A Beeline to Murder

Kat turned to look in the same direction. “Know him?”


“No,” Abby replied. “But I’d wager he is not a card-carrying member of the LGBT coalition.” She listened as the man’s rhetoric became increasingly inflammatory.

“I try to have a pleasant off-duty moment, and now I have to deal with a jerk,” Kat said, sliding off her stool. “Better find out why he’s so angry.”

They picked their way through the crowd, toward the man who stood at the bar near the front door, sipping from a beer mug. His sleeveless, faded work shirt revealed a heavily tattooed arm, shoulder to wrist. Abby soon figured out that the man’s diatribe was directed at two young men nearby who clearly were more interested in each other than they were the crusty biker spewing vitriol.

“Is there a problem?” Kat asked the biker.

Before Abby could hear his reply, she tripped. Her high heel had caught in a mesh gym bag on the floor. Trying to regain her balance, she knocked bar napkins to the floor and fell against the troublemaker, causing his beer to slosh across his mouth, coat his mustache and chin, and dribble down his leather vest. In one fluid motion, the man slid his beer mug onto the bar and drew back his tattooed arm to lodge a blow. Apparently realizing at the last possible moment that he was about to hit a woman, he dropped his fist and glared at Abby.

Abby stood her ground. For a middle-aged biker, out of shape most likely from hard living, drugs, and booze, this guy seemed as tense as a new spring on a screen door. She wobbled backward on her heel and grabbed onto the bar. Holding the bar with one hand, she used the other to disentangle her heel from the mesh. Then she locked eyes with the biker. “Sorry. My fault. I didn’t see the bag.”

Impaling her with his gaze, the biker swiped the beer from his mustache with a single downward stroke of his hand. Addressing the two gay men, he said, “Why don’t one of you get up and give a real lady a place to sit?”

“No,” Abby insisted. “Stay where you are. That’s okay.” The two young men, who looked like bankers in their dark suits and pastel shirts, huddled as still as statues, their eyes frozen on the mirror behind the bartender, where they could see the other tough guys in the room without turning around. They seemed frozen with fear, apparently too afraid even to sip their cocktails.

The bartender wiped his hands on a towel and pointed to the other end of the bar while he addressed the foulmouthed biker. “Two seats at the end, Harlan. I can serve you there just as easily as here.”

The biker shook his head in defiance. “Screw you. I ain’t going nowhere. This is where I always sit. Except this fairy is in my seat.”

“Suit yourself,” the bartender replied and returned to wiping down the counter.

“Sir.” Kat addressed Harlan in her most authoritative tone. “These men have every right to be here.”

“These aren’t men. They’re sissies.” The biker pivoted his large frame awkwardly to lock eyes with Kat. “And who the hell are you, anyway? Why don’t you just keep movin’ toward that there door?” Harlan said. “Or I’ll give you a reason to wish you had. Show you what a real man can do.” He stepped forward in his steel-toed boots. “This is none of your freaking business, little lady.”

“Actually, it is,” Kat replied coldly. “What say, let’s share some ID?” She opened her purse and flashed her badge at Harlan and the barkeep. “So, I’ve shown you mine. Let’s have a look at yours.”

“Cop. Shoulda known.” Harlan gave a yank on the chain attached to the wallet in his rear pocket. He removed his identification and handed it to Kat.

“Your name, sir?” Kat asked, glancing over at the bartender, who held up eight fingers, apparently one for each beer Harlan had downed.

“You can see right there, it’s Sweeney. Harlan Sweeney.”

“Well, Harlan Sweeney, are you drunk?”