“Courage is being scared to death...and saddling up anyway,” she quoted softly.
That was all well and good for John Wayne, she supposed, but as Mel stepped out of the car, she was more than a little aware of the fine line between courage and pure foolishness. It was one of those scary still nights, when even the summer “peepers” seemed to be alert and waiting for something to happen. She crossed the rough parking lot warily, careful to miss the muddy puddles and wishing she were wearing flat shoes instead of the three-inch heels Kitty insisted her minions wear in public. The night was hot and humid, not at all unusual for early June in Nashville, and she hoped the air conditioning in the pub wasn’t so high that she’d end up freezing once she was inside. Somehow she didn’t think the cardigan sweater she always carried in her car would make much of an impression if she pulled it on over her skinny black dress.
Mel climbed the concrete steps and paused only long enough to check her reflection in the polished steel door. She saw clearly what everyone else saw: Miss Average—average height, average figure, clear complexion dotted with freckles, and shoulder-length, curly auburn hair, which had been the bane of her existence since the first grade. Running her hands through her hair one last time in an attempt to flatten it down in spite of the humidity, she told herself to relax, opened the door, and stepped inside.
2
Mel hesitated as the door closed automatically at her back, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light which was little improved over the dusk enshrouded parking lot. As her surroundings became clearer, she saw a long wooden bar on the left and pockets of light fanning out on the right, where steel pendent work lights hung over a collection of bare round tables with beat-up metal chairs. There were blackout blinds on the wide front windows, and decorations were limited to car and motorcycle parts and posters. It took her only a moment to realize everyone in the bar was staring at her. Her second thought was that they were mostly men, rough-looking men, who were running their eyes along her slim form from head to toe as though undressing her. Suppressing a shudder, she took a deep breath and smelled cigarette smoke, beer, fried food, and sweat. The men all seemed to be dressed in leather, their heads wrapped in colorful bandanas. When she looked closer, she saw there were a few women present, but most of them wore leather, too, though theirs had fringe and sometimes sparkling beads. Swallowing hard, Mel turned toward the bar, where she noticed two other women dressed in matching shorts and tight blouses that highlighted their ample breasts. They carried trays with glasses and beer bottles.
One of the waitresses took a step toward her.
“You lost?” she asked, her voice raspy, probably from cigarette smoke, since this bar obviously ignored the city’s recommendations on indoor smoking bans.
Mel had to clear her throat before she could speak.
“No,” she managed. “I’m actually looking for someone.”
“You a cop?” a huge man wearing a dirty Titans cap asked belligerently from a table near the front.
His question was met with guffaws from around the room.
“If she’s a cop, then I’m a hooker,” another huge, burly man said.
“If you’re not a cop, ya got no business in here,” another man said, as he turned back to the card game he had been playing with four other men, including Titans Cap.
“I’m actually looking for someone,” Mel said, hoping there was at least one person here who would help her.
“I guess you found someone, sugar,” a tall, greasy looking man sneered, straightening from the bar. He was dressed in a stained western shirt of indiscernible original color. His flashy belt buckle might have once been a hubcap.
“No! I mean I’m looking for someone specific. The Saint brothers.”
“Ain’t no saints in here, lady,” one of the women said, eliciting more laughter.
“No, I don’t mean men who are saints. I mean a group of men whose name is Saint.”
There were more crude comments and laughter, and she almost gave up, until the bartender caught her eye and gestured toward a door at the far end of the bar.
“Back room,” he said, wiping down the bar with what looked like a very dirty rag.
Mel swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
She headed that way only be stopped by the oily man.
“Whatcha need them for?” he asked, reaching out to take her arm.
“Please, sir,” she said, fighting to keep fear from her voice. “I’m here on business.”
The man grinned. “Well, I can give you plenty of business, girly.”
Mel tried to shake off his hand, but he reached for her other arm and pulled her to him, turning in such a way as to pin her against the bar.