Читать книгу The Evil That Men Do - Dave White - Страница 22

Chapter 11

Jackson Donne found a dive bar on Valley Road in Montclair. Getting back to New Brunswick and the Tavern would have taken too long, so instead he stopped there. The place was named Tierney’s and was incredibly Irish inside, at least by New Jersey standards. Notre Dame flags, shamrocks, and a “Happy St. Patrick’s Day” sign from the nineties were stapled to the wall. The wooden walls were old and rotting, and other than the bar and barstools, there was only a jukebox.

When Donne ordered his beer, the bartender asked him how his day was going. Donne grunted back a response and hoped it was clear there wouldn’t be any more talking. Just good old-fashioned drinking.

He heard the door to the bar swing open. Whoever came in must have stood there surveying the bar for a minute, because Donne didn’t hear any footsteps at first. When he did, they were short and light, as if the feet were barely touching the floor. The guy sat right next to him. Donne didn’t even look.

No reason to make eye contact. That might start a conversation.

Half an hour later, Donne was three beers deep and just starting to get a buzz on. The memories of Jeanne were fading. His nerves were calming; one more beer and he’d be comfortable enough to go home.

The guy sitting next to him was only on his first beer.

“Yo, motherfucker, what you say?” He tapped Donne hard on the shoulder.

Donne half-turned toward him and said, “Nothing. I’m just drinking a beer.”

“Hey, I said I heard you say something. Now I want to know what it was.” He pushed Donne this time.

Donne turned fully toward him and took a look at him. He was thick, muscular, and black. In a bar like this, it would be a lie to say he wasn’t noticeable. Especially this early in the afternoon.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re—” Donne recognized the man from his aunt’s home. It was the guy who had pistol-whipped him. “Oh, fuck,” he managed before taking a right cross to the head.

He spun off his barstool and onto the ground, just before his beer glass hit the floor. It shattered, sending shards of glass and splashes of beer everywhere. He tried to push himself up, but caught a quick shot to the ribs with the guy’s foot.

“Hey,” Donne heard someone yell. “Break it up!” Probably the bartender.

Donne took another shot to the ribs and rolled onto his back. Looking up, he saw the guy lift a barstool over his head. He slammed it down on top of Donne, and Donne was barely able to lift an arm to block it. It shattered, and some of the wood scraped across Donne’s face.

When Donne looked at the guy, everything moved in slow motion. He reached into the waistband of his pants, pulled out a large gun, and aimed it at Donne. He began to squeeze the trigger.

Donne braced himself for the inevitable shot, but then heard a large clack and everything snapped back into reality.

“I said, break it up.” The bartender was aiming a pump-action shotgun at Donne’s assailant.

“Yo, man,” the asshole said, putting his gun away. “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

“Good idea,” the bartender said.

The bastard jogged out the back door. The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment there was silence. Then three gunshots, quickly followed by the squeal of tires.

Donne pushed himself to his feet and felt the bar sway around him. He would have been better off with the fourth beer.

“You okay?” the bartender asked. “Yeah,” he said.

“What did you say to him?”

“Not a word.”

“You assholes can’t be doing that sort of thing,” he said. “I could lose my liquor license. There are only a few of those in Montclair, and they’re expensive as hell.”

Donne grunted and walked toward the door. He had to concentrate to walk straight. The pain in his arm and across his face slowed his step. He opened the door slowly, in case the guy was waiting for him, and peeked out. His car had its back windshield shot out, and the back two tires had been blown to shreds.

“Hey,” the bartender said. “You’re going to have to pay for these damages.”

Donne pulled the door open fully and hobbled to his car. He had to rest when he reached it, put his hand on the trunk. His stomach tightened, and he had to fight to keep the beer down.

He didn’t hear the bartender open the door.

“The police are on their way,” the bartender yelled.

“Good,” he said before the world tilted beneath him and black asphalt raced toward his face.