Harold was dodging the uncoordinated jabs of a broken beer bottle wielded by a man so drunk he could barely stand. Thatcher rushed over and bonked the drunk on the back of his head with the grip of his pistol. The man dropped the broken bottle and landed on the floor like a sandbag, face first.

Harold said, “That’s twice I owe you. Thanks.” Then he dashed off to help other deputies whom Thatcher recognized but didn’t know by name. They were swapping blows with some of the angrier, drunker customers.

Others trying to avoid arrest were overturning tables, chairs, and each other in their mad scramble to exit through the single door at the back of the room. Some were making their escape by jumping through windows. Along with their male counterparts, a few women were kicking and clawing their way toward the nearest way out.

A dozen or more people had bottlenecked at the exit. Thatcher noticed in the midst of them a familiar head of hair, so pomaded it looked like it had been painted onto his scalp. No sooner had he identified Chester Landry than the man managed to squeeze through the congested exit to the outside.

Thatcher fought his way toward the door. Harold, he realized, was following in his wake, apprehending the people Thatcher shoved back toward him.

When Thatcher reached the door, he bolted outside and tried to catch sight of Landry. Mad confusion was made even worse by the darkness, and by the sudden blinding glare of headlights as people made it to their cars and peeled out in every direction.

A car without headlights came speeding out of the darkness, missing Thatcher by a hair. Thatcher saw two autos collide in their haste to leave the area. Some drove over ground in the opposite direction of the road, leaving clouds of dust that further obscured vision.

He didn’t catch sight of either Chester Landry or his automobile, which Thatcher probably couldn’t have identified anyway. But one vehicle did catch his eye, and it caused his heart to lurch. He ran over to it; no one was inside.

He replaced the Colt in his waistband and ran full-out back into the building, where the chaos continued. The deputies and Sheriff Amos were trying to restrain those still bent on escaping and to keep corralled those they’d halted. Above the cacophony, Gert was bellowing profane threats. Lefty was swinging a full bottle of whiskey at the head of a man he was calling a goddamn snitch, which his victim was frantically denying as he ducked each hazardous arc of the bottle.

On his first sweep of the room, Thatcher didn’t see whom he sought, but there were several men down, lying on the floor either wounded or dead of gunshot. He rushed over to the first, who was cursing and clutching his thigh.

He yelled, “I’m shot!”

Thatcher squatted down and took a look. “It would be spurting if it had clipped an artery. You have a handkerchief?”

The man nodded.

“Use it as a tourniquet. Tie it tight. You’ll be all right.”

“I’m dead,” he wailed.

“You’re not going to die.”

“Hell I ain’t. My wife’s gonna kill me.”

Thatcher left him and moved to another person lying motionless nearby. He was on his side, facing away from Thatcher. Fresh blood was spreading a dark blotch on the back of his shirt.

There was no mistaking the bald pate, as round and shiny as a cue ball, fringed by wiry gray hair. Thatcher knelt and eased Irv Plummer onto his back.

His eyelids fluttered open, but when he saw Thatcher, he scowled. “Did you shoot me?”

“Where’re you shot?”

“Under my arm.” He raised his left arm, or tried to. But pain drained his face of color and he gnashed his teeth. “Hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“Put your right arm around my neck.”

“I can make it my ownself.”

Thatcher swore at him, then hooked Irv’s right arm around his neck, put his shoulder to Irv’s middle, and stood up with Irv draped over him. He felt the old man go limp. He’d fainted.

Thatcher wove his way through the overturned tables and chairs toward the door, but it was slow going. The floor was littered with broken glass, and slick with spilled liquor and blood. He’d almost reached the exit when, “Thatcher!”

He turned to face Bill Amos, who asked, “Irv Plummer? Is he dead?”

“No, but he’s been shot.”

“How bad?”

“I don’t know. I’ll take him to a doctor.”

“Put him in my car.”

“His truck is outside. I’ll drive him in that. Can’t leave it here, it’s his livelihood.”

“Thatcher, he—”

“I’m driving him.” He turned to go, but Bill caught his sleeve.

“When you told me that this wasn’t your fight and that you were staying out of it, I knew better.”

Thatcher didn’t waste time arguing with him. He pulled himself loose and left through the door. Most everyone had cleared the area. Only a few stragglers remained. He carried Irv over the rough ground with as little jostling as possible.

When he reached the truck, he opened the tailgate and eased Irv off his shoulder and into the bed of it. Thatcher shook him slightly. “Where’s your key?”

Irv groaned, but he’d understood the question and patted his right pants pocket. Thatcher fished out the key, then adjusted Irv’s legs and feet to clear the tailgate.

“I saw you sittin’ with the sheriff.”

Thatcher turned quickly. Standing behind him was the young prostitute in the arm sling. She said, “You law?”

“No.”

“Gert said you prob’ly was.”

“She’s wrong.” The badge in his breast pocket seemed to be branding him through his shirt.

With a tip of her head the girl indicated Irv, who was moaning and muttering incoherently. “Is he gonna die?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you’ll take me away from here, I’ll help you with him.”

“No thanks.”

“I’m a good helper.”

“Thanks, but—”

“Don’t make me go back to Gert, mister. Please.”

Thatcher took in her misshapen jaw and the damaged eye. He mouthed a vulgarity used frequently in the trenches. “Get in.”

Twenty-Nine

Laurel was accustomed to Irv’s truck clanking into the drive at all hours of the night, so when it did now, her subconscious registered that he had made it home, but she didn’t fully wake up until there was thunderous knocking on the back door.