Page 23 of The Texas Murders

She gives me a skeptical look, knowing that I didn’t drive six hundred miles just to see her.

“Working on a case,” I say. “I’ll probably be here a few days. Maybe even a few weeks.”

She goes back around the bar and pours me a beer. She gets one for my impatient neighbor while she’s at it, then she introduces us.

“This is Neil Stephenson,” she says. “He’s my dissertation advisor.”

“Dr. Neil Stephenson,” he says, correcting her.

“Rory’s a Texas Ranger,” Megan says.

“Funny,” he says, “you don’t look like a baseball player.”

“The other kind of Texas Ranger,” Megan says, rolling her eyes in mock irritation.

Neil takes a drink, unimpressed.

Megan appears to be the only one working at the bar, so she’s soon pulled away and I’m stuck with her pretentious professor. His favorite subject is himself, and he drones on about how he tours Southwestern colleges giving lectures on American literature. As he talks, he doesn’t take his eyes off Megan, and I wonder if she realizes that he wants their relationship to be more than just teacher and student.

The clock approaches midnight, and the bar thins out. Besides Megan and me, there’s only Neil—I mean Dr. Stephenson—and a couple of guys shooting pool. Megan tells me she’s going to close the place down so she and I can be alone. Her professor, who is quite drunk, doesn’t seem too happy. I get the impression he is used to sticking around until closing so he can have time alone with Megan. Reluctantly, he orders an Uber while Megan heads over to break it to the pool players that this will be their last game.

“Come on—one more draft!” one of them says loudly, his words slurred. “My bitch girlfriend just broke up with me, and I don’t plan to leave until I’m good and shit-faced.”

“I think you’ve already achieved your goal,” Megan says, reaching for the guy’s empty glass on the rail of the pool table.

The guy’s arm flashes out and he grabs Megan’s wrist, gripping it tight.

“Now hold it there, honey,” he says.

“Let go,” she says forcefully.

“Either you fetch me a beer,” the guy says, “or I’m going to slap you around like I should have done to my ex.”

I rise off my barstool and start walking toward them. The jukebox is already off, and the sound of my boots against the floorboards carries across the room. The man turns his attention toward me, and Megan snatches her arm away and backs up.

“If you want to slap somebody around,” I say, “why don’t you try me?”

CHAPTER 17

AS I APPROACH the pool table, I try to take stock of what I’m walking into. The drunk guy, wearing a faded Houston Astros tank top, turns to face me. He is short and stocky, with muscular arms and a beer gut, giving me the impression he spends time in the gym, but more likely lifting weights rather than putting in any time on the treadmill. He has a slight grin on his face like the idea of getting into a bar fight makes him happy. His girlfriend just broke up with him, and he’s ready to either beat someone up or get beaten up—it probably doesn’t matter much which.

Fortunately, his friend doesn’t seem interested in joining. He’s taller but thinner, and looks sober by comparison. A water glass sits on a nearby table, and I deduce that he is the designated driver who came along to watch over his friend during his mission to get wasted.

“Come on, Randy, let’s just go find another bar,” the friendsays, then, looking up at me, adds, “We don’t want any trouble.”

“The hell we don’t,” says Randy, who picks up a pool cue and snaps it over his knee. “Trouble is exactly what I fucking want.”

He tosses the thin half of the broken stick aside and holds the other end like a baseball bat. This changes things.

I’m not in the habit of wearing a gun when I’m off duty, so I don’t have any weapon on me. I figure I can still probably disarm him, but there’s a decent chance I’ll get hurt. Plus, I was hoping to get out of this without putting the son of a bitch in jail.

Or the hospital.

Waiting around for the cops to arrive will interfere with my alone time with Megan.

“Either that pretty little bartender serves me one more round,” he says, “or I’m going to shove this pool stick right up your ass.”

Megan says, “Neil, call the police.”

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