Next Friday, March 15, marks the publication date of the sixth Nick Forte private eye novel, Off the Books. Here’s the short and sweet:
-J.L .Abramo, Shamus
Award-winning author of Chasing Charlie Chan.
--Chris Rhatigan, former
publisher of All Due Respect Books
--James D.F. Hannah,
Shamus-winning author of Because the Night and Behind the Wall Of
Sleep
The inside would be right at home
in a relatively decent local hotel. The bartender wore a white dress shirt, no
tie, with striped garters. The tables were two- and four-seaters with candles,
the ambient light forgiving without creating a trip and fall hazard. Several
couples shared tables. The bar was about half full, with a two-to-one ratio of
men to women.
No seats where I’d have room on
both sides, so I slid in between a man on my left and a woman on my right, both
already engaged in conversation with members of the opposite sex. I ordered a
Leinenkugel’s draft and looked for a television set. The Cubs were on, but I
watched it, anyway.
I’d sucked the foam off my second
beer when the man talking to the woman on my right excused himself to go to the
john. She moved away to make room for him just as I shifted forward to dislodge
a knot in my boxers. We bumped. Her fresh drink spilled, but my shirt and pants
kept most of it from ending up on the floor.
We went through the standard ritual
of mutual apologies. I volunteered to make things right. “My drink is intact.
Let me replace yours. It’s only fair.” Continued before she got the wrong idea.
“You’re here with someone, and I’m only going to finish this before heading
out.”
Her shields came down. I waved to
the bartender, a guy who looked like he’d been here a while and still hadn’t
got used to the idea of having to wear shirt garters. He brought her drink and
I paid about half what I would expect to in Chicago.
The woman nodded in my direction.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“My pleasure. I’m clumsy enough to
make sure people don’t mind too much if it happens again, but not so clumsy
it’ll bankrupt me.”
She gave as much of a laugh as that
deserved. Middle thirties was my guess. Average build with dark hair pulled
away from her face and down to her shoulders. She had a quick and happy smile,
but the fatigue in her eyes implied she’d seen enough of nights and bars like
this.
Her companion returned, passing
behind me to get to his seat. She said, “And now it’s my turn” and adjusted her
stool to stand. I made a show of giving her as much room as space allowed. She
smiled and nodded in appreciation and went on her way.
I resumed my seat in time to see
the man she was with jerk away from her glass. I pinned his other hand to the
bar. “What did you put in her drink?”
His face gave him away. “What the
hell are you talking about?”
I waved for the bartender. “Do me a
favor. Keep this glass safe behind the bar and call the police.”
Took him only a couple of seconds
to put it together. Eyed the other man with disgust and reached for the glass.
Romeo darted his free hand to spill everything across the bar.
“Oops.” He half smiled.
I let go of his hand. Grabbed a
handful of hair and slammed his face into the bar.
He turned toward me. Said,
“Asshole.” Not the response I had in mind, so I did it again. Harder. Liquid
sloshed from both our glasses. He put a hand to his face and stayed down. Blood
dribbled from his nose to the bar.
The bartender engaged. “Enough of
that or I’ll call the police.”
I raised my hands shoulder height,
palms out. “Call them, anyway. It might be nice to have this jagov on file in
case something like this comes up again.” The barman hesitated until I told him
I would if he didn’t.
It happened so quickly no one else
noticed until a woman three seats down looked over and saw Bleeding Man’s face.
That prompted the inevitable gasp and pointing but no general tumult.
The bartender handed Bleeding Man a
towel as the woman returned. She ran the last few steps. “What happened?”
I kept my voice low and even. “He
put something in your drink.”
“Like hell I did. He wants to take
you home himself.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So I…what?
Broke your nose and called the police? How’s that supposed to work?”
The woman looked from me to him as
if trying to decide which of us had evolved a spinal column. Started to speak,
pulled it back. Glared at a spot between the bartender and me. “Sometimes I
wonder why I don’t just have the damn thing sewn shut.” People made room on her
way out.
Then I made another mistake. I
waited for the cops. Again.
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