She learned that when the jukebox played gimme shelter, it meant Frank was in a good mood. She learned that when Big Mike put his sunglasses on inside, someone was about to get thrown through a window. But not everyone was happy with the stray Frank had brought in. The vice president was a man named Mercerer. He was leaner than Frank, with a face that looked like it had been stripped of all unnecessary flesh, leaving only sharp angles and cold blue eyes.
Mercerer didn't trust "Sarah. " He saw her as a loose thread in a tightly woven sweater, a civilian, a citizen, and worst of all, a liability with baggage. It was a Tuesday night, typically slow when the trouble came home, but it didn't walk through the front door. Around 11 p.m., the back door, the members-only entrance, swung open with a violent crash. Big Mike and Snake, half carried, half dragged a young prospect named Jimmy into the main room.
Jimmy was pale, his face a mask of sweat, clutching his abdomen. Dark blood was seeping through his fingers, staining his white t-shirt, almost black. "Clear the tables," Frank barked, leaping from his corner booth. The few regular patrons scrambled to the edges of the room. Snake swept the beer bottles off the largest pool table with a sweep of his arm, glass shattering everywhere.
They hoisted Jimmy onto the green felt. He got tagged, Mike grunted, applying pressure to the wound. Ricochet down by the rail yard. Some punks trying to strip a bike. Call the doc, Frank ordered.
Doc's in Vegas, Mercerer spat, pacing the floor. He won't be back till Thursday. We got to take him to the ER. "No cops," Jimmy wheezed, his eyes rolling back. "Please," Frank.
I got a warrant. If I go to the hospital, I go to jail. Frank looked at the wound, then at the door, weighing the life of his prospect against the security of the club. The air was thick with a copper smell of blood. Tensions were razor thin.
"I can help," Sarah said. Her voice cut through the shouting. Mercerer whirled on her. "You stick to the taps, girl. This ain't a paper cut.
" Sarah didn't flinch. She walked out from behind the bar, grabbing the first aid kit kept under the register. A kit she had secretly restocked with real supplies she bought from a medical supply store the day after she got her first paycheck. "I have three years of nursing school and 2 years of ER rotation, Sarah said, pushing past Mercerer. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves.