Happy Hour Rundown
“Barkeep,” Dean says, “Another.”
The aging bartender sets two more bottles of Angel Black Lager in front of Dean and checks his watch.
“That’s the fourth round in an hour kid,” He says. “You got someone to take you home?”
Dean doesn’t even look up from the bottles, as he sets the seventh bottle to his lips. The bartender rolls his eyes and goes back to his business, “Stupid kid better not wrap his ride around a lamppost.”
Dean smirks behind his back as he spins around, hands one of the bottles to the drunk behind him and picks up the empty, setting it gently in the pyramid of glass in front of him. Taking another sip, he checks the mirror behind the bar. The clock on the wall behind him says nine-thirty. Dean takes another sip, thinking his target should be there any minute. Old Oliver would be pissed at him for picking up a bounty, but being an independent private investigator often crosses the same territory. As he checks his phone’s notepad, seeing the mile long arrest sheet he thinks Hershel Manfield is worth dusting off his bail bondsman’s enforcement license.
Multiple arrests for assault, battery, sexual assault, assault with a deadly weapon, public intoxication, public indecency, resisting arrest; the list goes on and on. Ever one to be on time for a drink, Manfield walks in right on schedule. Dean clocks his ugly mug from a mental image of his mugshot; same short stubble, sandy brown hair, brown eyes, even has the same scar under his right cheek. Dean finishes his beer, eager to add more scars to Manfield’s face and taps SEND on the text he had pre-typed.
“I found Manfield. I’ll be at the station in 15 minutes.”
“COPY C U THERE”
Dean rolls his eyes, wondering why cops always text in all caps. He slid over as Manfield took a seat right next to him, eager to start the show.
“Hey old fuck,” Manfield calls to the bartender, “bottle of Jack.”
“You still haven’t paid for yesterday, Hershel,” the bartender says.
“Put it on my tab.”
“It’s already at three hundred bucks, Hershel. You know the policy; nothing over…”
Hershel’s left hand lashes out and slaps the bartender across the mouth, as his right hand grabs the bartender’s shirt, his scarred, white knuckles contrasting against the BORN TO KILL tattoo.
“I don’t give a shit, fuckhead. Get me a goddamn bottle. And my name is Herc, not Hershel. Say my name.” He shakes the bartender sharply.
“Herc,” the bartender gasps meekly.
“Now say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I’m sorry, Herc.”
“Good bitch. Now get my bottle.”
Dean grumbles under his breath, thinking of ways he can hurt this guy. As the bartender pulls up the bottle and sets it down, Dean turns towards Manfield. Feigning drunkenness, Dean’s hand knocks over the bottle, spilling its contents all over Manfield.
“Oh, Motherfucker,” Manfield says as he shoves Dean back against the bar. “What the hell, bitch? You that stupid?”
“I sorry, man,” Dean fake slurs, surreptitiously checking Manfield for weapons. Finding none, Dean smirks at how easy this job is for him.
“Take it easy, Herc,” says the bartender. “He’s just a drunk kid.”
“He spilled my drink. Where I’m from, that gets you an ass-whupping.”
Manfield backhands Dean across the mouth, his rings leaving a small cut on Dean’s lower lip. Dean smiles at him, blood smearing his teeth.
“What the fuck you smiling at? Are you laughing at me?”
Dean’s hand curls around the neck of the empty whiskey bottle. “Of course I am.”
Dean jabs the bottle’s lip into Manfield’s neck, causing him to choke. As Manfield reaches both hands to his neck, Dean claps his ears hard. Manfield stumbles against the bar, coughing and swaying. Spinning sharply, Dean lands a heel kick to his head, knocking him unconscious. Dean looked up at the stunned bartender, reached into his pocket and shows his ID.
“Bail Enforcement.”
The bartender nods as Dean pulls a pair of zip ties around Manfield’s wrists, securing his hands behind his back. He glances at Manfield’s extensive tattoos, his eyes settling on the SEMPER FI.
“Some marine you are,” he says.
“Hey,” Dean hears from behind him. “Have some respect for a man who served.”
Dean turns around to see three men, all wearing the same polo shirts, and all sporting similar military tattoos. Also wearing SEMPER FI on his forearm, the middle one says, “Let him go, One Time.”
“Walk away,” Dean says. He squares his back against the bar, sizing up each of the three. Each is at least six foot, one-eighty to two-twenty in weight, with lean muscle tone. Dean figures that they are all military, either active or at least former, and while he hopes they are nothing special, he knows from experience marines are a special kind of dangerous.
“Marines don’t leave their brothers,” says the one on the right.
