Harry took a step toward me with the switchblade held out. His wild, red-rimmed eyes suggested he’d been feeding off more than hatred. Cocaine, probably.
He took another step toward me and I moved back.
Jerry, who maybe had more experience with these things, took three steps back and a couple sideways, and within moments, he’d reached the end of the bar.
Harry had me to himself.
“I’ve dreamed of this moment,” Harry said, licking his lips. “I’ve promised Jay to send pictures.”
“How cute. You guys share photos?” I glanced around. No weapons in sight. Nothing I could grab or even hide behind. I tried to keep him distracted. “Must be fun to see behind-the-scenes footage of Jay’s new career in corrections.”
I honestly wasn’t trying to rile him up. I was nervous. So I talked.
He growled and swiped the blade at me.
I backed away and something hard hit my back. I glanced over my shoulder. The bar.
I caught sight of Jerry. He had slipped around the counter and stood further down, where his row of clean pint glasses sat on a dish towel. He had his phone out and was tapping away at the screen.
A memory flashed across my mind. In Episode 8 of Silver & Gold’s second season (“Murder on the Rocks”), a hitman cornered Eve Silver in a cocktail bar. Eve used a bottle of priceless, aged brandy to parry her enemy’s attacks with a knife. It gave me an idea—and I didn’t need priceless, aged brandy.
“Jerry,” I said. “A pint, please.”
He seemed to understand, because he grabbed an empty glass and, with a professional flick of the wrist, sent it skating across the counter. It slid into my open hand. I grasped it, just as Harry dove forward to stab me in the stomach.
Clank!
His blade went into the pint glass.
His eyebrows shot up. The impact clearly jarred him. He’d no doubt expected soft flesh, instead he got metal on glass.
He fumbled with the knife, but before he could grasp it for another attack, I tossed the pint glass aside, bringing the switchblade along for the ride.
The glass rolled across the floorboards. The knife slid away.
Harry tugged at something in his jacket pocket—maybe another knife—but before he could do whatever he’d intended, I had kneed him in the groin and he doubled over with an audible “Oof!”
I didn’t lose an instant. I rushed across the floor and snatched up the knife.
I swiveled around, brandishing the switchblade.
“Don’t move,” I said.
There was a loud, splintering crack, and the Old Mill’s front door crashed open.
“Don’t move,” Chief Tedesco said, her gun drawn.
She eyed Harry by the bar, Jerry by his pint glasses, and me, standing in the middle of the floor with a switchblade.
“More knives, Miss Smyth?” she asked. “I thought you’d learned to steer clear of knives by now.”
With a sinking heart, I realized how this might look. Apparently, Harry did too.
“This woman’s crazy,” he said. “She tried to attack me.”
For a moment, we all stared at each other: I stared at Harry, he stared at Chief Tedesco, Chief Tedesco stared at me, and then I returned her gaze.
A satisfied smile spread across Chief Tedesco’s face.
“Games up, Harry Casanova.”
“I’m not—”
“I know who you are. Maron’, I ought to. I have an autographed photo of you and your brother on my wall.”
“Careful,” I said. “He’s got something in his pocket.”
Stupid me. By telling Chief Tedesco that, it gave Harry the split second distraction he needed.
He whipped out a gun. “Didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but so be it. Plan B will be messy. I won’t be sorry to see another pig hit the killing floor.”
Harry was a failed screenwriter—and I could see why. Clearly, his dialogue was never his strong suit.
He aimed the gun at Chief Tedesco.
I didn’t dare to look; I didn’t dare to look away.
Chief Tedesco did nothing, simply staring with a kind of cold smugness at her enemy.
Harry pressed the trigger. Nothing happened.
“Safety catch, idiot,” a voice said behind Harry.
He whipped around. Anthony stood behind the counter, gun aimed at Harry.
“Drop your weapon.”
Harry, realizing that the game was up, finally saw some sense. He crouched down, placing the gun on the floor. He put up his hands.
“You’ll regret this,” he snarled as Anthony came around the counter and cuffed him and read him his rights.
“Everyone says that,” Chief Tedesco said, holstering her gun. “Don’t be such a cliché.”
That seemed to hurt Harry more than the cuffs. He narrowed his eyes at her.
“You’ll—” he spluttered. “I’ll—”
But he’d run out of dialogue.