Conrad's Ride

The barkeep was considerably older and a bit taller than Connie, but he had the lank and weathered look that came with too many years in the sun and a lifetime of heavy physical labor. While the bartender brought the beer Connie fumbled with a few coins; "Are these all the women in stock?”, he asked. The old man gave Connie a studied, cautious look before replying in a gravelly, mildly disinterested tone of voice, “Why, are you particular?” “My particularities are not your concern. I’m looking for a woman younger than what's on the floor, hardly out of her teens, would have arrived about ten days ago, and I hope for your sake old man, hasn't already been broken by rough men and ill use.” The barkeep slowly, cautiously, lifted his elbows from the bar, straightened his spine and adopted a more circumspect tone of voice; “I just work here mister. I don't have any interest in the women.” Connie ignored this obvious bullshit as he considered the focused gaze of the hard man and his companions at the table. He looked back at them just as steadily, but spoke to the bartender; “I don't know what your interests are old man, and I don’t care what you do around here, but these women aren't working on their own. If they were, they'd be married or working somewhere else. Have you seen the girl or not?” The barroom wasn't truly large, and Conrad hadn’t spoken in a whisper; the large, raw-boned man at the table had been listening, and taking considerable interest in Connie's presence and questions. From the man's expression he hadn’t appreciated Conrad's inquiries, and when he finally spoke his words were loud enough, and bold enough, to be heard by all in the bar room; “I own this place, and if you don't like what’s available take your business elsewhere.” Connie turned his attention from the table, placed his right hand on the grip of his riot gun, looked directly at the bartender, and asked, “Who's that?” The barkeep was obviously uncomfortable in answering the question, but responded in a low voice; “That's the owner, Aubrey Ricard.” Connie picked up his beer in his left hand, swung his riot gun to his front with his right, and crossed the floor to the table. As Connie reached the four men at the table, he set his beer down between Ricard, on his right, and the man to Connie's left. The other two men faced Connie from across the table. The young Agent spoke to the table at large; “I'm a Federation Enforcement Agent. A local girl's gone missing and I'm looking for her. About 5’7”, medium weight, good looking girl with auburn hair. Where is she?” Ricard remained in his chair, a serious mistake when a bar fight was pending, which could, and in this instance did amount to a serious error in judgment. He looked to be a few inches taller than Connie and had obviously come late to pimping. He had the broad shoulders, thick body, and rough look of a life of heavy physical labor, probably in one of Darren's coal mines. Ricard also was confident in his own abilities and had enough balls to confront an armed Enforcement Agent of Conrad's size. In short, he was a man accustomed to violence and tavern brawls. Unfortunately for Ricard, Connie, too, had compiled considerable experience in bar-fights, barrack-room brawls, and other forms of mayhem both general and specific; thus educated he knew the cardinal rule to survive the experience; hit first or run. So, when the Agent perceived the widened pupils, narrowed nostrils, facial blood-rush and quickened breath that was crossing Ricard's face, he took note of the man's sitting position. With a room full of strangers, some perhaps armed, Connie wasn't going to countenance anything like insolence, or give anyone, including this surly pimp, a chance. Which explained why, when Ricard put his hands on the arms of his chair and started to rise Connie instantly obeyed the first and cardinal rule of ghetto fights; he kicked Ricard hard, fast, and right underneath the man's sternum. The impact had the sound of a dropped cement bag, and was followed almost instantly by a dull thud, the sound of Ricard hitting the floor. And that, as Connie later told the story, was just about all the sound in that bar until Connie swung his shot-gun around, placed it squarely in the face of the man sitting across the table from Ricard’s now empty chair, and told him quietly, “Mister, your hand better be empty when it comes out from underneath that jacket.” The man was in an unenviable situation; in fact, it was a no-win situation. He was staring at an obvious thug who was, at the moment, holding the barrel of a Federation riot-gun approximately eighteen inches from his nose; from this distance the muzzle looked to be about the size of a dinner plate. Indeed, considering the expression on the face of the man on the business end of that firearm, the muzzle of Connie’s riot-gun was the most all-consuming artifact he had ever seen. Connie could sympathize; most people--thank God--had never seen what a riot-gun could do in a small room; there were, however, stories bandied about, and from the size of the man’s pupils he had heard some of them. Conrad told him once more, and with all the eloquence a riot-gun could command, “I’m not going to tell you again. Take your hand out from underneath that jacket, and put your hands flat where I can see them.” Given the immediate reaction, everyone in that bar had been paying rapt attention to the man with the riot-gun and thought his request eminently reasonable: even the whores were palms down.