Dean holds up his hands, “I’m bail enforcement. This man is wanted…”
The one on the left makes a grab for Dean’s collar. Dean stomps on his instep, seizing the initiative, and slams his left elbow into his jaw. As the man stumbles from the hit, Dean throws his shoulder into him, ramming him into his friends. The one from the middle swings at Dean, but misses, hitting only air where his head had been. As the two of them fall to the ground in a heap of limbs, the third man tackles Dean. Dean rolls with the strike, forcing the third man’s face into the lip of the bar. The man groans once then falls limp as Dean comes up to his knee. The middle man, having found his feet, throws a low kick. Dean grabs his foot as it makes contact and rolls to his right. The kicker is thrown to his stomach, and Dean gives a hard twist with his hands. The kicker’s scream is drowned out by the sound of his ankle breaking. As Dean looks up, the third man spits a mouthful of blood, stands and reaches behind his back. Dean rolls to the table at his right, and seeing the pistol come up, shoves it as hard as he can. The shooter stops the table, but looks up to see Dean rushing him. He stands, levels the pistol, but Dean forces the gun upward. Twisting hard, Dean manages to wrench the pistol from the man’s grip, but receives a heavy fist to his right side, followed by another to his jaw. Turning with the force of the punch, Dean spins, twisting the pistol in his hand and swinging hard. A metallic sound rings from the pistol as the third man hits the ground.
“Freeze! NYPD!”
Dean looks up to see two officers leveling pistols his way.
“Drop your weapon! Now!” the older one with Sergeant chevrons says.
“Bail Enforcement,” Dean says as he slowly sets the pistol on the ground, and then gets to his knees.
“Hands behind your head.”
Dean laces his fingers behind his head, “My ID is in my back pocket.”
“Check him,” the Sergeant says. His partner, a young woman, slowly approaches and secures his hands. After cuffing him, she reaches into his pocket.
“Damon Edwin Arthur Noah Moriarty?” She asked incredulously.
“I go by Dean.”
“Queens and Kings Bail Bonds out of Queens, Sarge.”
“Dispatch, this is 5523. I need confirmation on an active bounty hunter,” the Sergeant says into his radio.
“Go ahead, 5523,” a voice replies.
“Name of Damon Moriarty. Goes by Dean.”
Standby.”
“What the hell happened here?”
“He arrested this man here,” says the bartender. “After, these three confronted him.”
“And why was that?” the young officer asks.
“He said “marines don’t leave their brothers,” says a young woman, stepping forward.
“And who are you ma’am?” says the Sergeant.
“Kelly Wilson. I called the police when the fight broke out.” She points to Dean. “He clearly identified himself, but they chose not to listen.”
“5523 this is Dispatch.”
“Go ahead, Dispatch,” the Sergeant says.
“Confirmed. Damon Moriarty is an enforcer for Queens and Kings Bail Bonds.”
“Thanks Dispatch. We are code 10-26 at Allan’s Pub.” The Sergeant turns to his partner. “Let him up, Martelli.”
“Sorry about that,” Officer Martelli says as she keys the cuffs on Dean.
“No hard feelings.” Dean says, giving the young officer a small smile. Turning to the Sergeant he says, “May I collect my catch now?”
“Better hurry. He’s trying to wiggle off the hook.”
Dean turns to see Manfield struggling to get up. He walks over and hauls Manfield to his feet. Manfield spits at him, “You motherfucker! I’m gonna feed you your balls and…”
Dean runs him into the side of the door as Martelli opens it.
“Opps,” he says to Martelli. She flashes him a grin as Dean forces Manfield around and out the door. After throwing Manfield into the backseat, he returns inside and approachs the Sergeant. “Anything else you need from me, Sergeant?”
“I should have you come down to the station, ask you some questions,” the Sergeant scans the three unconscious men on the floor, “but I’m too tired to do the paperwork. Plus, from what the bartender and patrons say, you used necessary defense. Do you want to press charges?”
Dean looks into the old officer’s tired eyes, then to the three on the floor, and says, “Well, that would mean more paperwork, and I don’t want to be that asshole.”
He smiles at the Sergeant, who smiles back, nods, shakes his hand, and says, “Have a good night Sergeant…”
“Miles. You too, Mr. Moriarty,” He slaps Dean on the shoulder, “Get out of here.”
As he passes Martelli, he gives her a quick wink, causing her to roll her eyes and smile. She tries and fails to hide the blush at her cheeks with her hat. Dean smiles as he makes his way to the car.
“You’re a deadman, Cowboy,” Manfield says through the grate as Dean drives away. “I’m gonna…”
Dean swerves the car sharply as he drives. Manfield smacks his head on the window, and falls silent. “They never stop yakking, until you start smacking.” Dean quietly laughed, remembering Old Oliver’s words.
“I guess a window counts.”
