Read Missouri Loves Company (Rip Lane Book 1) for Free Online

you help me with the part about how I was being annoying?”
    He stared at me for a long moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then he started to come around the bar.
    I twisted myself around on the bar stool and leaned my elbows on the bar and looked around the room. A group of guys in one booth were drinking beer and eating buffalo wings. In the back a waitress with a tray balanced at her shoulder was hustling from table to table to deliver foaming schooners of beer and complimentary bowls of peanuts. Six or seven people were hunched over the bar. The dress code of the establishment seemed to be anything from motorcycle jackets to checked flannel shirts to prison tattoos. Heavy metal music thundered through concealed speakers.
    “Follow me, pal,” the giant bartender said to me.
    I raised my eyebrows.
    “Where we going?”
    “To that round table over there.”
    His pointing finger was as big as a sausage.
    “What can we do over there that we can’t do right here?”
    “Arm wrestle.”
    “Huh?”
    “Arm wrestle me.”
    “Not interested.”
    “You afraid?”
    “I don’t see what the point is.”
    “You’re a fucking pussy.”
    “Isn’t that the best kind?”
    A furrow formed between his thick eyebrows. He looked like he was trying to form a thought. I doubt he succeeded.
    “You gonna arm wrestle me or ain’t you, pal?”
    “Why should I?”
    The big man didn’t say anything. He was trying to think again.
    “I tell you what,” he said finally. “You win, you can stay here.”
    “And I can continue to ask your customers if they recognize anybody in these pictures?”
    He nodded.
    “And if you win?” I said.
    His roaring laughter was like an erupting volcano.
    “Ain’t no if about it, pal.”
    I got off the bar stool and nodded to the guy. Then I walked over to the round table and sat down.
    The giant man followed. He lumbered over to the table with a grin on his face. He looked confident. Like he had no chance of losing. None at all. He had probably never read Sun Tzu’s advice to never underestimate your opponent.
    In fact he had probably never read any advice. Especially on how to dress. He wore a sleeveless flannel shirt that hung outside his torn blue jeans. His work boots were caked with dirt.
    As soon as he sat down we planted our elbows on the table. When our palms slapped together it sounded like a loud clap of thunder. We locked hands. His huge hand eclipsed mine.
    He stared at me and tightened his grip. The iron fist squeezed my hand like a trash compactor. I squeezed back. He seemed surprised at the strength of my grip. He had no idea what was coming.
    A crowd gathered around to watch us. They hooted and howled, cackled and cheered. They clapped each other on the back.
    I gathered from their comments that I was not the first guy to arm wrestle the beefy bartender. There had been many before me. All of them had lost.
    A man wearing dark shades and a denim jacket started to take bets from the spectators. Bets were placed. Money exchanged hands.
    The odds were not in my favor. Which was not a surprise. After all, this was not my turf. I did not have the home court advantage.
    The big man squeezed my hand tighter.
    “You ready, pal?”
    “Been ready.”
    “Okay, on the count of three then.”
    I wasn’t sure he could count that high.
    “One . . .”
    I drew my foot back.
    “. . . two . . .”
    I kicked his shin under the table.
    “. . . three.”
    I rammed his hand flat against the table.
    The match was over.
    I won.
    “Nice match, pal,” I said, and winked at him.
    He glared at me. He and I both knew that I had cheated. But none of the spectators had seen the kick under the table. If the bartender complained about it, he would be seen by his customers as a sore loser.
    I spent the next hour asking his customers if they recognized anybody in the pictures that I showed them. None of them did. But many of them bought me drinks.

CHAPTER 18
     
     
    O N MY