Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(27)

Curiosity had gotten the better of me so many times in the past. And here I was back in its thrall again. I was such a sucker for unanswered questions.

Across the room, one of the loud snowboarders stood up suddenly and knocked over his mug. Beer spilled all over the table and onto the floor. His friends pushed back in their chairs to avoid being dripped on—a hard scraping sound that drew the attention of everyone present—and started laughing and shouting.

“Dude! No!”

“Ugh, it’s on my pants!”

“You are so wasted!”

“You bumped the f*cking table!”

“I didn’t bump it! You bumped it!”

I glanced at the teenage hostess and saw her shrinking behind her podium, as if she hoped it would shield her from the mayhem. The manager, meanwhile, was still scolding Amber in the kitchen.

I slid off my stool.

I zigzagged my way through the tables until I was standing behind the boarder who’d spilled his beer. “Guys,” I said. “You need to keep it down.”

The snowboarder—a big brawny kid—turned around and exhaled a heavy dose of alcohol into my face. “Lighten up, dude.”

“There are families here. You need to watch your language.”

I figured he’d give me some guff but then relent. It was early in the day for barroom brawls. Instead, he said, “Why don’t you step back?”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” And he shoved me in the chest.

I caught one of his hands and twisted. A wrist lock is one of the first self-defense maneuvers I had learned at the Criminal Justice Academy. A simple turn of the radioulnar joints in the hand is enough to make an aggressor’s knees buckle, and that was what happened with my drunk snowboarder.

“Ow! Jeez! Let go!”

“I think you guys need to leave.”

“Fuck you!”

I gave his hand another twist. “What was that?”

I turned my attention to his friends, who were still seated at the table. They were either less drunk or less bellicose, because they all reached for their wallets. They began scattering bills on the wet table.

I let go of the shredder’s hand.

He rose from his knees, shaking his wrist, his windburned face growing even redder with humiliation. “Ow! Jeez! What’s your problem?”

I removed my wallet with my badge and flipped it open. “I hope you guys aren’t driving anywhere.”

“No, sir!” one of his more sober friends said.

“We’re staying at my mom’s condo,” added another.

“I hope that’s true.”

One by one, they slunk out of the pub like so many kicked dogs.

I sat back down at the bar.

“Thanks,” said the bartender. “Are you a cop?”

“A game warden.”

“Is that like a forest ranger?”

“Not exactly.”

I had lost count of the number of times people had asked me that question. Even some native Mainers didn’t understand that wardens are essentially off-road police officers. They associated us with checking hunting and fishing licenses—an important part of our job—and not with all of the other laws we enforced.

The teenage hostess tapped me on the shoulder. “Those gentlemen would like to buy you a drink.”

“Who?”

“Them.” She pointed to an eccentric-looking trio of older men seated in the corner.

One of them was obviously ex-military. He had a straight spine, like someone who had stood at attention for a long time, and a physique that suggested he still pumped iron every morning. He was neatly shaved, and his gray hair had been trimmed almost down to the skull, probably cut that very morning.

The second man in the group was ruddy-faced, with a snow-white mane and a prominent gut. He was wearing a tweed jacket over a fisherman’s sweater, wool pants, brogues, and a herringbone driver’s cap. He looked liked he’d stepped off the label of a bottle of Scotch whisky.

The third man, dressed in canvas shirt and corduroys, had the gangling appearance of someone who might be very tall when he stood up. Everything about him—head, limbs, and hands—seemed to have been stretched. He had a yellowish complexion, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a blond mustache going white.

My first thought was, What are those characters doing drinking in a skiers’ bar?

They all raised their glasses to me in a toast.

I whispered to the bartender, “Who are those guys?”

“The Night Watchmen.”

“Huh?”

She leaned across the bar. “That’s what they call themselves, but if you ask me, the only thing they watch at night is porn. They come in here for the free popcorn and to pretend they’re not gawking at snow bunnies half their age. I made the mistake of debating drug legalization with them once. After five minutes, they were ready to send me to Siberia.”

I gave the trio a subtle wave of recognition and said to the hostess, “Thank them for the offer, but tell them I’m not drinking.”

I turned back to the bartender.

“You should come back tonight when things get really wild,” she said.

“No thanks.” I smiled and sipped my lukewarm coffee.

After a few minutes, Amber emerged from the kitchen with a tray balanced on her shoulder. Gerald, the manager, was still shadowing her. He stood watch over Amber as she passed out plates of hamburgers and nachos to a table of skiers. When he was finally satisfied, he left her alone and disappeared again through the swinging door.