A few regulars I'd come to know shuffled in when Huck opened the doors, and for the first thirty minutes, Friday seemed, if anything, slower than a regular night.
Before long, however, truckloads of locals poured through the doors. They'd cashed their checks, and they were ready for fun.
Grizz sat on a stool near the door, silently nodding at passing customers. Now and then, one of them would clasp hands with him or give him sort of a half-hug, disappearing beneath his bulk. I noticed Bo gliding around among the crowd, eyes darting to and fro, on full alert.
Ninety minutes after we opened, The Side Pocket was abuzz with activity. The jukebox was blaring, the pool tables were full, and beer and hard liquor were flowing like water. I was, truthfully, a little overwhelmed. Busy was one thing, but this was like trying to climb up a mountain during an avalanche.
Albert was scrambling, and I made a mental note to reward him handsomely at the end of the night. Without him, I'd be sunk.
Huck and I worked together seamlessly, our short hand verbal cues cutting between ZZ Top and George Thorogood songs. We brushed against one another on occasion, and once, while moving behind me, Huck put both hands on my hips to steady me for a glorious, fleeting moment.
During a brief lull, I watched Bo get between two guys arguing at one of the pool tables. Their disagreement had gotten pretty heated, but when he intervened, both men were content to enjoy their beer and let the matter rest. They were both much larger than Bo, so I wondered why they afforded him such respect.
Huck caught me watching the scene unfold, and he leaned in close so I'd hear him over the clamor.
"Bo's AWOL," Huck said. "He's facing a pretty lengthy spell in Leavenworth if they ever catch him. An officer was hitting on a girl Bo liked, and the guy got a little too aggressive with her. Bo kicked the shit out of him and two military cops, too. Bo's granddad down in Texas is friends with Rick. Bo lives out in the mountains somewhere, Grizz goes and fetches him when we need him. He doesn't look like much, but he can handle himself. Anybody who's seen him fight gives him a wide berth."
Whitmer got more fascinating all the time.
I popped the tops off two beers for Summer, one of our waitresses, and then the whole place grew quiet. What sounded like a hundred motorcycles roared into the parking lot, engines revving and gravel flying.
The Mutineers had arrived.
They swung open the doors with such an intensity that it made me jump.
Two men approached the bar while a dozen men in black leather waded into the crowd.
The older one, a man in his fifties with a thick scar extending from mid-cheek down to the side and around the back of his neck, spoke to Huck, but I couldn't hear them over the crowd. They bumped fists and then the leader of the Mutineers glanced in my direction. He spoke to the man by his side and the pair made a beeline for me.
He introduced his companion, a man with a shaved head and a face so set in stone that I thought it would probably hurt him to smile. He wore a sleeveless t-shirt beneath his vest, and his arms, covered in tattoos, were as big around as my waist. I'd never seen a more dangerous-looking man.
"This is Dirk," said the man who'd fist bumped with Huck. "Two Coronas for him. I'm Vince, start me off with whiskey. Best you've got. You're new here. What's your name, darlin'?"
I did my best to smile, although the way Dirk stared at me made me want to run away and hide.
"I'm Belle." I pulled two bottles of Corona from the cooler and wiped the ice from them with a towel, turning back to Vince. "Best we've got is subjective, Vince. My best or your best?"
He eyeballed me, then scanned the bottles behind me. "Cheap prick Huck still won't carry anything good, will he?" Vince growled. "Maker's, I guess."
Dirk downed the entire first Corona without taking a breath, slamming the empty bottle down and inhaling deeply through flared nostrils. I pulled out another and set it in front of him without asking.
I poured Vince's shot of Maker's, and then a second. After he finished the second, he ordered a beer, and looked me over. Dirk's eyes hadn't left me since they walked in the door. I was more than a little creeped out by him.
Vince narrowed his gaze and then pointed at me. "Kentucky. Am I right?"
I glanced at Huck and then back at Vince, suddenly very uncomfortable with our motorcycle-riding customers.
"Your accent is Kentucky. Maybe Tennessee, but my money says Kentucky. Am I right? I mean it's polished, you ain't no mountain trash, probably Lexington. Horse money. But maybe Nashville. Definitely not Montana, I know that much."
Huck intervened, "Why don't you boys mingle a bit? Shoot some pool. Can't have you monopolizing my best bartender."
I pulled a fourth Corona for Dirk and a second Bud for Vince, and they backed away from the bar, easing into the crowd.
"Thanks, Huck. That guy drinking all the Corona is creepy as hell," I said, goosebumps rising up on my arms. Suddenly I was uneasy. It was a feeling I was familiar with and I didn't like it. Not one bit.
"Don't pay them any mind. Just keep up with the waitresses," Huck replied. He put his hand on my shoulder and our eyes met for a moment.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded. "I'm fine. I've got this."
I got back in the groove, and alcohol again began to flow out and wads of cash returned. Albert kept up a blistering pace, emptying trash cans and filling coolers, and aside from Grizz escorting out a pair of roughnecks who got a little too friendly with Summer, the night was a blur.
The Mutineers lived up to their reputation, drinking hard and loud, spending money like the last one of them with a dollar bill in his pocket would be kicked out of the gang.
My only problem was Dirk, whose eyes were on me no matter where he was in the room, an intense, hungry stare. It made me sick.
Closing time, while state law, was merely a suggestion at The Side Pocket on a Friday night. The crowd shrunk, but by the time the sun began to rise, half a dozen Mutineers remained, along with as many locals. I'd emptied my tip bucket three times, Huck instructing me to let Albert set it aside in the office. If he trusted him, so did I.
Bo had done his job well, commanding respect from rowdy patrons all night and keeping flare ups to a minimum. Nothing more than pushing, shoving, and threats were exchanged. No punches had been thrown, no weapons drawn. Grizz had given up his post at the door, and he nursed a cup of coffee at the end of the bar. Two Mutineers gave up hitting on our waitresses and approached the bar, sitting down in front of me.
"You're the prettiest little thing in here. Let's you and me go get some breakfast," a man with black hair and a facial tattoo requested.
I managed a weak laugh. "I'm too tired for breakfast, I think I'll just be going to bed," I replied. Johnny Cash sang from the jukebox, wailing about a boy named Sue.
"Even better," the man's greasy friend replied. "Bed it is, then. I'd rather eat you than some bullshit scrambled eggs, anyway."
I was used to being hit on, used to lewd remarks, but these men were truly vile. And their leader, Vince, had never left the side of the scariest among them, Dirk, all night long. I was suddenly very nervous. My knees started to shake.
I wiped down the bar and tried to ignore them, but they were insistent. Huck had disappeared to the bathroom or the office, and I was alone behind the bar, save for Albert, collecting trash. "Come on, you ain't never been with no Mutineer before. You can climb on top of me and then climb on the back of my bike and we can ride right out of this shit-kicking town."
I went to walk away, but he reached across and took hold of my wrist. "Don't you ever turn your back on a Mutineer, you hear me?" He stood and barked the words at me. The bile rose in my throat as my heart pounded against my ribcage and I trembled with fear. How was this happening? I'd run away from the last man that had put his hands on me. The panic was setting in as I realized he wasn't letting go of me.
Suddenly, Grizz was by his side. "Turn her loose now, you hear me?" he said, but his intimidating size didn't deter the bikers.
"Get lost before you get hurt, fat boy," the man holding my wrist said to Grizz.
"Have it your way, then," Grizz responded, backhanding the man across the jaw, knocking him off the stool and to the floor. The second man went to rise to his feet, but Grizz took hold of his vest and lifted his two hundred pounds as if he were a stuffed animal, slamming him to the floor.