Above the Law Read Online Free

rough-paneled walls, black-and-white-checked linoleum floor that rippled from years of seepage. Opposite the entrance was a long bar, with an impressive old back-bar behind it against the wall. This was a serious drinking place, judging by the quantity of the bottles stacked on the shelves. Lots of bourbons, blended whiskeys, and vodkas. A few token bottles of wine, the corks stuck in them for God knows how long, sat in a corner. Several beer taps adorned the bar, in front of which were a row of red Naugahyde-covered stools. High-backed booths, covered in the same Naugahyde, aligned the front and side walls, with freestanding tables in the center. In one corner sat a classic Wurlitzer jukebox circa 1955, and a TV, tuned to a local station, was mounted halfway up the wall. Like a few other old bars I’d come across in my travels—Barney’s Beanery in Los Angeles being one well-known example—old California license plates going back to the 1930s had been hammered onto all the walls, wherever there was an inch of free space. Your basic roadside tavern.
    In the short moment it took to get from my truck to the entrance, the storm had blown a coating of fine sand over all of us. We looked like pieces of chicken that had been dipped in bread crumbs. The sand had penetrated under my shirt as well, making my skin feel like it had been rubbed with a Brillo pad. Shaking off as much of it as I could, I looked around.
    There were over a dozen people in here, not counting the bartender, cook, and waitress, who, although chronologically somewhere in her middle age, looked like she’d stepped out of an old Robert Mitchum B movie, the ones where the good girls are bad and the bad girls are worse. She had a friendly smile, though, warm and welcoming.
    “Here’s another litter the cat dragged in,” she exclaimed with gusto. “You girls look like you’ve been put through the wringer,” she went on, looking at them more closely.
    “We were stranded out there,” Marilyn told her.
    “Luke rescued us.” This from Jo Ellen, the third girl.
    The waitress gave me the once-over. “A good man is hard to find,” she informed the girls.
    “The voice of experience?” Marilyn asked, winking at her. Marilyn was the boldest of the three, the ringleader who could get them into trouble, if the opportunity arose.
    “Definitely,” the waitress responded in a tone of hard-earned wisdom. “How’s it blowing out there?”
    “Bad,” I replied. “The roads’re about impassable now. Couple more minutes, nothing’ll be moving out there.”
    “Well, you made it to here, so you’re okay. We’ve got plenty of food, the TV works, and we just pumped out the septic, so we’re prepared for the long haul.”
    The cook called out from the kitchen, “Order up, Deedee.”
    She left to take care of business. While the girls, who’d brought their packs with them, retired to the ladies’ room to clean up, I checked out the others who were sheltering from the storm. A few of them looked like regulars—men who drink in bars like this one; the others were refugees, like us. A family sat at one of the big tables in the center of the room, chowing down on cheeseburgers and fries: mother, father, two little girls, and a little boy, all big and blond like their parents. They reminded me of people I’d known from the upper Midwest, Scandinavian stock. They seemed to be holding up well, considering the circumstances. In a booth, nursing beers, were three middle-aged men who looked like upper-management executives, even though they were casually dressed. On the way to or from a hunting or fishing trip, I guessed. The remaining outsiders, the motor-homers, were three older couples who sat at two pushed-together tables, talking earnestly, eating large meals, laughing quietly at each other’s jokes.
    Considering how lousy things were outside, everyone seemed to be in decent spirits. Most of them had been here when the storm had struck or had been close, minutes