Read Online Tombstone Courage by J. A. Jance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. A. Jance
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out of "the life," Angie was walking the straight and narrow for the first time in her short existence. She had purposefully changed her lifestyle, but not necessarily her clothing. Her trademark skintight jeans, platform heels, and voluptuous figure continually provoked comment and notice in the post office and Safeway.
They also made her by far the best-looking relief bartender in town. Bobo, a sharp businessman with one eye on Angie's figure and the other on the daily receipts, was quick to notice a distinct upswing in business whenever Angie Kellogg pulled a shift.
He joked that she was his most valuable employee. Since she was also his only employee, Angie didn't take that compliment very seriously.
But in a place as small as Bisbee, where a severely limited population also limited the number of drinkers, anything that improved the bottom line of a marginally profitable business was an addition to be welcomed with open arms.
At first Angie Kellogg didn't pay that much attention to the well-dressed man who crashed through the swinging door of the Blue Moon Saloon and Lounge and slouched over to the farthest booth. It was a little before eleven-thirty when he ducked into the bench seat with his back to the entrance.
Annoyed to have her quiet study time interrupted prior to the normal lunch-hour rush, Angie put down her driver's license manual and hurried over to take his order. "What'll you have?" she asked.
"A Bloody Mary," he answered. "A double."
Angie guessed the stranger might be an attorney right away, although of a far better caliber than the ones her various L.A. pimps used to bail their girls out of the slammer.
"Hot or not?" she asked.
Bobo had directed Angie to ask the question in just that way, carefully explaining that some customers liked mild Bloody Marys while others wanted the drink so fired with Tabasco sauce that they required a water chaser. When Bobo, an athletically built black man, asked that particular question, no one gave him any crap. When Angie did things usually went from bad to worse in a hurry.
The dweeb lawyer answered her with a disturbingly blank stare, and Angie braced herself for the inevitably rude comment that was bound to follow. If it was bad enough, she was fully pre pared to tell him what he could do with the piece of celery she was supposed to put in the drink to stir it.
"I beg your pardon?" he said finally. "What was it you asked me?"
"The drink," she prodded. "How spicy? Hot or not?"
"Not very," he said.
Angie flounced away from him, tossing her blond hair. Maybe he didn't go to bars much. He acted like he didn't even speak the language, like he was from a foreign country or something. But at least he hadn't propositioned her. Bobo had made it clear that if Angie wanted to keep her part-time job as relief daytime bartender, "fraternizing with the customers," which Angie translated to mean screwing around, was absolutely forbidden. To be honest, there weren't that many men who looked remotely interesting to her these days, and certainly not for free. As far as that job was concerned, Angie Kellogg was permanently on vacation.
By the time she delivered the lawyer's drink and collected his money, the first of her noontime regulars had wandered in from outside. Archie McBride and Willy Haskins were already arguing when they sauntered into the bar and settled into their usual places at the far end of the counter nearest the door. Angie brought two vodkas along with Coors draft chasers without bothering to ask. They always ordered the same thing anyway, and it was too hard waiting for them to stop yammering long enough to get a word in edgewise. The two old guys, both former underground miners, had been retired from Phelps Dodge for at least twenty years. They were relatively harmless maintenance drunks who had to keep a certain amount of liquor in their systems to keep from dipping into DTs. Their ongoing arguments never caused much trouble, although Angie always
They also made her by far the best-looking relief bartender in town. Bobo, a sharp businessman with one eye on Angie's figure and the other on the daily receipts, was quick to notice a distinct upswing in business whenever Angie Kellogg pulled a shift.
He joked that she was his most valuable employee. Since she was also his only employee, Angie didn't take that compliment very seriously.
But in a place as small as Bisbee, where a severely limited population also limited the number of drinkers, anything that improved the bottom line of a marginally profitable business was an addition to be welcomed with open arms.
At first Angie Kellogg didn't pay that much attention to the well-dressed man who crashed through the swinging door of the Blue Moon Saloon and Lounge and slouched over to the farthest booth. It was a little before eleven-thirty when he ducked into the bench seat with his back to the entrance.
Annoyed to have her quiet study time interrupted prior to the normal lunch-hour rush, Angie put down her driver's license manual and hurried over to take his order. "What'll you have?" she asked.
"A Bloody Mary," he answered. "A double."
Angie guessed the stranger might be an attorney right away, although of a far better caliber than the ones her various L.A. pimps used to bail their girls out of the slammer.
"Hot or not?" she asked.
Bobo had directed Angie to ask the question in just that way, carefully explaining that some customers liked mild Bloody Marys while others wanted the drink so fired with Tabasco sauce that they required a water chaser. When Bobo, an athletically built black man, asked that particular question, no one gave him any crap. When Angie did things usually went from bad to worse in a hurry.
The dweeb lawyer answered her with a disturbingly blank stare, and Angie braced herself for the inevitably rude comment that was bound to follow. If it was bad enough, she was fully pre pared to tell him what he could do with the piece of celery she was supposed to put in the drink to stir it.
"I beg your pardon?" he said finally. "What was it you asked me?"
"The drink," she prodded. "How spicy? Hot or not?"
"Not very," he said.
Angie flounced away from him, tossing her blond hair. Maybe he didn't go to bars much. He acted like he didn't even speak the language, like he was from a foreign country or something. But at least he hadn't propositioned her. Bobo had made it clear that if Angie wanted to keep her part-time job as relief daytime bartender, "fraternizing with the customers," which Angie translated to mean screwing around, was absolutely forbidden. To be honest, there weren't that many men who looked remotely interesting to her these days, and certainly not for free. As far as that job was concerned, Angie Kellogg was permanently on vacation.
By the time she delivered the lawyer's drink and collected his money, the first of her noontime regulars had wandered in from outside. Archie McBride and Willy Haskins were already arguing when they sauntered into the bar and settled into their usual places at the far end of the counter nearest the door. Angie brought two vodkas along with Coors draft chasers without bothering to ask. They always ordered the same thing anyway, and it was too hard waiting for them to stop yammering long enough to get a word in edgewise. The two old guys, both former underground miners, had been retired from Phelps Dodge for at least twenty years. They were relatively harmless maintenance drunks who had to keep a certain amount of liquor in their systems to keep from dipping into DTs. Their ongoing arguments never caused much trouble, although Angie always
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