HOURS LATER ALL BEN had accomplished was several repetitions of the same old scene. No matter where he went, The Silver Springs Herald had been there first. No one would talk to him; no one would even take his money. Overnight he’d become a local pariah.
By nine P.M., Ben had covered both Main and Maple streets from one end to the other and managed to find absolutely no one who would talk. They didn’t pretend that they didn’t know anything; they just weren’t telling him. What Judge Tyler had said was absolutely true; the whole town was on edge—expecting the ticking time bomb to explode at any moment.
The only lights on Main Street that still flickered were the ones inside the Bluebell Bar. A red neon sign in the front window boldly announced that they had Coors on tap. At this point Ben was ready for a drink. And more importantly he recalled that this was where the fight between Vick and Vuong took place on the afternoon before the murder.
Ben spotted a scuffle in the alley just outside the bar. Both combatants were beefy, tough-looking men in blue jeans and T-shirts. Fortunately they appeared to have imbibed a fair amount of beer. More punches were connecting with empty air than any part of either body.
Ben pushed open the front door and stepped inside. The Bluebell was small, simple, laid-back—and packed. The bar had six stools, all but one of them currently occupied. A pool table in the corner was flanked by two pinball machines, both of which Ben judged to be at least fifteen years old. Four booths in the back provided space for couples who wanted to get snuggly.
Ben took the available bar stool and flagged the bartender. The jukebox was wailing a country-western tune, a bit of homespun philosophy courtesy of Mary-Chapin Carpenter. “Sometimes you’re the windshield,” she sang, “sometimes you’re the bug. …”
“I’ll have a longneck,” Ben said, pointing at the label on a bar coaster.
The bartender peered at him, eyes narrowed. He was an older man, but the pronounced wrinkles lent his face an air of distinction and world-weariness. “You’re the lawyer.”
Ben had heard it too many times today to be surprised. “That’s right. And now that the introductions are out of the way, could I have my beer?”
The bartender hesitated. “I don’t want no trouble in my place.”
“I don’t plan to cause any,” Ben replied. “Unless you don’t get me that beer.”
The bartender gave a small, lopsided grin. “What the hell! I suppose Satan himself has to take a drink now and again.”
He pulled a Bud out of the ice. The song changed; now Mary-Chapin Carpenter was singing a slow sad song about being haunted by the past, and finding the courage to love again after “the first time you lose.” Carpenter’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Come on, come on … it’s getting late now. …”
While he waited Ben scanned a copy of The Herald lying on the bar. It appeared that District Attorney Swain was trying his case in the morning edition and polarizing public opinion by making the “big-city lawyer” the bad guy. Ben learned that Sheriff Collier had found the murder weapon, a twenty-four-inch Carvelle crossbow. Swain claimed that tests run by the forensic office in Little Rock conclusively linked the crossbow to Donald Vick.
“My name’s Mac.” The bartender pushed a beer and a bottle opener across the bar.
“I’m Ben. But you probably already know that.” Ben opened the beer and downed a good long gulp. He wasn’t that fond of Budweiser, but since the man had apparently compromised his virtue by serving it, Ben wasn’t about to appear ungrateful. “Nice place.”
“Thanks,” Mac said. His pride was evident. “Had the bar shipped in from St. Louis the day the county voted to go wet. Stools, too.”
“I guess this is where it happened,” Ben commented.
“What’s that?”
“The big fight. Vick and Vuong.”
“Oh, yeah. Right here.”
At long last. Someone was actually talking to him. “Must’ve been a hell of a fight.”
“You better believe it. Kicked the hell out of my best pin-ball machine.”
Ben saw that the head glass on one of the pinball machines was shattered, just over the picture of a fiery red cyclone. “You were here that night?”
“Of course. I’m here every night.”
“What happened?”
“Well, that Vietnamese fella was minding his own business, sitting just where you are, when in walks Vick. They talk a little bit, and then he up and says, ‘You—’ ”
To Ben’s dismay, Mac stopped suddenly, just as the story was becoming interesting. “Maybe I shouldn’t say any more.”
“Don’t stop now!”
