Whispering Rock (Virgin River #3)(12)

Brie’s eyes grew round and Mike looked over his shoulder. There were two couples across the room at a table; they looked to be middle-aged married couples. One of the men was irate, while the other tried to mollify him, placing a hand over his forearm and speaking quietly. Both women drew back, if not just embarrassed, then concerned. The waiter leaned down and said something to the angry man, and he reacted. He picked up his glass of beer and hurled it toward the bar, smashing the glass, beer splattering and shards of glass flying. If the pub had been more crowded, it could have been dangerous. “Not good enough!” he shouted.

Brie gasped and stiffened, terror in her eyes. Mike glanced at her, glanced over his shoulder again, back at Brie. Panic was showing on her face.

Then the owner or manager came rushing into the room and to the table, speaking quietly first to the waiter, then to the disgruntled customer. The angry diner talked back, though his words were impossible to make out. The other man at the table clearly tried to quiet him, but he stood abruptly and shoved the manager, causing him to take a few steps backward.

Mike looked at a terrified Brie and thought, this is all she needs. Bullshit like this her first time out in the real public. He put a hand over hers. “Stay right here and breathe deeply.” Then he got up and strode purposefully toward the table. Already kitchen staff were peeking out the window in the swinging door to the kitchen.

Mike placed himself between the waiter and manager, directly in front of the offender, and was grateful that he was taller than all of them, younger and more fit than the pissed-off man. He looked into the manager’s eyes and said calmly, “Call the police, please.”

“Thank you, sir. I believe we can handle the situation now.”

“Then if you’ll allow me the use of your phone, I’ll place the call.”

The angry customer tried to shove Mike out of the way and said, “I’m getting the hell out of this shit hole.”

Mike simply straightened, grabbed the wrist of the man’s hand to ward off his shove, blocked his passage and raised the palm of his other hand. He used an authoritative voice to say, “Please sit down, sir. I don’t believe you’ve paid for your meal and drinks.” He was firm but polite. Though Mike was only a couple of inches taller, he was younger and the expression on his face very determined. The man sat. Then Mike looked at the manager and said, “The police, if you please.”

“Here,” said the friend, standing, opening his wallet. “Let me just pay for it and—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but your angry friend is going to settle up with the police now. Throwing glassware, assaulting the management is against the law.” Then he looked over his shoulder, lifted his eyebrows to the manager and gave a nod.

“Call the police,” the manager instructed the waiter, and the young man fled.

Twenty minutes later the local police took the angry client away, still sputtering about his terrible meal. It turned out that his dissatisfaction with his lunch had been met with an offer of a replacement meal or discount from the waiter, but the man had wanted his entire foursome comped, despite protests from his wife and the other couple. It also turned out he was a little drunk and unmanageable. Handcuffs were not necessary, but the police decided it would be best if these visitors were escorted out of town and everyone exited calmly. The little pub returned to its quiet atmosphere.

The manager brought Mike a beer and Brie the wine she’d had with lunch. “With our compliments,” he said, smiling.

“Thank you very much,” Mike said. Then, turning to Brie, he placed a hand softly over hers and said, “God, I’m so sorry that happened, Brie. I hope you’re not too upset.”

Brie’s eyes were actually twinkling. She smiled. “Talk about baptism by fire,” she said.

“Of all the days for that clown to get tanked and cause trouble—”

But Brie answered him with a laugh. “God. For a minute I had all kinds of hysterical fears—and then it was over. The police were called, he was escorted away and it was over. Plus,” she said, lifting her glass, “free drinks.”

Mike’s brows drew together, concern that she’d become hysterical. “I’ll cover the drinks in the tip. I guess you’re not hopelessly traumatized?”

“No.” She laughed again. “I’m reminded. I’ve been up against some scary individuals, but ninety-nine percent of the time, they’re all bluster. They threaten, make a lot of noise, show off and then when they’re picked up by police, they cry.” She leaned across the table. Her voice sank to a whisper. “I’ve been reciting a mantra to myself for weeks—it’s been over ten years since an officer of the court was actually hurt by a defendant, and that ADA was not seriously injured. I’m not fixed, but I’m reminded—what happened to me was very unusual. What happened today was more typical.”

“You deal a lot in percentages, I guess,” he said.

“Ninety-three point five percent of the time,” she answered with a smile.

Every week, like clockwork, Jack received a letter from Ricky, the boy who’d been his shadow for a few wonderful years until joining the Marines immediately following his high school graduation. The letter was always addressed to Jack, opened with “Dear Jack, Preach, Mike and everyone.” It was the best part of his week.