Chapter 4

It had been years since Bryant had been to the beach. He would occasionally visit Lake Michigan but that hardly counted as a beach.

This southern summer sun was hot, but it was a pleasant hot. It lacked the humidity that made it unbearable. The scenery was nice — and not just the whitecaps on the ocean. The beach was filled with vacationers, and many of them were attractive females.

It had been more than a year since Bryant's last date and glancing around at all the female flesh on display was having an effect on his libido. He also realized that he probably looked like a lecher.

He hadn't brought a book or a radio. There were signs posted every ten feet announcing that alcoholic beverages and glass bottles were prohibited, so he couldn't nurse a beer. That left him to ogle the women around him.

He figured he should probably pack up and head back to the inn. It was after four. He first decided to stop at a small ocean-side bar for that beer he'd been missing. The place was crowded but it wasn't unpleasant. There wasn't the air of churlishness that Bryant had come to associate with the bars in Chicago.

There was laughter but it wasn't grating. There was the typical preening from the young males toward the young females but it seemed harmless enough. It didn't appear that anyone in the bar was especially drunk or obnoxious. There was a baseball game on television and a couple of older men sitting there watching it. Bryant realized it was a Chicago Cubs game.

Bryant lived on the South Side — White Sox territory. He had been past Wrigley Field a million times but he had never gone to a game. It wasn't that he disliked baseball. In fact, the only sport he could claim to dislike was auto racing. He was certain that would disqualify him from most of the social clubs in South Carolina. He chuckled to himself as he sat down at the bar.

"What'll'ya have?" the bartender asked. From his voice, it was evident the man was from the Irish section of Boston. Bryant had served with a guy from South Boston in the Army.

Bryant liked beer. He always had. Sometimes, he liked it too much. He wasn't going to pass up the chance for a beer at what might just be a genuine almost-Irish pub.

"How about a black and tan?" he asked. The man's face lit up with a grin. "Coming right up, boyo," he said. Bryant watched with rapt attention as the man spooned the lager onto the thicker stout. He was using Harp and Guinness, Bryant's personal favorites. It was perfectly mixed when he sat it down in front of Bryant.

"What do I owe you?" Bryant asked.

"That one is on the house," the man said. "I get so tired of shoveling out the piss-water that these yahoos order. It's good to meet a man who knows his beer."

Bryant smiled again. This was another stark difference between Emerald Cove and Chicago. There were times when his friends had bought a round for the table — and times Bryant had done the same. But nothing was given and usually it was cash up front. Most bars insisted that you leave a credit card tab open to make certain you didn't try to skip out without paying.

Bryant took a sip and let out a sigh.

"Perfect," he said.

"Been working on that pour for close to thirty years," the bartender confided. "I used to have kegs in my basement so I could practice. The best part was that I got to eliminate the mistakes in a most pleasurable way."

"Like baking cookies," Bryant offered. "Unless you burn them, they're still a treat."

The man watched Bryant drink his beer for a moment before heading down to put a bottle of domestic swill in front of another patron. Bryant noticed the bartender didn't offer this guy a free one.

He sensed a presence near his left shoulder just before he felt a hand there.

"Hey, Sailor, buy a lady a drink?" a female voice said.

Bryant turned to find Linda standing behind him.

"I was in the Army, not the Navy," Bryant said.

"I know that, you goof," Linda rejoined. "But it sounded so much better than 'Hey, Army-type guy', you know."

Bryant stood and pulled out the stool beside him and Linda sat.

"What is that?" she asked, looking at his beer. To an untrained observer, it looked like it might be cola with light coffee on top of it.

"Black and tan," Bryant said. "Wanna try one?"

Linda peered for a moment then picked up his and took a drink. Something like that in Chicago — even between friends — might lead to a bar fight.

"Not bad," she said, sliding the glass back in front of Bryant. He noticed the slight ring of lipstick on the edge.

Linda appeared to realize what she'd done. Perhaps because Bryant was staring at the glass she had just slid in front of him.

"I'll get you another," she said hurriedly. "Sorry. That was really stupid of me. I'm not really an idiot, although you might not agree since you've only known me today."

Bryant shrugged it off and laughed. He picked up his beer and took another drink — careful to put the lipstick side away from his mouth. He turned to see the bartender looking at him curiously.

"Hey, Chuck, set me up one of those and another for Bryant," Linda yelled across Bryant to the bartender.

