Threat Quality Press

(Part One: “Rolled In Like a Monster”)

It’s been over two years since I seen Bill Larkin last. And I been terrified, ever since.

Bill weren’t the kinda guy you’d mess around with. Big fella, but he carried himself like he didn’t know how big he was. Didn’t talk much – and never talked poorly on anyone else. That can tell you a lot.

Some boys show up around here, and come payday, they’d get drunk and wanna prove themselves. Pick fights with guys twice their size just to show what kind of man they are.

Bill weren’t like that, and I appreciated it.

There were a couple times when one of those boys’d step up to him, mistake his quiet for softness. They’d try picking fights, one way or another. Some would invite him to a crooked card game, with the idea of suckerin’ him. Some would just get in his face, call his ma a dirty name or some such, try to rile him up. When he didn’t budge, they’d just pull out a knife and call him out.

Bill didn’t really react to this kinda threat. Not much, anyway.

If they tried double-dealing, he’d call ‘em out and win every time just the same. If they pointed a knife at them, he’d grab them by the throat, knock them around some.

Whether he broke ‘em down or beat ‘em up, Larkin had the same routine: when he knew they weren’t getting up too soon, he’d sit back at his bar stool, ask for a drink, and wait for it, real polite.

Meantime some kid was bleeding on the floor.

I gotta admit, I liked Bill Larkin. Kinda wished there were more like him who showed up at my place. Always treated me with respect, too.

That said, I didn’t know too much about him, really, other than what I’d seen. Pleasant enough – even funny, sometimes. Knew the range real well. Never kept a job, but always had money, which told you something right there. Nobody asked any questions.

Though he did show up in my bar on occasion back then, I couldn’t really count him as a regular. A regular lives in town. Bill would just stop in every now and again, on his way from somewhere or another. I got a good bar for that. In the middle of goddamn nowhere, surrounded on either side by a livery and a whorehouse, and further out by a whole not of nothin’.

When he would show up, every couple of months, he’d buy a round for the house, play a couple of hands, but mostly kept to himself. So, yeah. I liked him. Maybe even call him a friend. I don’t have too many, so I take what I can get.

The last time I saw him, the Bill Larkin I’d call friend weren’t on display.

That last night…shit. The man rolled in like a monster.

He looked normal enough. Looked like usual – hair in need of a trim, beard in need of a shave, and covered head to foot in dirt from his ride.

Thing is, he was damp. But it hadn’t rained in these parts for weeks.

And there was something new to him. Bill Larkin had been coming into my place for maybe ten years. And never once had I seen him so wild-eyed as I did the last time he set foot in my bar. I saw the intent behind those eyes. Anyone else, I’d have tossed him out before anything started. But it was Bill Larkin, and it didn’t look like he was gonna start anything. So I gave him some leeway.

My first mistake.

(To Be Continued.)