Read The Thieves of Faith for Free Online Page A
Authors: Richard Doetsch
they needed was one temper to flare and it would infect all, ending in a bloody brawl of bar-wrecking proportions. Not a good thing for a Wednesday night in June.
Valhalla was an upscale restaurant in a recently upscale town, serving an upscale clientele. The meals were straightforward American cuisine served in an elegant manner. The young barely-contained-ego crowd usually hung around after eleven o’clock for the chance to bag themselves a fresh kill, plying their prey with smooth talk and smoother liquor. And the thrill of the hunt wasn’t left to only hunters; many a huntress would be marking her territory on a Wednesday through Sunday night, with the pack actually leaning sixty–forty in the feminine favor.
The cherrywood bar was the only leftover from the restaurant’s prior incarnations: the Ox Yoke Inn, men’s grill, no women allowed; GG’s North, a biker bar closed down when the drag racing grew too difficult for the eleven-man police force; Par’s, a smoky excuse for a steak joint. The bar’s wood was lacquered and waxed to a high sheen and could tell a story more decadent than any church confessional. It was Paul’s pride and joy and, at the moment, it was hidden by the packed-in crowd elbowing for his attention for the next round.
The music flowed from a Steinway short, six feet of German musical engineering built in Queens, New York, circa 1928. The pianist squeezed out song after song, always able to strike a note with the bar-rail crowd, balancing the selection from current pop to seventies retro to Perry Como standards. With the indoor temperature hovering around ninety-eight, with a steam-room thick humidity, the sweat poured off the patrons, staining underarms dark, matting out the straight hair and frizzing the curls. The moist red-cheeked appearance of all stood in stark contrast to the musician who cranked out each song while remaining dry as a bone. Not a hint of perspiration on his clothes or his person except for one drop on his right temple, hanging just below his shock of unkempt brown hair. Michael St. Pierre’s voice was smooth as whiskey, rough as gravel, whatever was needed to strike a chord. Every Wednesday night he would play and the women would pounce, hanging around the bar trying to catch his attention, to lure him in with a seductive smile. And every Wednesday he would politely smile back, avoiding the trap of eye contact, remaining forever silent but for the words he sang and the occasional thank you.
There was a hint of pain in Michael’s blue eyes as he sang out Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight,” and all the women saw it, wishing it were them he was singing about, wondering who the woman was who drove the soul behind the voice.
As he finished the song, he stood from the piano, rising to his full six feet, picked up his leather jacket—his favorite, soft and broken in from years of riding—and headed for the far corner of the bar.
“Aren’t we melancholy tonight,” Paul said, abandoning the other patrons to pour his friend a straight Scotch on the rocks—being extra generous with the rocks.
“Is it warm in here?” Michael half joked, half changed the subject. With his finger, he swiped the cool water from his sweating glass and rubbed it on his forehead.
“I’ve got maybe fifteen more minutes worth of ice, then the place will clear out.” Paul returned to pouring for his customers but kept talking to Michael. “Feel like going up to the loft, catch the end of the Yankee game, or are you going to finally cave in and take one of these fine ladies home with you?” Paul tilted his head, alluding to a more-than-above-average group of women holding court at the bar.
One of the women, hearing Paul’s words, turned to Michael and flashed a coy smile. Her short blond hair looked surprisingly good for the weather. She caught Michael’s eye and wandered over. Several of the male patrons watched her move for Michael and abandoned fulfilling their fantasy for the
Valhalla was an upscale restaurant in a recently upscale town, serving an upscale clientele. The meals were straightforward American cuisine served in an elegant manner. The young barely-contained-ego crowd usually hung around after eleven o’clock for the chance to bag themselves a fresh kill, plying their prey with smooth talk and smoother liquor. And the thrill of the hunt wasn’t left to only hunters; many a huntress would be marking her territory on a Wednesday through Sunday night, with the pack actually leaning sixty–forty in the feminine favor.
The cherrywood bar was the only leftover from the restaurant’s prior incarnations: the Ox Yoke Inn, men’s grill, no women allowed; GG’s North, a biker bar closed down when the drag racing grew too difficult for the eleven-man police force; Par’s, a smoky excuse for a steak joint. The bar’s wood was lacquered and waxed to a high sheen and could tell a story more decadent than any church confessional. It was Paul’s pride and joy and, at the moment, it was hidden by the packed-in crowd elbowing for his attention for the next round.
The music flowed from a Steinway short, six feet of German musical engineering built in Queens, New York, circa 1928. The pianist squeezed out song after song, always able to strike a note with the bar-rail crowd, balancing the selection from current pop to seventies retro to Perry Como standards. With the indoor temperature hovering around ninety-eight, with a steam-room thick humidity, the sweat poured off the patrons, staining underarms dark, matting out the straight hair and frizzing the curls. The moist red-cheeked appearance of all stood in stark contrast to the musician who cranked out each song while remaining dry as a bone. Not a hint of perspiration on his clothes or his person except for one drop on his right temple, hanging just below his shock of unkempt brown hair. Michael St. Pierre’s voice was smooth as whiskey, rough as gravel, whatever was needed to strike a chord. Every Wednesday night he would play and the women would pounce, hanging around the bar trying to catch his attention, to lure him in with a seductive smile. And every Wednesday he would politely smile back, avoiding the trap of eye contact, remaining forever silent but for the words he sang and the occasional thank you.
There was a hint of pain in Michael’s blue eyes as he sang out Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight,” and all the women saw it, wishing it were them he was singing about, wondering who the woman was who drove the soul behind the voice.
As he finished the song, he stood from the piano, rising to his full six feet, picked up his leather jacket—his favorite, soft and broken in from years of riding—and headed for the far corner of the bar.
“Aren’t we melancholy tonight,” Paul said, abandoning the other patrons to pour his friend a straight Scotch on the rocks—being extra generous with the rocks.
“Is it warm in here?” Michael half joked, half changed the subject. With his finger, he swiped the cool water from his sweating glass and rubbed it on his forehead.
“I’ve got maybe fifteen more minutes worth of ice, then the place will clear out.” Paul returned to pouring for his customers but kept talking to Michael. “Feel like going up to the loft, catch the end of the Yankee game, or are you going to finally cave in and take one of these fine ladies home with you?” Paul tilted his head, alluding to a more-than-above-average group of women holding court at the bar.
One of the women, hearing Paul’s words, turned to Michael and flashed a coy smile. Her short blond hair looked surprisingly good for the weather. She caught Michael’s eye and wandered over. Several of the male patrons watched her move for Michael and abandoned fulfilling their fantasy for the