"Hello Officer"
The bar was old, worn down and out of the way. One of those places on some small back road with few travelers and fewer signs to signify it's existence to outsiders. A little hole in the wall type place. An old bar that's been here longer and than I have and will be here long after I'm gone. The kind of place I could only find if I thought back to when I was a kid, too young to stay on my own when my mother would go look for her next benefactor to see her unhealthily drunk and vulnerable for the men around her.
I'd sit in the corners breathing in the cigar smoke and listen to grizzled old men complain about wounds they got from fighting in countries I'd never heard of in wars I'd ignore in school, and men half their age with twice their money would fawn around my mother. And she would act innocent, gullible. Act like she wasn't about to eat, drink, and drug them out of house and home.
And that was what kept her alive, that was her lifeline, get someone else to do it for her. And I would sit in the back, quietly thinking about how cool their stories were, about how cool it sounded to be off fighting like that. If only I knew how wrong I was.
Once in a while, I was brought out for the sympathy play, and it would work. We'd get in his car and he'd take us home and she'd lock me in my room and I'd sit there all night and try to ignore her fake cries and his grunting, the sounds that paid for what little she bothered to give me.
And in the morning I'd drag myself to school, thinking about those stories the old men would tell, to be so far away from everything I couldn't stand. But then I'd be in class and Carly would simply smile and let me sleep, my foot touching hers just to make sure she was real.
I run my thumbnail against the label of the bottle, letting the flakes of wet paper pile up on the worn wood, the sound of the TV going in one ear and out the other, just like the sound of the guys around me, washing through me and leaving little bits: where they served, when, who had the worst luck or the biggest scar. All of it was pointless blabbering, their own little dick measuring competition to impress each other. But they've kept me out of it so far, a few drunken attempts to seduce me with tales of their valor. But mostly I was just happy to be somewhere I felt safe with a beer in my hand instead of a gun.
There's a thunderclap and the rain falls steadily as a few of the younger guys show just how impressive, and drunk, they were by screaming and shouting along with the deep rumble. All in an attempt to make the dumb bimbos giggle and complement them. Luckily I'd found myself a place at the end of the bar, away from the loose women and horny men circling them like vultures.
But that wasn't enough to stop the older guys, huddled together at one place or another, from staring at me with what could only be contempt. And I don't blame them, they're men from a different age, men who'd seen the horrors brought upon the world by the word of their superiors. All they know about me is that I'm some broke down chick trying to wash away myself away in a wave of alcohol. Sullen or chirpy, they think me just like the others.
Only the bartender knew better, he was smart enough to notice the chain around my neck and simply set a beer in front of me and a towel on my shoulder before heading back to the little group of guys at the end. Regulars most likely, or old friends. Who can say but them? They were the only group to stop staring after I walked in. Surely the bartender told them I was military, and that was that. Their contempt changed to a mutual admiration or at least a mutual ignorance. At least I hope so.
Numb to the world or not, I still notice the eyes crawling up my back. Not the drunken stares, or those of people in the back, but the others. These were different, deliberate, but there's no point in telling them to fuck off no matter how badly I want to. What would happen if I went over there? I don't really know, but it wouldn't be good, of that I'm sure. At this point, much like everything else, I don't think it'll matter.
I take a drink, a long drink, ignoring the bitterness washing it's way down my throat till I realize the bottle is empty and set it down, closing my eyes and trying ignoring the whispers. They were different from the others, three guys in a booth, staring at me and whispering to each other since I sat down. Huddled together trying to figure something out. Like I was some great mystery. But they get to me after I listen in and hear them insult me. But it's not till after I hear them mention Carmine that I know I'll regret what I'm going to do. I know I'll wake up in a cell, or worse. I know it's a terrible idea, but I don't care.
I stand slowly, a little wobble in my feet for added effect. The bartender just looks at me as I drop my wallet on the bar and nod to him. He shakes his head, saying something to his friends and pointing.
"You really think that's a good idea?" I didn't notice him make his way over. "What are you gonna do, huh?" The bartender is old but firm, his gray hair in a high and tight and he just stares me down. The same stare you'd get from a Drill Instructor.
"Thanks for the towel," is all I manage to come up with. I should listen to him. I should, but I won't.
I stumble around, scanning till I find them, the three guys in the booth by the steps. Their voices get louder when they see me approaching, turning into an outright argument.
"And I call bullshit." He stands up as he says it.
He's a big guy, buzz cut and tight sweater to show himself off. The other guys were smaller. But it won't matter. It won't change anything. They notice me approaching, a slight stumble and a drunken smile.