“No, no.” Mac picked up a bar rag and began polishing the woodwork. “I’ve said too much already.”
“Mac, I have to prepare a man’s defense. This is a capital crime. You have to help me!”
“Like hell I do.”
Ben leaned across the bar. “Look, I’m desperate. You’ve gotta see that—”
Ben felt two hands slap down harshly on his shoulders, shoving him back onto his stool. Before he had a chance to become curious about who it was, the hands whirled him around.
It was the two local boys who had accosted him that morning, Garth Amick and his tough-looking friend. Except now they had a third friend, who looked even older and meaner than the first two.
Garth—still the group spokesperson—leaned into Ben’s face. “I thought I told you to get out of town.”
“I think you did. So?”
“You talk pretty tough for a big-city lawyer who’s about to get the hell beaten out of him.” The smell of beer on his breath was thick and nauseating.
“Why don’t you just go back to your beer and leave me alone?”
“I’ve got somethin’ else in mind. Hold him, boys.” Garth’s two friends each grabbed one of Ben’s arms.
“Kincaid!” It was Mac. He’d raced around the side of the bar. At first, Ben thought Mac had come to his rescue. He was quickly disillusioned. “I thought I told you I didn’t want any trouble!”
“Me? Why are you telling me? I was just sitting here minding my own business.”
“Should’ve minded it somewhere else.” Garth drew back his fist.
“Garth!” Mac yelled. “Take it outside. I don’t want any more damage to my place.”
“Fine.” Garth grabbed Ben by the shirt collar and jerked him toward the front door. His two friends held tight to Ben’s arms.
They made it to the door just at the same split second that Sonny Banner and his two bodyguard buddies came in. Banner and Garth almost bumped heads.
“Banner! Thank goodness!” So this was what it had come to, Ben thought grimly. He was overjoyed to see a bunch of white supremist headbashers saunter in. “What are you doing here?”
“This wath where you thold uth to wait, ’member?” The thickness of his tongue left Ben little doubt about what the boys had been doing all day. He began to have serious doubts about the imminence of his rescue. “What the hell ith going on?”
“None of your goddamn business,” Garth barked. “Just get out of our way.”
Banner inflated his chest. “Not till I get thome answers.”
“We’re just going out for a chat.” Ben felt the hands on his arms tightening.
“Zat right?”
Ben shook his head. “They’re taking me outside, to use their own words, to beat the hell out of me.”
“Zat so? Three against one? Figures. Vietcong-loving punkth.”
“Screw off, you redneck freak,” Garth said. “I don’t have to take—”
The first punch landed squarely on Garth’s jaw and sent him reeling. Ben felt both of Garth’s friends release his arms. They raised their fists to defend themselves.
“Take it outside!” Mac shouted from behind them. “Take it—”
It was too late. Ben ducked out of the way and the three locals took on the three ASP men one-on-one. Garth and his crew were spirited and resilient, but they were outmatched in weight and skill. The three ASPers were a bit sluggish, but they were still more than able to hold their own.
Ben watched Banner spin Garth through the bar, punch by punch, while one of his friends delivered a swift kick to a townboy’s groin. The stylish fighting moves came more naturally to the ASPers. Ben supposed that was understandable. This was what they trained for every day, after all. This was what they lived for.
The brawlers flew back and forth across the tiny bar, smashing and clattering as they went. Ben considered jumping into the fray to help; the question was—whom would he help?
Banner had Garth in a headlock and was banging his face against a beer-stained table. Garth’s shouts were silenced by the repeated pummeling and the viselike grip around his throat. For a moment Ben was afraid Banner was going to kill him. Then, to his amazement, he saw Banner literally lift Garth off the ground and throw him across the bar. Garth landed on the cyclone pinball machine, shattering the glass.
Mac was not going to be happy.
Ben saw that Garth’s two friends were similarly on the bad end of major-league beatings. Just as he began to be concerned for their long-term health, he heard a siren wailing down Main Street. A quick peek out the window confirmed it—the sheriff was paying them a visit. Mac must’ve called.
Ben crawled back to his bar stool and took another drink of his beer. It looked like it was going to be a long night.