The wiry, twitchy guy at the end of the bar was going to be trouble. He was too drunk to care who he messed with and too small to end the fight quickly. Then again, she’d often seen the short, stupid ones outlast the Goliaths. They were like bull terriers. Just couldn’t let go, even if it killed them.
Andy took a frosted beer glass from the fridge behind her, filled it from the Heineken tap, and slid it across the counter to a woman who’d been sitting alone for most of the evening.
She didn’t like the woman either. She was also American, and she had made sure Andy knew it. She was too inquisitive. Too friendly—flirting almost. She was older than Andy by about ten years or so, which put her in her late thirties. She had shoulder-length chestnut hair, unreadable brown eyes, a delicate face, and a trim, fit body, as if she trained religiously. A white shirt showed the swell of pert, perfectly rounded breasts, the invitation clear, especially when she pushed them in Andy’s direction.
Andy had dealt with enough bullshit in her life to recognize it sitting at her table. And at six foot two, she could see most things coming.
“Thanks.” The woman lifted her glass, smiling broadly. “When did you say you’re knocking off again?”
“Didn’t say.” Andy took the twenty-pound note from the woman.
“Keep the change. A handsome woman like you deserves more.” The woman tilted her chin in the direction of the almost empty tip jar.
Andy said nothing. She was saving her energy. Trouble was brewing. She could sense its soft-footed approach. She just wished she knew which direction it would be stalking in from.
She checked to see if the baseball bat was still under the counter.
Yeah, there it was.
Yankees, it said in red scrawl. It was one of the few remnants of her previous life, miles away from SoHo, the miserable London weather, and this place. The Black Sheep was not your typical English pub with its creaky floors, wood paneling, and green carpets, but a proper old-fashioned raucous New York-style bar with a touch of neon lighting and big screen TVs.
The twitchy guy at the end of the bar bit into the thumbnail on his right hand, then shouted at the TV screen where Manchester United was losing to Liverpool. Behind him a crowd of red-jersey supporters stood four-deep, watching the game.
“Come on, you bastards! This is fucking bollocks!” he shouted. “Useless pieces of shite. You play worse than my mother.”
A woman in a red Man U shirt leaned forward and gripped the man’s shoulder with long red fingernails.
“Shut it, you sod. There’s still twenty minutes on the clock.”
The man turned to face the sea of Manchester supporters, glaring at them through greasy bangs. “Fuck you. They’re playing like girls.”
“Watch your mouth,” the woman shot back. “I know a girl or two I’d put on that team.”
Now would be a good time to back down, Andy told Twitchy Guy silently, but the man jumped off his chair as if it was on fire. The woman, big-breasted and surly, took a step back, watching him as if she couldn’t decide whether he was worth the trouble.
He glared at her, grabbed his beer from the counter, and tossed the pint at her face. She ducked and the glass sailed over her head, hitting a tall guy in a Knicks sweater.
Fuck it, thought Andy. Where the hell is Jimmy?
As if hearing her silent prayer, Jimmy, the Black Sheep’s assistant manager, stomped through the crowd from the men’s bathroom, moving swiftly for a former pro-wrestler with a bad knee. It took him two seconds to separate Twitchy Guy and the man in the Knicks sweater. He looked at Andy, lifting his one eyebrow in a question mark. Andy pointed at Twitchy Guy. Jimmy pulled back a fist, opening his hand midair to slap him on the shoulder and bounce Twitchy Guy off the bar counter.
Jimmy knew not to leave a mark.
Twitchy Guy turned, yanking a knife from his pocket and flipping it open in a single fluid moment.
Yep. Always the little ones.
Andy grabbed the Yankees bat and smashed it down on the bar counter. Glass shards and beer flew into the patrons of the Black Sheep.
Everyone went quiet.
“Get out,” Andy said, her voice throaty, level. She gestured at Twitchy Guy. “Now.”
“No way,” he argued, waving his knife nervously from her to Jimmy.
She shrugged and pointed the bat at him again. “Get out now, or I call the cops.”
“Bloody hell! I didn’t start it.”
“Yes, you did.” Andy leaned over the counter, tapping the bat against the knife. “And why the hell bring a knife to a gun fight?”
“I didn’t…you don’t have a…” He eyed the bat in her hand.
Andy smiled coldly and dropped her gaze to the empty space below the counter. “Says who?”
Jimmy snatched the knife from Twitchy Guy and yanked him to the door by the collar.
“Thanks, Jimmy,” Andy said.
“No problem, boss.”
Jimmy tossed the guy out and slammed the Black Sheep’s door shut.
“Lock it,” Andy called over the sudden resurgent din of the crowd. The sooner this night ended the better. “We’re closed. If anyone wants a drink they can go look for it somewhere else.”
She put the bat away, opened the fridge door next to her with the toe of her boot, and grabbed a shot glass from the top shelf. Time for some ice-cold vodka.