"I'm telling you, ain't no way." The big guy turns to me, almost startled when he realizes I'm practically on top of him, or rather under him. He's a good head taller than me, but it won't matter. He stutters a bit before throwing a cocky smile and a chuckle at me.
"I-I'm sorry, guys. I-I really am, but were you talking about me?" I slur it, hard. They look to each other before the big guy grows some balls.
"Yeah, we were just talking about you, and about there ain't a snowball's chance in hell you're Carmine niece." He crosses his arms and stares at me. I look at all three of them, gesturing at them.
"You guys knew my dear uncle? Actually knew him? Well, that changes things... any friend of my uncles is a friend of mine. How about a beer?" I smile and the big guy chortles.
"We weren't friends with the asshole, but yeah, we knew him. We worked with him. The guy was a real hardass, always bossing people around like he was better than us. But he got what was coming. Hell, I bet at the end there, he was as much of a drunk as you are. Probably as coordinated too, look at you."
I keep smiling, looking at all three guys, the other two look a little nervous.
And the one on the right stands up, nodding his agreement while one in the middle, he seems to be the smartest of the bunch. He shrinks a little bit. He looks familiar but I can't place it, and in the end, it won't matter.
"Guys, I think we should just leave her alone," he puts out in a shaky voice.
I smile wide and look at the two that are standing. "You might want to take his advice, it would be best."
They laugh to each other and I laugh with them.
"Why, what are you going to do?" He shoves me back a bit and holds his hands up for effect.
"Liver, two floating ribs, and a broken arm. And for you, I'm thinking a busted nose and your knee." I call it simply, they look at each other, amused. "That's how this is going to go down." I drop the drunk look and the big guy laughs again.
I slam my fist in his liver, fast, no warning or time for a reaction, and he coughs and lands a hand on the table for support. The other guy comes charging but I slam my foot in the side of his knee and he crumples. The big guy swings but misses as I duck and counter with a fist to his ribs. He stumbles against the railing and I hold up his arm and hit him again and again, losing myself in the thuds when the other guy throws me back and clocks me in the jaw.
I feel the teeth grind and I howl at him and he lunges but I slip to the side and trip him into the bar, stomping in the back of his knee as he screams. The big guy stands up and swings again and he finally connects, landing his fist in my gut and I cough as he cocks back for another blow, but he's swinging for the fences with at least two broken ribs so it isn't hard to catch his arm, prying back his hand and shoving his face to the table, forcing his arm further and further in the wrong direction.
He just yells and yells and I hear the other guy, lost in rage as he tries to charge me. I land my foot in his face and he falls back, out cold. I change my grip, wrapping around the guy's arm and hold his head down with my off hand as I give his arm one last shove then twist and it pops and cracks and he screams as I pull him up, just to slam his head off the edge of the table, and he bounces away.
I step back from everything, tasting the blood and breathing heavy as I look at my work.
"You... should have..." I don't finish the sentence as the world goes black.
I groan, blinking away the pain. I try to feel the back of my head, but my hands are cuffed and I'm stuck to the ground. I let out a groan as I manage to sit up, trying very hard to focus on my surroundings. It takes me a moment to realize I'm still in the bar, cuffed in one of the booths as two cops talk the bartender. He points at me and somewhere else but I just let my head rest on the table. I liked it better with the lights off and the music playing.
I cough a few times and push on some of my teeth and I'm in luck, they're still there. Surprising actually given how hard the other guy hit me. What the hell happened? Did I get knocked out? By who? I don't have time to think things through before someone knocks on the table.
I roll my head and look up at the cop standing there, leaving just a little blood on the table, the taste of copper still in my mouth. He's holding my wallet, comparing me to my ID. He's older, with gray in his hair and wrinkles around his eyes and a demeanor that says he doesn't give a shit. He sighs as he closes the wallet and sits across from me.
"So, Samantha, can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?" He lifts two fingers and waits.
I sit up and take a deep breath. "When we get in the squad car, I call shotgun." He lowers his hand, putting them together and sighs again, obviously not amused. "Two, two fingers. Can we go now?" I look around the now bright room, noticing a bunch of things that weren't there in the dark. Like the eagle globe and anchor above the bar. Figures. "And can we do something about these cuffs? This position isn't exactly great for my arm."
"First we need to talk. What exactly happened?" He speaks with a certain carelessness. Like how this is the third bar fight of the night and there's still plenty of time to break the record but he just wants to go home and I'm stopping him.
I look him in the eyes. "You go first, who knocked me out?"
He looks at me with dark green eyes and turns towards the door and points at the little guy from earlier, the one I didn't have to knock out.
"Figures," I mutter.
