Tremaine dropped the locket in his pocket and stood up. Gaskin hitched up his pants, glanced around the room. Half a dozen early drinkers stared, wide-eyed. Gaskin squinted at Tremaine. He smelled of unwashed flannel.
"Sicked the cops onto him. The boy was out with his friends, havin a little fun. Now there he sets in jail."
Tremaine moved aside from the stool, started past the man. Soup Gaskin grabbed his arm.
"Not so fast! I figger you owe me damages. I—"
"Damage is what you'll get," said Tremaine. He slammed a stiff left to Gaskin's ribs, drove a hard right to the jaw. Gaskin jack-knifed backwards, tripped over a bar stool, fell on his back. He rolled over, got to hands and knees, shook his head.
"Git up, Soup!" someone called. "Hot dog!" offered another.
"I'm calling the police!" the bartender yelled.
"Never mind," a voice said from the door. A blue-jacketed State Trooper strolled into the room, fingers hooked into his pistol belt, the steel caps on his boot heels clicking with each step. He faced Tremaine, feet apart.
"Looks like you're disturbin the peace, Mr. Tremaine," he said.
"You wouldn't know who put him up to it, would you?" Tremaine said.