Another few drinks and passing out might have been more accurate.
“Come on,” he urged. “We’re going to Frank’s, so get a damn shirt on.”
Human beings were the last things I wanted to be around at that moment, but the bar part didn’t sound so bad. It was my second home, after all.
Frank’s Bar was a hole-in-the-wall pub on the outskirts of town. A retired officer, aptly named Frank, had purchased the old log cabin and turned it into a hub for first responders needing a moment of reprieve. For cowboys seeking the best barbecue across three states, and for cowgirls seeking the best meat across three states. It was a Southern, small-town bar at its finest with antlers and flickering road signs along shaded walls, and buckets of ice water on tap to extinguish the routine bar fights.
Especially during full moons. That was a fact.
“I’ll buy the drinks,” Colson said.
And, sold.
I plucked a gray T-shirt off the back of myrattedcouch, gave it a sniff, then pulled it on. I swapped out my slacks for a pair of jeans and cowboy boots, then followed Colson down the staircase.
“My Jeep’s around the corner,” I said.
“Is your air conditioner still broken?”
“Yep.”
“Then we’re taking my truck.”
We stepped onto the sidewalk.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I said.
“You never do. And no offense, no one ever wants to talk to you either.”
We hit the asphalt, still warm from the day before.
“But I will say…” Colson continued. “I’m curious as hell to hear why you’ve got Darby casing a voodoo tree in the park.”
4
JAGG
Colson parked his truck on the edge of the gravel lot next to Frank’s Bar. The clouds had faded, and the moonlight was so bright we could have driven without headlights. The night had cooled to a chilling seventy-six degrees.
A trio of cowgirls eyed us as we walked to the front door.
“Evenin’ officers,” one winked.
While Colson politely dipped his chin as he passed, I yanked the cigarette from the blonde’s red-tipped fingers, tossed it on the ground, and stomped it out.
“Burn ban,” I reminded her before grabbing her Miller Lite and emptying it on the glowing tip. The girls squealed as the beer splashed onto their boots. They gaped at me, speechless.
Colson rolled his eyes and pulled me inside. “Can you cool it for a bit, shit.”
I yanked out of his hold, my focus shifting to the scent of stale beer, cedar, and barbecue sauce. My three favorite smells. We saddled up at the end of the bar, ignoring the glances and whispering that followed.
Typically, Frank’s Bar was a flurry of drunken energy. Not that night. That night, the low moan of a Willie Nelson song hung in humid air, thick with the mood beneath it. I’d seen almost every face at the funeral hours earlier.
“Howdy do, boys?” Frank walked up, wiping his hands on an apron that read,Eat my Meat.
Colson and I grunted.
Frank nodded, looked down. “It’s a tough day for everyone. The Lieutenant was a good man. Whiskeys?”
