Under Their Protection

Margo

"Why did you choose to work as a bartender, dear?"

If I had a nickel for every time someone posed that question, I'd be wealthy. Well, at least richer than what I earned from my meager wages and sparse tips at the Rusty Bucket.

Not all patrons at the Rusty Bucket were unpleasant. Quite the opposite. Most were hardworking men, occasionally interspersed with retirees like Burt, who sat at the bar. Despite nearing eighty, Burt often conversed with a sparkle in his eye.

"Must be luck, I guess."

He sipped his beer. "A pretty young lady like you could aim higher."

I frowned, uncertain how my appearance factored into it. The reality was, I had aimed higher. I'd managed a year and a half of college on funds my mother had saved her whole life.

But now she was gone, and the money had dwindled long ago.

"You could get certified in cosmetology," Burt suggested, as if sharing privileged information. "Do hair and nails without dealing with the riffraff here."

I mentally rolled my eyes. Burt was harmless and usually good company, but his comment revealed undertones of sexism and class bias, not for the first time.

"Or become a weather presenter on TV. You're TV-ready."

I placed a bowl of fresh peanuts in front of him. "I think they hire meteorologists for that."

"Right," he nodded sagely. "Too much schooling."

Some men at the far end of the bar signaled for my attention, a welcome distraction from Burt, although I typically enjoyed our chats. In general, he meant no harm, but his assumption that I lacked the ability to succeed in school irked me. My aspiration had been to finish college and then pursue law school. Money, not intellect, had halted my plans.

As I took orders, I noticed a large man sitting alone at a table in the back. He had a whiskey and a plate of fries, so one of the waitresses must have served him. He stood out due to his size and solitary presence.

His nickname was Rock, fitting for someone as massive as a boulder. Muscles bulged beneath his tan skin and dark Italian features. Most Italian men in the area were leaner, but Rock resembled a bouncer.

Normally, he frequented the bar with his friends, Jumaine and Slade. Though I didn't know them personally, I'd served them often, appreciating their generous tips. It seemed unusual to see the big man alone tonight. Something about his posture hinted at a sour mood, yet I sensed he wouldn't cause any trouble. He never did.

I continued tending bar for a few more hours, bidding Burt a genuine farewell when he left for home. He meant well. Perhaps in my late seventies, I too would be out and about, chatting with younger folks. I hoped my perspectives by then would be more enlightened.

The dining area cleared out as patrons headed home. In this working-class Brooklyn neighborhood, many customers had early mornings ahead. For those who preferred to stay out late, there were plenty of other options.

Rock appeared to belong to the latter group. He nursed his drink, occasionally scowling at his phone.

Taking advantage of the dwindling crowd, I began cleaning up behind the bar, hoping to finish my shift at a reasonable hour tonight.

Two young men in their twenties sat at the bar, while a group of two men and four women occupied a table fifteen feet away. Rock remained seated, engrossed in a newspaper left behind by someone else. As I opened the register to add more money, my attention fixed on the bills neatly stacked inside, a distinct clicking sound of a gun being cocked froze me in place. Another identical click sent a chill of fear down my spine. Heart racing, I lifted my gaze from the cash register. The two young men were standing before me, guns aimed at my head.

"Give us the money, sweetheart."

My mind went blank, unable to process the situation. The one speaking hardly seemed old enough to shave, let alone rob a bar.

"Now, honey," the other one urged. Terms of endearment were common in my line of work, but never under such threatening circumstances.

Both men smirked with confidence, believing they had complete control simply because they held guns.

And that infuriated me. The urge to wipe those smug expressions off their faces somehow sparked my brain into action, revealing a plan.

"Hey, assholes."

A deep voice boomed from behind the men, causing them to turn around. Rocello had come to a halt behind them, his dark eyes glinting with intensity in the dim light.

As they turned, I swiftly ducked beneath the counter.

Not for safety, but to retrieve the double-barrel shotgun kept there by our manager. She had trained all of us on its use.

Pointing it at the men while their attention was on Rocello, who appeared livid, I felt a sudden pang of fear. Not for myself, but for the possibility that his anger might lead to a reckless act, possibly landing him in jail.

“Hey assholes,” I said firmly, echoing Rock’s words. They turned back to me, one man’s mouth dropping open as he saw the gun in my hands.

They’d made a mistake in turning their back on a man like the Rock. He moved up behind them and slammed both their heads into the bar. Hard.

One man’s gun skittered away. The other guy held onto his pistol, and it was pointed at me. Shit.

I changed up my grip on the shotgun and brought the butt down on his wrist. He yelped and dropped the gun. I batted it away from his hand.

“Call the police,” I shouted toward the people at the nearest table as I trained my gun on the men who were now bleeding from their noses and looking dazed. My plan was to hold them there until the police came, but that plan was ruined when the shotgun was wrenched out of my hands.

Astonished, I stared as Rock tossed my shotgun out of the way. “Go back in the kitchen,” he growled. “I’ll take care of these two.”

What the hell?

He wasn't even an employee here. What gave him the right to snatch my gun away? I started to voice my objection, but the deadly glare in his eyes silenced me.

The smaller of the two men gathered himself and attempted to throw a punch at the larger man, who effortlessly blocked it. In response, he landed a blow that sent the attacker slumping back onto the bar. The second guy tried the same and met a similar fate.

I grabbed an empty beer stein, poised to strike the punk's head, but Rock intervened again. "I've got this," he grunted firmly.

Who did he think he was, our bouncer? This place couldn't afford one and usually didn't need it.

Yet, it was clear Rock was more than capable for the role. He alternated punches between the two men who stubbornly continued to fight. He seemed almost to enjoy it, shoving one, punching the other, then switching back.

"Does your mom know you're out this late?" Rocello bellowed, his voice cutting through their groans. "Does she, you idiots?"

"Stop," one of them cried out weakly. It made little difference.

"Why are you bothering us?" the other slurred, his voice indicating a probable broken nose.

"Why are you bothering her?" Rock growled back, gesturing in my direction.

“We just wanted the money,” the first one said, sounding whiny. “Then the cunt got in the way—”

I gasped, but not from the word they called me. Rock’s expression changed. If I’d thought he looked dangerous before, he looked downright deadly now. He punched the guy who’d said that in the face, knocking him out. That made me think that I’d been right before, that he’d been toying with the guys and pulling his punches.

He grabbed the other guy so hard that he made him cry out. Then he dragged them toward the door, one conscious, the other unconscious. The other customers and I watched until he’d manhandled them out the door.

Then all was quiet as I stared in disbelief at the door the powerful man had just exited.

What the hell was that?

Why had Rock taken it upon himself to take care of those guys?

I was still shakily contemplating it when a customer from the table called out. “Miss? Can we get another pitcher of beer?”