I’d do to her if it went to court. When I got home I slapped her ‘round again anyway for talkin’ to the cops at all. Re-opened her stitches and she had to go back to Charity, but this time she’s keepin’ her mouth shut. I’ll shut that mouth of hers for good if she tries any of that shit again.”
It wasn’t the sort of trash you normally hear anyone talk in Fahey’s, but Milo was simply ignoring the guy, probably not wanting the headache of tossing him out. Listening to this crap was distasteful enough that I abandoned my seat and shot a couple of practice racks of pool instead. I could still hear him as I shot, though, and my irritation grew until I found I couldn’t concentrate on my shooting anymore.
I gave
“You got it,” he said, opening the tap to fill a large plastic go-cup—French Quarter crystal, we call it. “How’s your team doing this session?”
“Struggling a bit, but we’re still in the running.”
Pete also shot on a league pool team, but I’d never really warmed to him or his compatriots. Though I still shot pool and was even co-captaining a team, it seemed I’d once had more enthusiasm for the game. I wondered in the back of my mind if this hobby would go the way of my sword-fighting club. Once, I’d been wildly enthused about that. But it had just sort of drifted away.
We chatted for a few minutes. Though I wasn’t especially enamored of Pete, good manners are valued in the Quarter. Besides, it’s good to collect as many familiar faces as you can, for those occasions when you might find yourself out of your normal prowl range. Sometimes people will come to your aid even if they only know you in passing. And you never know when trouble will come, or when you’ll need that aid.
Eventually I tried to edge the conversation around to the subject on my mind.
“I suppose you’ve heard about Sunshine getting tagged behind the Brewery last night,” I said, lightly, or as lightly as the statement could be made.
“Yeah. The guys were talking about it when they came off shift.”
“Any word as to what it was all about? From what I’ve heard she didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
Instead of answering, Pete favored me with a long stare, then turned and poured himself a short beer.
“I dunno if I should say anything about that to you, Maestro.”
I didn’t have to fake being surprised.
“Whoa, Petey. You lost me there.”
“If I recall, the last time you were asking about a case here in the Quarter, the perp turned up in the Charity ER about twenty-four hours later.”
I blinked at him, genuinely trying to remember what he was talking about. Then it came back to me. It had happened six or seven months back.
The perp in question was one of those who made a habit of beating up his women. In the final round with his latest girlfriend/punching bag, he had smashed a vodka bottle over her head, coming within a fraction of an inch of taking out her left eye. The doctors at the emergency room convinced her to swear out a complaint against the boyfriend and he got picked up. The next day he was out on the streets again.
I remembered now asking Pete about the incident only because I knew the girl and was concerned, and because it was league night and we were shooting against Pete’s team. I remembered Pete saying that the girl had dropped the charges.
The reason it had all slipped my mind was that I hadn’t hunted the dude down. In fact, I almost wasn’t involved at all. As it happened, I found myself sitting two stools down from the punk at Fahey’s, late, the night after he’d got out of lockup. He started bragging about it—bragging loud, as drunks tend to do.
“Damn straight she dropped the charges!” He said this to nobody in particular, puffing up his scrawny chest like a bantam rooster. You could tell just by looking that he was a mean little shit, but not brawny enough to take on anyone even his own size. “The bitch knew what I’d do to her if it went to court. When I got home I slapped her ‘round again anyway for talkin’ to the cops at all. Re-opened her stitches and she had to go back to Charity, but this time she’s keepin’ her mouth shut. I’ll shut that mouth of hers for good if she tries any of that shit again.”
It wasn’t the sort of trash you normally hear anyone talk in Fahey’s, but Milo was simply ignoring the guy, probably not wanting the headache of tossing him out. Listening to this crap was distasteful enough that I abandoned my seat and shot a couple of practice racks of pool instead. I could still hear him as I shot, though, and my irritation grew until I found I couldn’t concentrate on my shooting anymore.
I gave
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