"I'm good," Bryant said. "I prefer to savor these and the stout packs a little bit of punch if you're not careful."

"Fine, just one for me, then," Linda said, sticking her tongue out at Bryant.

Chuck complied and set the beer down in front of Linda.

"Five dollars, Mrs. Roberts," he said, pointedly emphasizing her title.

"I'll get it," Bryant offered. "You guys are paying my hotel bill, after all."

Linda seemed to understand what Chuck was implying and blushed. She could understand why someone would think that. She had checked her makeup in the car and put on fresh lipstick. Then she had sidled up to Bryant and put her hand on his shoulder. Stealing a drink from his glass was another mark of a flirt.

"Bryant has been offered a job with our police force," Linda said quickly.

Chuck shifted his gaze from Linda to Bryant, who was holding out a $10 bill. Chuck ignored the money.

"Well, you must be something special to pull Linda away from her husband and children to have a drink with you," he said.

"I came to apologize to him," Linda said. "I made a right ass of myself today. I'm pretty sure I left Bryant with a poor impression of our city."

Chuck was still ignoring the bill in Bryant's outstretched hand. After another moment, Bryant sat it on the bar and turned to Linda.

"It wasn't that bad," Bryant said. "I'm just not used to having someone pry into personal details about my life."

"I thought the next hire had to be a woman," Chuck said.

"We ... uh ... listen Chuck, this is not for public knowledge yet, okay?" Linda said. "We created a new position. We want to hire Bryant but there are some issues."

"There's going to be issues with anyone you bring in here," Chuck said pointedly.

"Oh, we don't have issues with Bryant," Linda added. "He has issues with some of the other city personnel."

"That's what I meant," Chuck said. He turned to Bryant. "You're from the Midwest. I can tell from your accent. I could tell you were a cop from the way you scanned the room as soon as you entered. I do the same damned thing when I enter a strange place. I was on the job for fifteen years in Boston. Then I went private for fifteen more. I got fed up with the crap so I came down here and opened this beach-side pub. Let me ask you. What's the first thing you noticed about this city?"

Bryant considered the question. It could have many possible answers. But since the topic was about police work, he focused on that element.

"I got in about this time yesterday," Bryant told them. "I drove around to acclimate myself. I was really excited about the prospect of moving here, to be honest. This morning, I drove to city hall and then back to the hotel. In all that time, I didn't see a single patrol car. Today, I came to the beach. There must be a cop stationed every twenty feet. That doesn't make sense to me."

Chuck slapped the bar and grinned.

"Dead on, boyo," he said. "You know, in April we had a girl killed at one of the hotels along the highway. It took these lousy bastards an hour to arrive and then two more to call in the State Police Crime Scene Lab. You can damned well bet whoever it was that killed that girl was halfway to Florida by the time these yahoos got off their dead asses. But you let some poor bastard walk across that yellow line with a beer and they are on him like flies on shit. I kid you not. And that man will spend the night in jail — guaranteed. Of course, if it's a young woman, the cops pat her on the ass — literally — and tell her not to do it again."

"Seriously?" Bryant asked. He glanced from Chuck to Linda. Linda simply looked into her beer glass. That was all the answer Bryant needed.

"That's the thing I noticed when I moved down here," Chuck continued. "The cops here are not professionals. They think people should respect them because they carry a gun and a badge. You and I both know that's not the way it is. A cop earns respect by giving respect. Yeah, you might have to be a hard ass, now and again, but you don't enjoy it. At least, I didn't, and I can tell by your face that you don't either. These boys get their kicks by acting like tough guys but I bet there isn't a one of them I can't take. I'm fifty-eight years old and I can kick the ass of any one of them. They get no training. They have no guidance. Linda, how many times have I said this?"

Linda grimaced slightly and turned to Bryant.

"This is a pretty boring place in the winter," she said. "So Chuck goes to every council meeting."

"And trial and bingo and anything else to pass the time," Chuck said, grinning. "I pay my fair share in taxes. That's for damned certain. I expect to be able to see my government in action. So, you bet your bippy I complain when some fat-assed patrolman stations himself outside my bar to hassle my customers because I won't let him drink underage."

"I know, Chuck," Linda said in a tired voice. It was obvious this wasn't the first time this conversation had been hashed out. "By next summer, it won't be an issue. I promise you that."