Dead Man's Hand

A puny middle-aged stranger entered Hank's Bar.

Soaked to the skin from head to foot, despite the black umbrella in his right hand, he craned his thin neck and looked in my direction.

"Are you Amos Grant?"

"Yep." I put down my drink, two shots of Jim Beam over ice.

"My name's Marvin M. Maxwell," he said.

His words were soft and low, somewhat like a kitten's purr.

He didn't look like a traveler, or somebody who would stop in this central Florida redneck town just for the heck of it. I figured the hurricane winds raging up the center of the Sunshine State must have blown this sad-looking guy into Taterville. I was fortifying myself with good bourbon for the unpredictable hours ahead. And had I known then what the future had in store for me, I'd have fortified myself a hell of a lot more.

Suddenly, an unexpected gust of wind blew the saloon door open and nearly knocked Marvin M. Maxwell to his knees.

From behind the bar Hank Haborak bellowed, "Shut that goddamn door!"

The little guy put down his umbrella and shoved with both hands, struggling, until he ultimately succeeded with the demand.

Hank shook his head and looked at me. "Another?"

He was the owner of Hank's Bar and as hard and humorless as heartwood.

"No, better not," I told him. "I have to pick up Holly in a few minutes."

His large head went up and down. "Library still open?"

I looked at the dusty Lucky Strike clock next to the cash register.

"She's supposed to lock up and get out of there before three."

"Good idea," Hank said. "I think this one's goin' to be a real ass twister."

A soft hand touched my arm.

"Mr. Grant?"

I turned. "Oh, sorry. Mr. Maxwell, right?" He nodded. I waited. He said nothing. I tilted my head to the side and studied him. A tad over five feet, slender with a patch of thin hair plastered atop a melon-size head, his watery gray eyes peered from behind a pair of wireless eyeglasses.

I had to smile because he reminded me of the nerd I once pretended to be just to bug the locals. After I fell for Holly, however, I gave up the stupid charade, put on a few pounds, got contact lenses, discarded my suit and red bow tie and leather satchel, and became one of the "good ol' boys." I even exchanged "vodka with a slight twist of lemon" for strong bourbon. Now I fit right in with my faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, and denim shirt, opened slightly at the neck to expose several strands of graying chest hair. And even seated, my sturdy six-foot-three body towered over the diminutive figure before me.

I finished my drink, left a decent tip, and stood.

"Is there something you want?" I gave the little guy one of my better grins.

He took a napkin from the bar and wiped the rain water from his glasses.

"Ah, yes." He fidgeted with his damp shirt collar. "Someone told me you're a detective. You have that AH, HA! Detective Agency down the street?"

"That's right," I said. "But actually I'm the editor of the Taterville Bugle. The detective stuff is sort of a sideline for my wife and me." I glanced back at the clock. I didn't have time for small talk. "Look, I have to go," I said. "Why not drop by my office after this hurricane blows over and I'll see what--"

"No!" Marvin M. Maxwell's voice rose to an irritating pitch. He reached out and grabbed my arm.

"I need to talk to you, right now!"

I pried his fingers delicately from my sleeve, so as not to break any digits.

"Look, pardner, "I said, "whatever it is, it can wait. There's a hurricane headed this way and more than likely a few bad tornadoes along with it. So if I were you, I'd find a place to hunker down until this is all over."

He stared at his shoes. "I don't know where to go," he said.

I turned around. Hank was looking at me with a toothy grin.

My eyes went back to Marvin M. Maxwell.

"Okay," I said. "Come with me."

*From the novel, "Dead Man's Hand" by E. P. Burke.