The Final Country by James Crumley Read Free Book Online Page B

long drink of her whisky and turned as if to leave.
    Then Jack’s drunken face suddenly brightened. “Does this fuckin’ help?” he said, then cast a sheaf of Franklins in front of him and hammered his huge fist on the bar. “That’s what it cost me last time, honey.”
    “Okay, Jack,” I said as I stepped in front of him, “that’s it.” I dumped his drink in the sink, stuffed the bills in his shirt pocket, and told him to get the hell out of my place.
    “She’s a fuckin’ whore, Milo,” he said, “you dumb shit. And gimme my drink back, you cheap bastard.” Then he stood up and reached across the bar to grab my shirt.
    I had seen this act once before and knew that even in his late sixties Jack still had hands like ham hocks, hardened by years in the oil patch, and he was too big, too drunk, and too stubborn for me to handle without hurting him. So it had to be quick and quiet. I waved my hands in front of Jack’s bleary eyes, grabbed his tie with my left hand, then popped him smartly on the forehead with the heel of my right palm. Not hard enough to knock him out. Just hard enough to slosh his whiskey-soaked brain back and forth against his skull bones. Stunned, Jack’s eyes rolled up in his head. I caught him before his nose smashed on the bar, then laid his pudgy cheek gently on the padded front.
    “Excuse me,” I said to the young woman as I went around. “Would you watch the bar for a second, please? I’ll be right back.”
    I hooked the half-conscious bulk of the old man under the arm, grabbed his room key out of his pocket, then steered him out the door and down the hall to his usual room, where I dumped him on the bed. Jack was snoring before I could prop him on his side with pillows so he wouldn’t drown in his own vomit. I loosened his tie and shoelaces, then hurried back to the bar. The young woman was still there.
    “Sorry for the trouble,” I said as I went back behind the bar. “And thanks for watching the bar.”
    “Not the first one I’ve ever watched,” she said. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t come into strange bars if I couldn’t handle drunks,” she added.
    “I didn’t want you to hurt ol’ Jack,” I said, “and it’s my job to keep the peace.”
    “And a thankless job, I’m sure,” she said, smiling. “May I buy you a drink?”
    What the hell, I could catch Jimmy Stewart in The Naked Spur tomorrow night, and this was a truly beautiful woman. Thick dark hair cascaded in soft waves off a warm, dusky face dominated by eyes as darkly blue as a false dawn. A small crescent-shaped scar at the corner of her broad mouth and a slight knot at the bridge of her arched nose kept her face from being perfect. But perfect would have been wrong. Beneath her dark blue pin-striped suit and light blue mock turtleneck blouse, her body looked long and lean, softly dangerous. Except for tiny gold hoops in her ears and a large pendant, a round black stone set in an irregularly shaped gold band, she wore no jewelry. The stone rested heavily between her full, fine breasts.
    “What the hell,” I said. “It’s my place — why not?”
    “And I’ll have another, please,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.” Then she smiled as if she had enjoyed the pleasure I was taking in the presence of such loveliness.
    I hadn’t spoken to Betty since the night she left the bar — that wasn’t unusual these days — but we sort of had a standing date for breakfast at the ranch on Monday mornings, the beginning of her nights off, but damned if I was going to be the first to break the silence, so I poured the lady and myself large Macallans over ice.
    “Absent friends,” I said as I raised my glass.
    “New friends,” she said, smiling. “Molly McBride,” she added, handing me her card, “lawyer.”
    “Milo Milodragovitch,” I said as I glanced at the Houston address and slipped the card into my shirt pocket, and handed her one of my own. “Bartender,” it said.
    Then we shook hands