A Bullet Apiece by John Joseph Ryan Read Free Book Online

door. Just a warning that time. I wish I knew if that guy ever set foot in the cage again without a good strong whip. Broad Jimmy’s like that damn lion. I’d hate to be Jimmy’s customer who got a final warning.
    As I sat down at the bar, I looked around for Uncle Charles, but all I saw were three other regulars at the far end. I nodded to them, even though we’ve never exchanged more than a few words. By the time they’d get good and juiced, they just wanted an audience, not a conversation partner. All the regulars get the same treatment. If Broad Jimmy ignores you, that’s a good thing. You know you fit in. If he’s harangued you, questioned your patriotism, or served you watered-down beer, you better get your suds somewhere else.
    Kira Harto, Broad Jimmy’s wife, was working behind the bar. Despite Jimmy’s tiresome anti-slant rhetoric, he brought his Japanese bride home after the war. Maybe that helps me put up with his pistol-whip bullshit. Plus, I don’t mind that Kira is tall, slim, and always wears clingy black shirts with push-up bras that summon your attention, like sweet semaphores. Every lonely guy in the world needs a barmaid who will look him in the eye, bend forward just enough to allow a little peep at the cleavage, and ask, “You need another, hon?” with all the sincerity a man has to have. Kira Harto ain’t exactly picture-perfect, but she will certainly do. Her English is rough but decent. And she’s untouchable, so a guy gets his jollies with just flirtation. And with enough booze in him, a lonely guy will think he’s in the tropics, the hard-working world just a dream outside the heavy oak door, a coy woman keeping his glass full. That is, till he remembers the monster of a man she married, with
Semper Fi
tattooed on one forearm and a caricature of a Japanese soldier being squashed by a fist on the other.
    â€œWhat you have, soldier?” she asked as she finally came around to me. Oh, yeah—that little touch is nice, too.
    â€œGin and tonic. With lime.”
    She smiled at me in that helpful way, and turned to make my drink. I lit a cigarette and looked around. Now this was more my speed. No gilded paintings and Italian marble, no nouveau-riche pretense here. A few strings of colored lights festooned the mirror above the bar. Below, lined up along a translucent display shelf, bottles in various states of emptiness were illuminated by the white light beneath the shelf. I caught my reflection in the mirror—what the hell, it wasn’t going to run from me—and did my usual nonchalant assessment of my looks. I don’t look half-bad in this light, I told myself. I turned my head sideways, keeping my eyes trained on my head, and brushed the grey at my temples. Some might say rugged; others bum. I doubt ‘distinguished’ would figure in on anyone’s take. Whatever keeps me employed.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I was aware of somebody coming out of the men’s room. I looked over and saw George “The Beef” Reynolds. He kept to his feet, placing himself behind the seated bunch at the bar. I’ve never seen him sit down. Instead, he hangs over his listeners, while they sit, drink, and nod up to him. The Beef will pace behind them, stab his finger at the opposite wall to make one of his many points, and get uncomfortably close to his chums to look them in the eye. Then he lets dramatic pauses turn into an executioner’s gaze. The Beef had been a pro fighter, heavyweight in the late forties. He’s maybe two inches shorter and more compact than Broad Jimmy, but my money says he’s just as tough. No one would dare suggest it, but I bet lots of us wouldn’t mind seeing how the two of them would fare in a ring.
    Kira brought my drink with a lime and a smile. I smiled back, savoring the eye contact mixed with the anxious knowledge that Broad Jimmy might be in the shadows glaring at our