Chapter 42

42

The Pinewood bar was located in a Victorian house known as a painted lady.

This painted lady needed a date, Shaw thought as he climbed its creaking porch stairs and pushed through the front door.

With a wrecking ball , he thought.

The first thing he got hit with was a strong smell of spilled beer and then he halted as a high beam light suddenly flashed in his eyes.

"Hey, turn down the wattage, please," Shaw said. "Fire department here. We got an evacuation situation."

When the flashlight was lowered, Shaw saw that there were actually two men inside the low-ceilinged space, one in front of the bar and one behind it. On the bar top, a cell phone with the flashlight app on was resting on top of a glass. It looked like a small lantern.

"What's going on?" said the patron who had yet to leave his barstool.

He was a short white-haired old man in a denim jacket wearing one of those Irish tweed caps.

"Hi, fellas," Shaw said. "Hate to break it to you, but the bar is now closed. A tanker truck filled with some poison class B materials just hit the transmission pole up on Route 4. We are clearing out the entire village. You got to go now."

"Poison B you said?" the old man said, putting down the glass of beer he was holding. "What kind? I was a trucker after I got out of the air force. What are we talking here, son?"

"Sodium cyanide, hoss," Shaw said. "A load of it out of Canada was on its way to a rubber factory down in Jersey. It's already gone airborne and if the wind shifts the right way and you suck it in, you're going to be deader than grunge music. We need to get everybody in the village out. For at least a few hours."

"Shit," the old hobbit-like codger said, downing the last of his beer in one shot.

He hopped off his stool.

"Why didn't you say so?" he said as he hurried past Shaw.

"You, too, friend. Time to go," Shaw said to the bartender.

The bartender was bent at the waist, reading something in the cell phone's light. It was a Sports Illustrated magazine. As he turned a page, Shaw saw a picture of a smiling NASCAR driver.

"Ah," the bartender said. "Screw that, jack. Be on your way. I'm staying right here."

"What?" Shaw said, looking at him in astonishment. "Are you crazy? Brother, this isn't a joke. This isn't a storm you can ride out. It's an industrial disaster. You don't leave, you're going to die."

The bartender licked a thumb and slowly turned another page of the magazine.

"Yeah, well, that's your opinion, ain't it?" he said without looking up.

"Opinion?" Shaw cried. "The driver of this rig is dead. They got guys in space suits at the crash site not a quarter mile from here. This isn't optional."

The bartender shrugged, still not looking up.

"Gotta die sometime," he said with a yawn. "I ain't leaving my bar. I don't have the keys to the front door to lock up. My wife has 'em and she's down in New Haven. I have about 15K in booze in here."

Shit , Shaw thought. Finally bumped into a civvy with some brain activity. Guess it was true you couldn't fool all of the people all of the time.

"How much is your funeral going to cost?" Shaw said, getting louder. "They called an evacuation. You have to leave. This is mandatory."

The guy stood to full height.

Big Joe really was a tall glass of water, Shaw saw as they stood eye to eye.

"Mandatory?" he said. "What's that fireman speak for? The bar is open? Because last time I read my Constitution which protects my rights to run my own life, there ain't no damn such thing as mandatory in America. Fourteenth Amendment that freed the slaves solved that. It says I own myself. And I own this bar. So, in sum, you can kiss my hairy ass about me doing anything you say. Got it? Now get out of my bar before I throw you out."

No more Mr. Nice Guy, Shaw thought as he drew his FBI creds and silenced .45 at the same time.

He pointed both right between Big Joe's suddenly startled wide eyes.

Bright boy didn't look so bored anymore, did he? Shaw thought with a tight grin. He had finally piqued his interest.

"Surprise. I'm not a fireman, jackass," Shaw said. "I'm FBI. So, you can either leave this bar now peacefully or I kick the living snot out of you and then cuff you and drag—"

Shaw heard it then.

The bathroom door beside him opened with a squeak.

From it, staggered a man. He was redheaded and stocky, maybe twenty. He looked like a college kid.

He stood there about five feet away, squinting at Shaw.

"Robbery!" the drunk kid suddenly yelled and immediately lunged at Shaw's outstretched gun.

Without pausing, Shaw's finely honed instincts took over.

As the kid went for his gun, he pulled it back down out of his reach toward his waist and as if on its own, Shaw's finger pulled the trigger twice.

Blood and brain matter splattered loudly against the cheap wood paneling as two .45 hollow points blew the back of the drunk college kid's red head clean off.

Shaw, rearing back to avoid the kid falling on top of him, glanced up to see that behind the bar, Big Joe was already halfway to the back door.

Shaw leveled and fired. But he missed the shot. A perfect circle appeared on the swinging kitchen door a hair to the left of the running big man's head and then Big Joe disappeared through the doorway.

He tapped his mic.

"We got a runner! Caucasian. Tall. Fit. Dark hair. Out the back! Out the back!" he called.

"Green light?" said Carpenter.

"Yes! Green light. I repeat. Green light. Anyone with a shot take him down!" Shaw yelled as he vaulted the bar.