Logan's Young Guns. Nathan Walpow

him to get his ass in gear.

      They drove east three or four miles. There was nothing along the road except an occasional random streetlight. The dark consumed either side. Once or twice, Logan picked up the smell of horse manure.

      Then they rounded a turn and right there, in the middle of nowhere, was a bar.

      It was called Sneeky Pete’s, and it was surrounded on three sides by a parking lot that was filled with pickups and SUVs and a Cadillac or two.

      Johnny found himself a spot between a couple of F-150s. Logan continued down the road. He stopped, hung a huey, waited a couple of minutes, and then found his own place next to a Dumpster with a mattress jutting out.

      He got out of the car and took stock. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Sounded about right. He locked the car and walked in.

      The sound system was blaring George Thorogood. Dozens of patrons were singing along. “One bourbon, one scotch, one beer.” It was louder than it needed to be, and one of the speakers was blown, making a sound that resembled Johnny P.’s muffler.

      The whole east side of the place was a bar. There were the usual neon beer signs, and a couple of TVs broadcast silently. One had a basketball game, the other a commercial with that old actor who used to be a senator selling insurance to seniors.

      Thorogood finished, and the noise dimmed to a dull roar. It was followed by “Frankenstein.” Logan approved. An instrumental. No words to sing along to.

      Over on the west wall was a row of booths and, in front of it, a bunch of tables. There was a tiny dance floor where two women, who were old enough to know better, were shaking their booties.

      The men ranged in age from twenties to Social Security. Your typical rowdy bar crowd, moving a bit too carefully, a lot of them, and speaking a bit too loudly. There were a couple of cowboy hats.

      The women, except the two on the dance floor, skewed younger. Some looked too young to be in a place that served alcohol. Three of those sat at a table sipping tall glasses of something an unnatural shade of pink. One had a tiny denim skirt, and one had short shorts. The third was blocked by the table.

      Johnny P. Jones was standing at the far end of the bar, with a Bud Light upended into his mouth. He drained it, slapped it down on the bar, and asked for another. This came, and he turned to survey the room, stopping to leer at the three young women.

      Logan went to the other end of the bar. The bartender looked him over. He evidently passed muster. The bartender said, “What’ll it be?”

      “Beer.”

      “Bottle or tap?”

      “Bottle. Got Heineken?” He figured that was about as fancy as this place would have.

      “Coming right up.”

      The beer came, and Logan put a five on the bar and turned back to the room. Johnny P. Jones had made it halfway across to the three girls and was shooting the shit with a man in a corduroy jacket, maybe forty, maybe fifty. The place was air conditioned, but still, corduroy in October in SoCal.

      Logan sipped his beer and looked for anything awry. Everything, as far as he could see, was legit. No drug deals going down, no mysterious men with ominous briefcases.

      Johnny resumed his journey toward the three sweeties. They got up just before he reached their table. They’d gathered their stuff and looked like they were about to leave. Logan eased closer to observe.

      “Hey, girls,” Johnny said.

      “Hey,” one of them said, sparing about a fifth of a second to look at him.

      “We’re leaving,” another said. It was the one who’d been behind the table. She wasn’t wearing anything short like the others, but her jeans might as well have been sprayed on.

      Logan took another couple of steps closer.

      “Party’s just getting started,” Johnny said. “Come on, don’t leave now.”

      And he put his hand on the first one’s arm.

      Back by the bar, a bouncer, who resembled Mr. Clean, pushed away from the wall and headed their way.

      The girl shook Johnny’s hand off. “Excuse me?”

      The bouncer was almost there.

      Logan stepped in. “Hey, hey. No need for any of that.” He wrapped an arm around Johnny’s bony shoulders and turned him away from the girls. He made eye contact with the bouncer and held up the hand not occupied with Johnny, his thumb and index finger still around his beer bottle. Don’t bother. I’ve got it handled.

      The bouncer thought about it. Then he nodded and returned to his station.

      “Whoa,” Johnny said.

      “Shouldn’t have done that, my friend.” Logan spied a booth in the corner being vacated by two couples. “Let’s have a seat.”

      He hustled Johnny over there, guided him into the side facing the wall, and took his own place where he could see the room.

      “I know you?” Johnny said.

      “No.”

      “So how come we’re sitting together?”

      “I wanted to get you off the floor. Because you seem to have some funny ideas on how to treat women.”

      “Huh? Oh, you mean those three? Jeez, I was just trying to be friendly.”

      “You don’t put your hand on a woman like that, especially one you don’t know.”

      “What are you, my father?”

      Logan took a swig of his beer. He put the bottle on the table. Johnny seemed to have lost his somewhere along the way. “Let’s talk about Tiffany.”

      Johnny’s eyes darted around in their sockets, as if he couldn’t think without moving part of his body. It was like when people move their lips when they read, which Logan was fairly sure Johnny did too.

      Finally Johnny said, “How come you know about Tiff?”

      “I know all about you, Johnny P. Jones.”

      “Wait. Am I being punked? Are there cameras?”

      “Tiffany’s in the hospital. You put her there. We need to deal with that.”

      “What? Tiff’s in the hospital? I got to go see her.”

      He made to get up. Logan reached across and grabbed his forearm and applied pressure. “Don’t.”

      “How’d she get in the hospital? And who the fuck are you, anyway?”

      “She got in the hospital because you put her there.”

      “No way.”

      “Really? I’m supposed to expect that a schmuck like you, who grabs girls in bars, doesn’t get physical with his girlfriend?”

      Johnny’s eyes were jerking in their sockets again. He said, “Girlfriend?”

      “Tiffany’s not your girlfriend?”

      “Hell, no. She’s my sister.”

      Logan had run across guys who’d hit their sisters a time or two, but he wasn’t getting that vibe from Johnny. “If you didn’t do it, who did?”

      “Fucked if I know.” Again, he went to stand. This time Logan let him. “I gotta go see her. Is she gonna be okay?”

      The vibe Logan was getting was that the kid really cared about his sister.

      “She’ll live,” he said.

      Johnny dashed off across the floor and out the door. Logan sat there. Wait for it, he told himself.

      And back into the bar came Johnny