Read Online Perfect Justice by William Bernhardt - Free Book Online Page B

find absolutely no one who would talk. They didn’t pretend that they didn’t know anything; they just weren’t telling him. What Judge Tyler had said was absolutely true; the whole town was on edge—expecting the ticking time bomb to explode at any moment.
    The only lights on Main Street that still flickered were the ones inside the Bluebell Bar. A red neon sign in the front window boldly announced that they had Coors on tap. At this point Ben was ready for a drink. And more importantly he recalled that this was where the fight between Vick and Vuong took place on the afternoon before the murder.
    Ben spotted a scuffle in the alley just outside the bar. Both combatants were beefy, tough-looking men in blue jeans and T-shirts. Fortunately they appeared to have imbibed a fair amount of beer. More punches were connecting with empty air than any part of either body.
    Ben pushed open the front door and stepped inside. The Bluebell was small, simple, laid-back—and packed. The bar had six stools, all but one of them currently occupied. A pool table in the corner was flanked by two pinball machines, both of which Ben judged to be at least fifteen years old. Four booths in the back provided space for couples who wanted to get snuggly.
    Ben took the available bar stool and flagged the bartender. The jukebox was wailing a country-western tune, a bit of homespun philosophy courtesy of Mary-Chapin Carpenter. “Sometimes you’re the windshield,” she sang, “sometimes you’re the bug. …”
    “I’ll have a longneck,” Ben said, pointing at the label on a bar coaster.
    The bartender peered at him, eyes narrowed. He was an older man, but the pronounced wrinkles lent his face an air of distinction and world-weariness. “You’re the lawyer.”
    Ben had heard it too many times today to be surprised. “That’s right. And now that the introductions are out of the way, could I have my beer?”
    The bartender hesitated. “I don’t want no trouble in my place.”
    “I don’t plan to cause any,” Ben replied. “Unless you don’t get me that beer.”
    The bartender gave a small, lopsided grin. “What the hell! I suppose Satan himself has to take a drink now and again.”
    He pulled a Bud out of the ice. The song changed; now Mary-Chapin Carpenter was singing a slow sad song about being haunted by the past, and finding the courage to love again after “the first time you lose.” Carpenter’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Come on, come on … it’s getting late now. …”
    While he waited Ben scanned a copy of The Herald lying on the bar. It appeared that District Attorney Swain was trying his case in the morning edition and polarizing public opinion by making the “big-city lawyer” the bad guy. Ben learned that Sheriff Collier had found the murder weapon, a twenty-four-inch Carvelle crossbow. Swain claimed that tests run by the forensic office in Little Rock conclusively linked the crossbow to Donald Vick.
    “My name’s Mac.” The bartender pushed a beer and a bottle opener across the bar.
    “I’m Ben. But you probably already know that.” Ben opened the beer and downed a good long gulp. He wasn’t that fond of Budweiser, but since the man had apparently compromised his virtue by serving it, Ben wasn’t about to appear ungrateful. “Nice place.”
    “Thanks,” Mac said. His pride was evident. “Had the bar shipped in from St. Louis the day the county voted to go wet. Stools, too.”
    “I guess this is where it happened,” Ben commented.
    “What’s that?”
    “The big fight. Vick and Vuong.”
    “Oh, yeah. Right here.”
    At long last. Someone was actually talking to him. “Must’ve been a hell of a fight.”
    “You better believe it. Kicked the hell out of my best pin-ball machine.”
    Ben saw that the head glass on one of the pinball machines was shattered, just over the picture of a fiery red cyclone. “You were here that night?”
    “Of course. I’m here every night.”
    “What