Chapter 8

Dares, death wishes, and drunkenness brought normal people to Morgan’s Tap. Conley had visited twice years ago—a combination of dare and drunkenness called him and his college buddies.

He cruised past the bar on Saturday afternoon and parked across the street. An overhead railroad bridge and a brick warehouse cast a shadow on Morgan’s for most of the day. Though bridge and building appeared responsible for the perpetual darkness, it seemed more likely God had decided not to waste His sunshine on Morgan’s Tap.

A pit bull rooted in the gutter out front, stopping and sniffing energetically when it found something interesting. A bum wrapped in dirty blankets slept peacefully on the sidewalk under the bridge, prayer-ready hands providing a pillow like a sleeping child’s.

The bar wore a façade of broken and faded bamboo slats. Conley opened the windowless door, and loose slats waved a greeting and chattered ominously when the door slammed shut.

Three people were in Morgan’s—bartender sitting on a silver beer chest, studying the television on the wall—old guy leaning forward on a stool and sleeping on the bar, spill of long black hair over folded arms—platinum blonde working a video game with both hands, thin muscles visible under the narrow straps of her halter top.

Conley rested his forearms on the bar. The bartender slid off the beer chest and raised his chin in question.

“William O’Neil around?” Conley asked.

“Nope.”

“Know where he is?”

“Ain’t none of my business.”

“Think he’ll be back soon?”

“That ain’t my business neither.”

The girl at the game turned her head, but managed to keep the rest of her body focused on the game.

“How about a drink?” Conley asked. “That your business?”

The barkeep held out his hands, palms up.

Conley studied the gaudy plastic beer tap handles, surveyed the shelves of hard liquor on the wall, and said, “Club soda. No lime.”

The bartender’s face reddened. He plucked a glass out of the plastic rack in front of him, scooped ice out of a bucket, and shot squirts from a chrome soda gun into the glass like he was banging nails.

Conley felt warm flesh against his arm and turned. The blonde’s arm was pressed tight.

She nodded sideways at him as she addressed the bartender. “Bill collector or salesman, Teddy? What do you think?”

“Donna, I ain’t got a guess about this asshole,” he said, and then, “salesman, maybe.”

“Smart guess,” Conley said, raising his glass in salute. “We’re all selling something.”

Teddy’s eyebrows furrowed, actually sliding toward each other before the right one climbed high.

“I ain’t a fucking salesman,” he said.

Conley took a long drink. “You certainly aren’t, Ted. Don’t mind my bullshit. That’s just the club soda talking.”

Donna barked a loud “Hah!ˮ and smiled wide enough to wrinkle her makeup. Teddy even grinned, figuring he’d won.

Conley glanced at the door. Clever repartee with barflies wasn’t going to help find William O’Neil. He considered leaving and weighed it against waiting it out with a relatively tame crowd here at Chaos Central.

The hair at the end of the bar stirred like a mass of floating seaweed.

“What’s so funny?” Seaweed Head asked, sleepy eyes still closed.

Donna’s voice dropped an octave. “Maybe the handsome salesman here grabbed my ass and it felt pretty good, Rocco. Maybe it made me laugh, okay?”

Rocco lifted his head and stared through swollen eyelids and greasy bangs.

“Go back to sleep, honey,” Donna said. “I’ll wake you when I’m ready to go.” She bumped Conley with her arm again. Fast friends already. “Unless, of course, I get a better offer.”

Rocco slid off the stool and swayed dangerously before he steadied. He was wiry, barely over five feet, and unless there was a suicide bomb vest under his ratty sweatshirt, he was probably the least dangerous person to ever pass through Morgan’s bamboo portal.

Donna laughed again. A faint rumble sounded outside.

Teddy poured Rocco a beer and set it on the bar. “Cool down, Rocco. Here. On the house.”

“Don’t want your beer, Teddy.” He shoved the mug and it slid off the back of the bar top and crashed on the floor.

Conley finished his drink and stood. Time to go.

The outside rumble grew louder, building like the beginning of a thunderstorm.

Donna clutched his forearm with both hands and swung toward him, along with the tart smells of fresh beer and body odor. “Where you going, honey? Don’t mind Rocco, he don’t bite. Hell, he hardly got any teeth.”

Thunder had come to ground and decided to visit Morgan’s Tap. Conley looked through the window and saw at least a dozen Harleys, angled to the curb, throaty motors dying one by one.

Bikers poured into the Tap, giant hairy Vikings.

Rocco ran to the biggest one, turned, and pointed a dirty, accusing fingernail at Conley. His skinny hand was shaking, and when he spoke he sounded hysterical.

“Tony, that creep goosed Donna.”

Rocco found some courage and spent it on a lazy roundhouse that Conley blocked with his forearm. But he didn’t block the grubby underside of Tony’s hammering fist, and fell to the floor, kissing the edge of the bar on the way. He scrambled to his feet, glanced at the door, but that path was blocked by an army in denim and leather. Conley turned to Teddy, considered flashing his badge, decided not to.

“Call 9-1-1,” he said, and tasted the coppery tang of his own blood.

Teddy turned his palms up once more and smiled.

A fist rapped the back of Conley’s head and he visited the floor again. Vision blurring, he crawled through a gauntlet of buckled black boots that stomped shoulders, back, legs. Suddenly the front door opened and shiny brown shoes appeared, a sight as improbable as a sunbeam. The mob parted. No one spoke. Heavy boots shuffled backward. The newcomer bunched Conley’s jacket in the middle of his back and lifted him as easily as a lion lifting a cub. He passed his free hand over Conley’s hanging, bleeding head, no doubt finalizing the baptism he had just received.

“Rocco, Tony, all of you,” his savior said in a voice as deep and final as a grave, “touch my friend Matt again and I’ll kill you.”