The Devil on Chardonnay Read Free

deeper.
    Moths circled the light and spiraled down to the gravel to recover and try again.  The club was made of concrete blocks with tiny windows up high; an ancient window air conditioner rattled against the heat and humidity.  The door was open.  The rich baritone voice of an old country and Western favorite spilled out into the night. 
    Boyd cut the engine of his pickup, newer but otherwise identical to the half-dozen others already in the lot. He wore running shoes, jeans and a black T-shirt.  As he crossed the gravel to the door, he felt alive and engaged.  The feeling wasn’t there yet, but it was close.
    Standing in the door, eyes adjusting to the light, he saw the room as the people in the room saw him.    Tall, broad-shouldered and lean, he’d been there before, just looking, scouting it out.  It was perfect.  He crossed the room, passing the pool table where the big guy, Crank, stood with a cue, poised for a shot but staring at Boyd.
    “Bud longneck,” Boyd said as he sat at the bar and turned to see Crank take his shot.  Bone opened the bottle and set it on the counter.  His dress shirt seemed out of place with the clientele and with his own greasy black hair and long sideburns.  The khaki work pants were clean, pressed and held up by a tooled black leather belt.  He wore Wellington boots.  He took Boyd’s money and returned with change from the mechanical cash register with the ornate metalwork of a bygone day.
    Crank was clearly proud of his break.  He looked at Boyd and smirked, then walked around the table for his next shot, stretching the front of his huge bib overalls with his considerable girth.  Like statues, the others sat, leaned or stood, watching Boyd.  The next shot went in, and Crank flashed Boyd a grin, his teeth were punctuated by bits of tobacco from the wad of chew under his lower lip.  He spit into a coffee can under the table and took a third shot; stretching the length of the table, he revealed a thinning, dirty-blond crown.  Boyd took a long sip of beer and turned to make small talk with Bone.
    When he felt the brush from behind, he knew it was time.  Boyd stiffened and saw Bone move away.  This was a club for regulars.  Strangers were an event, and the highway being two miles away wasn’t an accident.  Boyd understood Bone’s formal attire now.  It was sort of official, like a referee.  It was designed to keep things from getting out of hand.  Someone could get killed.
    “Oh.  Sorry,” Bobby said, acting surprised.
    They weren’t going to start with the big guy.  Bobby was a bit under six feet and chunky.  Of the six guys there, he looked to be the fourth-toughest.  They were going to give someone else a chance to kick some ass before the big guy stepped in to finish it.
    Boyd stood.  They all stood.  He stepped away from the bar, not wanting to get pinned  there.  Crank grinned, obviously feeling as good as Boyd felt.
    Bobby telegraphed the punch a millenniumbefore he threw it.  First, he squeezed up his face in a grimace, then shifted his weight to his right foot and feinted with his left hand while drawing back his right.  When he shifted to the left foot the punch came straight in.  Boyd’s head retreated ahead of it, allowing it to just graze his jaw.  He took two steps back to be in the center of the room.
    Bobby was right with him, off-balance but coming with the right again, thinking Boyd was in full retreat.  Boyd slipped to his right, and the punch bounced off the side of his head.  The left was right behind it and hit Boyd square on the forehead.
    Something clicked.  The feeling was there.  With the punch, the adrenaline kicked in at last.  The rush was better than a climax.  Bobby’s momentum carried him into Boyd and he grabbed for a bear hug.  Boyd pushed him back and, when Bobby flailed a windmill right, Boyd  flicked a left jab into his fat, wild-eyed face.  The solid contact with bone felt wonderful.  The right