He turns back to me, tapping my wallet. "Now Ms. Puckett, I need to know why a 'war hero', as my partner likes to put it, almost kills two thugs in a bar fight for no reason. But I want the truth, I've already had to hear ten different versions of what happened. And right now I'm leaning towards the version put forward by the little guy back there, the one who hit you with a bar stool. You see, he says you came over and started acting belligerent and attacked with a certain savagery the likes he'd never seen, as he put it. But to be honest his friends have priors and he talks a bit too fruity for me, so I would like to hear your version." He seems a little more attentive than before. I take a deep breath.
"I heard them talking and I walked over and waited till I had an opening... and I beat the ever loving shit out of them. It was two on one, they should have done better than they did. But they were too cocky." I stare at him, and he sighs and lowers his head.
"One of those types, huh. Just once I want the sane people. Just once. Okay, I'll be back in a minute. Do you understand why you're going to jail tonight?"
I nod. And I decide I was wrong earlier. Very wrong. This was a terrible idea. But another one pops and I just let it flow, even as deranged as it is.
"Did you check their car?" I close one eye to stop the light from blinding me.
He looks down and cocks his head, finger tapping the holster on his hip. "There was no need, you attacked them," he states, curiously pointing at the little guy.
"Yeah, I did, but you said they had priors right? I'm guessing drug possession, maybe a few assaults. But I'd wager my left nut, if I had one, that they have priors for possession of deadly weapons and or stolen material. So, some guys with serious priors talk about the half drunk girl at the bar and then are more than willing to fight her. Sounds to me like they had intent, and I'll let you fill in the blanks. Which would give you cause to look a little further."
he nods once and mumbles something, looking back at the small guy. "That so," he says.
"Check inside the passenger seat and under the tire in the trunk, if there is one. If not, feel the lining."
He scratches his neck and walks away, grabbing his partner and talking to him for a moment and they both nod and the partner takes the small guy outside.
It'll be a few minutes, and my chances of this working are terrible, the only hint it would being that they worked with Carmine. But it's worth a shot. After a minute or two, the old cop walks back over, and he seems much more attentive to the situation.
"I gotta ask, why?" It was a simple question, but it's not one I'm sure I have an answer to.
Why did I do this? Was it because they talked bad about me, or because they knew Carmine? They were obviously street thugs, maybe a level higher, but I didn't know that going in. All I knew was that they were talking, and I attacked them. I look at the cop, but nothing forms. I try to speak for a moment, but nothing happens. I shake my head and take a deep breath, throwing deep thought out the window and letting it flow.
"Well, Officer..."
"Dalton," he says curiously.
"Well, Officer Dalton, you know those heavy duty medications that say not to mix them with alcohol? Well, those labels are definitely right, you never know what will happen when you break the rules like that. And I've been having a shitty... life. Friends are dead, I was blown up, you know how it works." I'm not sure whether I'm telling the truth, letting myself speak freely, or if I'm just putting out a bunch of bullshit, but it isn't hard to tell which one he thinks it is.
He turns his back when his radio crackles to life, his partner is requesting another squad car.
"Looks like he found something."
He grabs his radio, staring at me. "What did you find?" He seems agitated for some reason.
"Two forty-fives, a nine mil and a few ounces of coke."
Dalton sighs, this obviously not what he was expecting. "Where were the items located?" He's still staring at me.
"The forty-fives were under the trunk lining and the nine was inside the passenger seat with the cocaine, just like you said."
I can almost hear his smile over the radio.
"Copy that, stay here for the other squad car and fill them in. I'm gonna take drunk and disorderly here back to the station." His partner replies, simply acknowledging him. He pulls me to my feet, checking my cuffs. "You just gave me a shitload of paperwork. But one last question, the bartender over there says they started it. So, ma'am, did they shove you?"
I look over at the bartender but he doesn't seem to care about much of what's happening besides me. He stares at me, that same stare, and nods a little.
"Yeah, they did." Dalton smiles, just a little bit, and starts marching me out the door. "Send me the bill," I say to the bartender and he just holds up a few bills. "Never mind, you had my wallet."
Dalton took me to the squad car, politely changing my cuffs so my hands were in front of me, just like I had asked, and gingerly shoving me in the back. And within minutes we were on our way. But all I could think about was that it had stopped raining.
We didn't say anything on the ride to the station, or the march to the cells. He didn't yell at the people screaming or crying. The only time he said anything was when he handed me to processing.
"You military types always overreact. You'll get your call in the morning."
I smiled, it doesn't matter, I don't remember Melanie's number, but that can wait.
It wasn't long before I was in a cell, stretched out on the bench, covering my eyes with my arm. I was close to sleep when the revelation hit me, everything I just did will definitely matter to someone, I'm just not sure who.