City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(24)

“I’m not seeing the fight,” I say.

“Oh, it’s coming. Wait right there, detective. You might want to pull out your firearm. Just don’t shoot straight up. There’s a customer sleeping it off right above your head.” She nods toward the bartender. “That’s Mick. Former city cop. Former local cop, too. He’ll help out if you need it, but I’d just as soon keep him behind the bar.”

Because he’s extremely busy reading that novel. He gives me a nod, though, friendly enough.

Isabel walks to the couple. She stops beside the woman and stands there at least twenty seconds. The guy keeps glancing up, but the woman is making a concerted effort to pretend she doesn’t see Isabel.

“You aren’t welcome in here, Jen,” Isabel says finally.

“It’s a public place, bitch.”

The insult—and the venom behind it—startle me. The woman looks like she should be teaching third-graders.

“No,” Isabel says, more respectfully than I’d have managed. “My establishment is not communal property. I pay for that privilege. Now go home, get clean, and then we’ll discuss you coming back.”

Get clean? I could say Isabel meant “sober up,” but I get the feeling this lady is careful with her word choices. I walk closer and size up Jen. I notice her pallor, despite the fact summer has just ended. Her pupils are slightly constricted. Her clothing hangs as if she was two sizes larger when she got it. It’s not proof positive of drug addiction. This is a restricted community. They may choose not to prohibit alcohol, but they sure as hell should be able to control drugs.

“What are you looking at, *?” Jen says. I think she’s talking to me. Then I see she’s addressing the guy sitting with her, who’s staring at me like I’m covered in chocolate and sprinkles. His eyes are glazed over and my gut tells me it’s not from a half glass of Cabernet. Jen looks up at me and her eyes narrow. “Fuck, don’t tell me you’re the new cop.”

“She is,” Isabel says. “And she’s here to escort you out.”

Jen snorts. “That itty-bitty girl? Fuck, no. And you, *, stop gaping at her or— Hey, I’m talking to you!”

She lunges at the guy. Literally dives across the table, grabbing him by the shirtfront, screeching like a banshee. As I go after her, Isabel murmurs, “Well, that’s not how I expected it to go down, but the end result is the same. I’m going to have blood to clean up.”

I grab Jen. She takes a swing. I wrench her arm behind her back, and she howls. She keeps struggling, though, and I keep wrenching, until I’m about a quarter inch from breaking the bone. When she still doesn’t stop, I slam her against the wall. That’s when her companion decides some chivalry might be in order. He’s on his feet, telling me to let her go.

“As soon as she stops trying to hit me,” I say.

“Back off, Ted,” says Mick, who is walking our way, possibly having hit a chapter break.

“Sit and enjoy the show, Ted,” says the beefy guy with the beer.

Ted grabs for my arm. I see it coming, and a roundhouse kick puts him down without me needing to release Jen. The guy with the beer shows his appreciation by cheering while Ted dives for my leg and tries to bite it. Yes, bite. Another kick sends him flying and then beer-guy is on his feet, tackling Ted, and two other guys have come from God-knows-where, and they’re getting into it, and someone outside shouts, “Bar brawl!”

I don’t know exactly what happens after that. Not because I’m caught up in the chaos, but because I’m ignoring it. I have my job, and that job is getting Jen out of the bar.

I’m strong-arming her toward the door when the pencil-necked guy with the book decides to make a break for it. He elbows past us … and catches a right hook from a shape filling the doorway. I’m about to use Jen to power past the newcomer when I see his face. It’s Dalton. He ignores me and barrels down on book-guy, who’s sprawled on the floor.

“He’s not part of it,” I shout over the chaos.

“The hell he’s not,” Dalton says, still bearing down on the poor guy.

“No, really, he—”

Someone tries to take Jen from me. I go to yank her back and then see it’s Anders.

“Ignore him,” he says, waving at Dalton. “Jen? Sheriff’s here and you know how he feels about rydex. You got five seconds to—”

Jen’s already running.

“Good choice,” Anders says. “Now, let’s clear this mess. You know how to do it?”

“Stomp the bullies first.”

He grins at me. “You got it. Let’s have ourselves some fun.”





Seven

We’re back at the station. With the pencil-necked guy. Dalton marched him, in cuffs, all the way from the Roc. Now he’s got him pinned to the cell wall, lifted clear off his feet and gasping for breath.

Some older cops bristle at the term “police brutality.” Intimidation, they call it. Or, as others would say, “speaking the only language *s understand.” But they only mean physical dominance. Shove the guy around. Grab him by the hair. Dig your fingers into his kidneys accidentally.

That isn’t what’s happening here. I’m watching my new boss choke a guy half his size. A guy who wasn’t part of the brawl. Who hasn’t raised his voice or a finger in his own defence.