The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(29)

Clyde tapped Matthew Pena's shoulder, got his attention, and decked him.

Another surge backward from the crowd.

I stood, but it was still hard to see.

Dwight Hayes had just gotten up, and some misguided sense of loyalty or guilt prompted him to grab another beer bottle, which he brought down in a shipchristening manoeuvre on top of Clyde Simms' skull with a loud, hollow POCK.

That just made the big man mad. Clyde swung around, bellowing "Fucking motherf*cker!" and slashing three or four drinks off the bar.

He tried to lift Dwight by his shirt, but that only works in the movies. All Clyde managed to do was yank fabric into Dwight's armpits, showing us all his skinny, tan midriff. Clyde slammed Dwight against the bar, slipped on something, and both men went over onto the floor, crushing Matthew Pena, who'd just been trying to get up.

Garrett was cursing at me to wheel him the hell out of there before he got trampled.

Ruby had her hand over her mouth. Whether she was amused or mortified, I couldn't tell.

Across the room, the two deputies were finally trying to push toward the fight, but the crowd kept pushing them back. Maia Lee had come out of the bathroom? she wasn't having much luck moving, either.

Clyde came up for air like a breaching whale, holding Dwight sideways by one leg and his neck. Dwight had found another bottle on the floor and was swinging it desperately, occasionally hitting Clyde, more often swiping somebody in the crowd. Someone yelped. Clyde started wading across the room, toward the bathrooms. People scrambled to get out of his way.

Kinky Friedman was playing "We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to You." The tuxanddress folks were pressing their faces against the patio windows, watching us lower classes partake in our quaint amusements.

It was now an easier matter for me to get close to Clyde, although the deputies still had the bulk of the crowd in their way. One of the guys at a nearby table yelled, "Hey, that's Dwight! Fuck that!" and tried to jump Clyde. The guy missed and slid out of sight.

Another guy picked up a chair. Dwight kept swinging the bottle and hitting people, causing a chain reaction of pissedoff drunks.

I'm not sure where Clyde thought he was taking Dwight, but when he got to the booths on the opposite side of the room, between the Damen and Herren rest room doors, he decided the trophy case of German bier steins on the wall was as good a spot as any.

He stepped onto the platform of the first booth, the people at the table cringing away from him, and he heaved Dwight into the glass. It broke with a mighty crash. Dwight didn't fit in the cabinet, so he fell onto the booth table, his knees straddling a woman's blond hairdo, glass and broken bier steins showering on his back and into the diners' plates of sausage and sauerkraut.

The deputies yelled for people to get out of their way. The music on the back patio was finally unravelling to a stop.

Clyde Simms swung around and started scanning the crowd— no doubt looking for his original target, Matthew Pena. He seemed surprised to find me blocking his way.

"What the faaaaaah—"

The last sound because of the knucklestrike I jabbed into his larynx.

I shoved my palm into his nose hard enough to spout blood. Then I grabbed his wrist, twisted myself under his arm and came up behind him, putting Clyde's arm in a double joint lock—his arm twisted at the elbow and wrist so he was forced to make a capital letter C between his shoulder blades.

He said, "Aaaadddd!"

I suggested, "Let's go outside."

Fistfights were breaking out here and there like brushfires, slowing down the deputies who were wading toward me.

I walked Clyde toward the door. The crowd parted for us. Ruby got a great shot of us with her camera.

Over by the back patio, I caught a glimpse of a swarthy guy in black Western clothes—pencil moustache, cigar, white Stetson pulled down over his eyes. He was watching the proceedings calmly.

Kinky Friedman, collecting lyrics for his next song, no doubt.

I got Clyde outside and was trying to figure out where best to deposit him when a voice said, "Freeze!"

Just like that. Freeze. Like he'd been watching Real Cops.

Without turning around, I said, "Just trying to help calm things down here, sir."

The next sound I knew—the dry swishclick of a metal asp being extended. The deputy said, "Let him go."

"I'll f**king kill you," Clyde murmured to me.

"My friend here just got a little upset, Deputy," I called back to the cop. "I was just trying to cool him down a little bit. No harm done. Right, buddy?"

Clyde stopped cursing. I think the word Deputy sobered him up. I could feel the tension seep out of his shoulders.

"Yeah," he agreed. "This f**ker's right."

I tightened the joint lock.

"Aadd! Yeah my good buddy's right, officer. No problem. No problem."

I let Clyde go, stepped quickly out of his way. We both turned and smiled at the deputy.

He looked familiar—probably one of the guys who'd been giving me dirty looks at the station on Saturday.

Clyde did a good job looking friendly, even though he had a line of blood leaking from his left nostril. The blood matched his suit beautifully.

The deputy didn't smile back. His collapsible baton was a black televisionantennalooking thing with a handle on the thick end— the only difference being that a television antenna could not break your thighbone.