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Colt 1
Mickey Finn threw the first punch right around two a.m.
I knew this because that was the time we usually closed Dirty Coyote.
Not tonight.
“You sonofabitch!” Daryl Geller yelled, the recipient of said punch.
At that moment, I knew Mickey’s anger management classes might not be working.
“Not again,” Tammy Jennings said, walking up to the bar, as she watched the two men go at it. “And he’d been doing so good, too.”
Tammy owned the place along with her husband Jimmy, who was already making his way across the empty dance floor to put a stop to the fight. I could tell by the look on his face, the man was spittin’ mad.
Tammy, on the other hand, never seemed to get too worked up over anything. She resembled Dolly Parton, both in her delightful temperament and the way she looked—big, white hair and curvy petite body. Tammy ran a tight ship, meaning there were rarely any physical altercations, despite how some of these good ol’ boys liked to kick it up on the weekends. Dirty Coyote was a respectable country-music dance hall, and Tammy did everything in her power to keep it that way, including calling in the local sheriff if necessary.
This brawl didn’t seem to require the big guns, so to speak. Just a little interruption and restraint by some of the saner good ol’ boys.
“Clearly, he’s not doing good enough,” I said, as I blasted past her to get to Mickey before he got hurt. Not that he probably didn’t deserve whatever seventy-something Daryl Geller could throw at him, but the last time this happened, I ended up spending the night in the ER while they fixed Mickey’s broken thumbs. Mickey never could throw a decent punch.
I wasn’t in the mood tonight. Not after the day I’d had, but we’ll get to that later.
“Stop it! Break it up!” I yelled as I approached, ready to do whatever necessary to get the two men off each other. Being one of the managers of the place, along with Tammy and Jimmy, our stand had always been that any kind of a brawl had to be frowned upon, and usually, the folks participating in the physical dispute were either suspended from the club for a specific amount of time, or if it was their second or third offense, they were tossed out with no hope of a return ticket.
Our bouncers or security guys usually walked the parking lot starting about an hour before closing, just to make sure everyone made it to their cars safely. Not that we didn’t have our share of cameras out there… we did… but having an actual human hanging around, especially these ex-military guys, kept everyone safe.
Scotty Belmont, my other best friend, who worked behind the main bar four nights a week, had already inserted himself into the middle of the fight. I arrived just as he took a punch meant for Mickey right on the chin. It swept him right off his feet, and he landed flat on his ass.
Daryl had been a professional fighter in his day, winning several lightweight championships. Not exactly an easy target for Mickey’s anger, nor anyone who tried to stop one of Daryl’s punches mid-air.
Daryl might be getting older, but his fists remained lethal.
“Fuck, Daryl. I’m trying to help you, here,” Scotty yelled, as he jumped back up and stepped between the two men once again. This time, I was there to stop this madness, and I pulled Mickey back by his arms when he tried to land another punch. At least this time, he remembered to keep his thumbs outside of his fist instead of hidden under his fingers, which caused the breaks during the last fight.
“Calm down, Mickey. Just fucking let it go. Whatever got you going, fighting with Daryl’s not worth it.” I knew my words fell on deaf ears when Mickey kept right on struggling to get free of my grasp. Daryl did the same to Scotty, who weighed in at one seventy-five, and with a height over six feet, he could usually stop most fights without too much trouble.
Except this one.
Daryl was a little guy comparatively, about five-six and couldn’t weigh more than one-forty soaking wet, but he threw a punch, that if it landed right, could take any of us down in a heartbeat. The man was as strong as a bull and as stubborn as a self-righteous politician.
“He’s saying shit that isn’t true,” Mickey yelled.
“You don’t want to believe the truth, is all. But everything I’m saying is fact. You’re just too dang full of yourself to admit the result of what you did. You’re a shit-show, Mickey Finn. Always were and always will be.”
Once again, Mickey started throwing punches, struggling to get closer to Daryl. “You take that back! Take it back, or I swear…”
“Okay! Okay!” Jimmy shouted, as all four of Dirty Coyote’s bouncers lunged into the fray, at once stopping both angry men in their tracks. These guys were Dirty Coyote’s version of the big guns. You didn’t want to mess with any one of them, much less all four. They were big, strong, covered in tatts, wore only black, and put the fear of God in you with just one fierce glance.
Jimmy Jennings, club owner, with his easygoing personality, had a commanding voice when he wanted to use it, and despite Mickey’s anger, he knew he didn’t want to piss Jimmy off too badly, or he’d not only lose his job, but Jimmy would ban him from Dirty Coyote, forever. Mickey played a mean guitar and was the resident stand-in whenever needed, which lately had been on a regular basis. However, Jimmy didn’t much care. He could hire another guitar player in a country minute if he had to. He’d already fired at least a dozen other guitar players since the place opened, for various reasons, one of which happened to be a bar fight. Jimmy was fairly tolerant, but once someone crossed his line in the sawdust, there was no going back.
Mickey had his toes resting on that line, and if he didn’t back down, even Tammy, who had a soft spot in her heart for him, couldn’t change Jimmy’s mind.
“Fine,” Mickey yelled. “But this fight wasn’t my fault. Daryl’s talkin’ shit, and I can only take so much.”
“I don’t care what Daryl said or didn’t say. You know not to start fighting in my establishment.” Jimmy turned to Daryl. “Maybe it’s time for you to head on home, Daryl. I’ve got a few things I want to say to Mickey. He can stay and help close up tonight. We’ll see you next time, Daryl. You drive safe, now. Don’t go lettin’ your anger get you into trouble out on the road… Tell you what, maybe you’d be better off is someone drives you.”
This is the part where I knew Jimmy wanted me to volunteer, so I did. “I’d be happy to do it. How ‘bout I take you home, Daryl?”
