I reached for a cocktail napkin to manage the excessive tears-and-snot situation. It was woefully inadequate. "Brooke-Ashley doesn't like that nickname," I replied, reaching over the bar for more napkins. "I don't know where she is, but she told me this morning she was busy tonight."
He snickered again. "I bet she is," he said. He set the martini glass in front of me and stabbed a finger in my direction. "If your drunk ass gives me any trouble, I'll toss you out."
I rolled my eyes and scowled as hard as I could, which wasn't saying much. I didn't scowl too often. "You've known me your entire life, JJ," I said. "You know I have zero-point-zero trouble in me."
That earned me another snicker. "Famous last words."
3
Docking
v. The process of slashing or making incisions in the surface of bread or rolls for proper expansion before baking.
Jackson
The call camein a few minutes shy of midnight, while I was checking out the high schoolers' usual late-night drinking-and-hookup haunts, and the request was quick.
"Could use your help down here, sheriff," JJ Harniczek barked, his Down East drawl as thick as always.
"Be there in five," I replied, pulling a U-turn as I spoke.
The barkeep grunted in response before ending the call. It was polite by Harniczek's standards.
When I arrived in town three months ago, Harniczek made quick work of introducing himself and setting expectations. The man made it clear he was the unofficial law in these parts, and he kept the people—the drunks and everyone else—in line. He kept tabs on everything above board, under the table, and anywhere in between. He could handle most issues but if ever he called upon me or one of my deputies for assistance, he expected a prompt response. For a man in his early thirties, Harniczek knew his business and everyone else's too.
That made this call—direct to my mobile phone, no less—alarming.
Three months in a small town like this was nothing. I was a tourist as far as the natives were concerned. A few of them were doing their damnedest to test the boundaries, not unlike a rowdy group of tenth graders conspiring against the substitute teacher. They wanted to see what I'd put up with but the real test was whether I'd last. Others were more welcoming. Many paid calls to the station, offering their well-wishes on my new post or inviting me to their homes for supper. All in all, the people of Talbott's Cove were kind and gracious, if not a touch suspicious of the New Yorker taking up residence in their tight-knit community.
I'd only been summoned to the tavern on two other occasions, and one of them was to help trap a posse of raccoons out back. I trusted Harniczek, and I had no quarrel with his role around here. If anything, I was thankful for it.
The barkeep was an institution in small, insular communities like this one. I wasn't about to challenge that, or any of the other institutions. They needed me but I needed them just as much. Their approval and acceptance were critical, and not only because my job depended on securing the majority of the town council's votes each election year.
There was the harbormaster who doubled as the gossipmonger, old Judge Markham who puttered in his garden and yelled at seagulls, and the antisocial lobsterman who headed up the town council.
Another institution: Annette Cortassi, the beautiful book mistress busy twisting a long curl around her finger while she mouthed the words to Stevie Nicks's "Edge of Seventeen."
I made my way through the empty restaurant and toward the bar, my thumbs hooked under my tactical belt and my gaze on Annette. Her hair was a mess, half of it spilling out of the bun on the top of her head. Her eyes were shiny and red, with dark makeup was smudged on her cheeks. She'd been crying. I didn't like that. I didn't like any of this.
Something was wrong and I wanted to make it better for her. It wasn't my job, not the one I was sworn to carry out, but the one I desired more than I dared to understand.
I glanced at JJ Harniczek, taking in his ever salty scowl. "What seems to be the issue here?"
"It's not a mystery, sheriff," he replied. "The girl's blitzed."
Turning my head to stare at the woman who drew me in like a force field, I watched as she propped her head on her hand. She mumbled the song's chorus while her eyes drifted shut for a long moment. She was a wreck and drunk as a skunk—probably twice the legal limit—and a minute away from sliding off the barstool.
"I can see that," I said, stepping behind Annette. I held my hand a few inches from the small of her back, prepared to catch her if she took a dive. "You don't call me up every time you overserve a patron, JJ."
"I don't overserve anyone," he snapped. "They don't know their limits."
I pinned him with a sharp look. "That's not my interpretation of the law."
Impatient, he shook his head and waved me off. "Just get her outta here. I got things to do tonight. I don't have the time to hustle her home or spend another hour listening to her cry over spilt milk."
I cut a glance toward Annette and then back to JJ. "Mind telling me more about this spilt milk?"
"Dammit, sheriff," he grumbled. "I said I don't got time tonight."
