Page 32 of No Lies No Promises

Jesus. Can’t a man have a moment’s peace?

Sniffling, she digs into a purse, her blond hair cascading over her features. When the sobs grow louder, I lean over, gently tapping her on the shoulder.

“Miss, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She honks into the tissue, then finishes off some pink mixed drink.

Soon after, a second one follows. When she stumbles inside for a third, I follow so I can catch Pierre’s eye. Nodding, he slides a glass of water in front of her.

“Screw you.” Throwing crumpled bills on the polished wood, she turns too fast, and her knees buckle.

As she’s about to face-plant on the floor, I grab her by the waist, praying my damn stitches hold.

Hauling her upright, I steady her. “You got a friend I can call to help you home?”

“Get away from me!” Shrieking, the hellcat rakes her nails down my arm. “Someone call 911!”

Ah hell. Letting her go, I step back, not caring how hard her ass hits the slate tiles.

“Leave her alone.” A goth patron with black lips swings her phone toward us.

“Shit.” I lift both hands high. “Not touching her.”

“You spiked my drink!” As the nutcase continues to hurl accusation after accusation, I glance at the barkeep.

“You got cams?”

“Don’t worry, mon.” Intelligent brown eyes narrow over pursed lips. “Don’t do not’in’. We figure dis out.”

By some fucking miracle, the police arrive in less than five minutes. I’ve heard of scams like this. Never thought it would happen to me. Once lawyers agree on an amount, charges will be dropped.

My foot bounces on the stool rail while the older of the two cops, a guy named Officer Curan, questions me.

“All I did was catch her when she stumbled. Videos will prove I’m right.” When I scratch my head, Curan zeros in on my forearm’s tattoo.

The hard line of his mouth softens. “Thank you for your service. Where’d you serve?”

“Afghanistan.” Memories of that time resurface, but I swallow them back fast. That shit’s got no place in my life, now.

As if to make my point, patrons cheer as the Mets score a run. When the room quiets down, the cop studies me another second before rolling up his sleeve. “I did two tours in Iraq.”

“Semper Fi.” Some of my tension drains when he almost smiles.

“We’ll sort it out, Mr. Clark. Pictures don’t lie.”

In front of the taps, Pierre frowns at his phone. “Da fuck?”

Leaning over the bar, he swipes at the screen. “Cameras go blank, den dey workin’ now. Somet’in’ not right.”

Jesus. A setup. Could this night get any worse?

The younger officer, still questioning patrons, gestures to the glass of ice water Pierre wanted the woman to drink. “Is this your beverage, miss?”

Mascara running down her face, the grifter shakes her head and points toward the terrace.

“No. I was sitting under the vines back there with him.” Like some kind of TV courtroom drama, she points at me.

The younger cop unlocks his cell before shoving it in my face. “Remember doin’ this?”