Read Black Angus for Free Online Page B

however, grimacing and gritting his teeth and straining so hard his short neck bulged as he slowly brought his arm back up to the vertical and then started down, while the men around the table kept shouting encouragement to Fowler, whose face and head looked like a red balloon about to explode. Still he held on, giving ground almost imperceptibly until finally at about six inchs from the tabletop his strength broke and Shea banged his hand down hard, into the money lying there, most of which was scooped up by Little. The other men swore and grumbled and one even kicked over a chair in his disappointment.
    â€œYou’re some real stout fella, aintcha?” he said to Shea.
    â€œYou bet your balls.” Shea was standing now, picking up the last of the bills on the table.
    â€œNo, I didn’t—I bet my money,” the man groused. “I bet my hard-earned foldin’ money.”
    â€œWell, that’s just tough, baby. That’s the way she goes.”
    â€œYou’re a stranger here. You don’t even belong here.”
    â€œGo fuck yourself.”
    Shea said it casually, as if he were telling the man what the weather was like outside. But the manner of it made no difference. The words were still there, still the same, and the man reacted as if he had been slapped. His eyes blazed up and he staggered around, pretending that if his friends had not been holding him back he would have torn into Shea, whom Little was trying to push away at the same time, toward a distant table. Watching them, Blanchard was reminded of Clarence and the bull that morning, the smaller creature prevailing in each instance, though only out of indifference on the part of the larger. Shea seemed not even to notice the other man or his theatrical rage, was simply more interested in finishing the last of a bottle or beer. But finally he went along with Little and slipped into a booth across the room, almost under the point where the pulpit once would have been.
    Blanchard planned to join them but he wanted to see Ronda alone first and exchange a few quiet words with her, a feat not often possible when Shea was near. Opening the bottle of tonic and his own pint of vodka, he made his first drink of the evening, about half-and-half, and then he saw Ronda coming out of the restroom in the back, drying her hands on her uniform, on the light green nylon slacks that so fired Shea’s imagination. Seeing him, she started to smile and then took it back, reclaiming her normal look of drowsy cynicism.
    â€œI thought maybe you weren’t gonna show,” she said, coming up to him.
    â€œTommy’s alone. I stayed with him awhile.”
    â€œYour wife got a date?”
    â€œThat’s not like you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTo talk about her.”
    She shrugged. “Maybe I don’t feel like me tonight.”
    â€œYou look like you.”
    â€œYeah, good old faithful Ronda.”
    â€œBad as all that?”
    â€œWhy not? You ever waited on tables?”
    â€œI’ve cleaned a few barns.”
    â€œSame thing,” she said, looking past him.
    Blanchard followed her gaze to the table of Shea and Little, who were signaling for another round.
    â€œThat’s your brother, isn’t it?” he said.
    â€œYeah—my brother, the criminal.”
    â€œHe looks harmless enough.”
    â€œHe looks like a creep.”
    â€œNo love lost, huh?”
    â€œYou could say that.”
    â€œShea seems to like him.”
    â€œYeah, I noticed. But then Shea likes it here , doesn’t he? Shea likes to slum.”
    â€œAren’t many other places around,” Blanchard said.
    â€œAll I know is he’s got Reagan antsy. Some of these good old boys don’t exactly dig him, if you know what I mean.” She picked up her tray. “Well, I’d better get busy.”
    â€œYou get off at ten?”
    â€œSame as always.”
    â€œI guess I can wait that