The Fallen (Amos Decker #4)(20)

And then they had come along to spoil it.

“You that dude John Baron, ain’t you?”

Baron looked over at the three young men who were standing next to his seat at the bar.

The young female bartender nervously wiped out a glass and watched the confrontation.

Baron lifted the glass to his lips, took a sip, and let the smooth scotch cut by soda work its way down his throat. He set the glass down and said, “I am. Is there an issue?”

The men were dressed in dirty jeans, T-shirts, and oversized sneakers with no laces, and two of them wore Pittsburgh Steelers caps.

The first man, the largest of the trio, grinned maliciously. “An issue? Man, we ain’t got issues. But maybe you got some stuff hanging over you.”

“Such as?”

“Your damn family screwing this whole town.”

“And exactly how did they do that?”

“Closed the mines. Shut down the mills.”

“After running them for decades and providing employment for much of the town? Probably for your parents. And grandparents. And great-grandparents.” He took another sip of his drink. “Thus I see no evidence that we screwed anybody.”

“You ain’t give me no job,” said the man.

“I didn’t know it was my job to give you a job,” replied Baron.

The second man spoke up. “You live up in that big house on the hill. Think you’re better’n we are.”

“I can assure you that not only do I not think I’m better than anyone, I know that I’m not. As for the big house, looks can definitely be deceiving.”

“My mom says you got old coins and jewels up there. She said you just pretend to be poor.”

Baron turned to look at him. “Pretend to be poor? Who the hell would do that? Would you?” He looked at the other two men. “Or you?”

“Mom says you folks are inbred. Marry your sister and stuff. Screws up your mind. So maybe you would pretend to be poor.”

“Well, I don’t have a sister. And I’m not married. And I’m not pretending to be poor. So strike three and you’re out.”

“Don’t think so,” said the first man. He shoved Baron so hard he nearly toppled from his stool.

The bartender said, “Hey, don’t make me call the cops. Leave him alone.”

“You gonna let a girl fight your battles?” said the second man in a sneering tone.

“I’m warning you,” said the bartender, her hand on her cell phone.

The man pushed Baron again. “You gonna do that? Hide behind a girl, asshole?”

Baron threw the rest of his drink in the man’s face.

“No, I’m really not,” he said, standing up and towering over them.

His face dripping with scotch and soda, the man swung his fist at Baron, who caught it and wrenched it up and then behind the man’s back.

He gave him a hard push and sent him sprawling on the floor.

Baron blocked the blow from the second man and lashed out with his fist, catching him on the chin.

But the third man kidney-punched Baron from behind and he staggered and fell down against the bar.

The other two men jumped up and started punching and kicking him. There were other people in the bar, but none of them tried to stop the pounding Baron was taking.

Except one.

“FBI!”

Amos Decker had his weapon pointed at the men.

They all froze.

“Get away from him. Now!” barked Decker, who had just walked in to see this beating. After the men retreated, he glanced at Baron. “You okay?”

Baron, his lip bloody and his right eye puffy, struggled up and managed to stand while holding on to the bar, clutching at his side.

He rubbed his hand along his back and stretched. “No permanent damage, it seems,” he said, though he did wince in pain.

“He threw his drink in my face,” said the first man. “He started it.”

The bartender said, “No he didn’t. You jerks did.”

Decker snapped, “And it’s three on one and you guys are half his age?”

“You needn’t detain them,” said Baron.

“What?” said Decker.

Baron next looked at the bartender, who had started to punch in 911 on her phone. “You don’t have to do that. These young men are obviously a bit intoxicated. I’m sure they meant no harm.”

“I’m pretty sure they meant a lot of harm,” countered Decker. “To you.”

Baron held up his hand. “Nevertheless, it really won’t do any good to have them arrested. And it might do far more bad.”

“You sure?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

Decker glared at the men. “You so much as think about touching this guy, your asses are mine. Do you understand?”

The largest of them glared at Decker as he wiped scotch from his eyes. “Whatever.”

Decker holstered his gun, marched forward, grabbed him by his shirt, and slammed him up against the wall. “No, not ‘whatever.’ Do you understand?”

“I understand, I understand, okay? Shit!”

Decker let him go and pushed him toward the exit. “Now clear out!”

The three men slowly left, each of them looking back at Decker and Baron before the last one slammed the door behind him.