“Stay here,” he commanded, ushering me into a space against the wall. Then he hurried off toward the action. Fists were flying, and I looked on in horror with no clue how to help. I couldn’t even see Matthew anymore, much less assist him. There was a pool stick on the floor near my feet, and I grabbed it because it seemed like the wise thing to do. Then I swung my head around, searching for a familiar face, finding none in sight.
Right as I was considering calling the police to stop the violence, Chef scrambled toward me with Dwight in hot pursuit. There was no time to think before I acted, letting Chef pass by then holding out the pool stick at ankle height to catch Dwight unaware. As soon as he tripped and went flying forward, I dropped the stick and scooted out of there. As I hurried toward the front of the bar, Ella, the petite bartender, appeared out of nowhere and hopped onto the pool table with a fire extinguisher in one hand and an air horn in the other. The air horn got the place silent, except for the dulcet tones of Rosanne Cash singing through the speakers, and Ella dropped it onto the pool table. Then she waved the fire extinguisher at the crowd.
“Cut it out or I’m aiming for you,” she warned. “This thing will blow a man clear across the room, as you’ve witnessed before.”
My sister’s boyfriend, Nick, the retired fire captain, had told me the same thing about a blast from a fire extinguisher. He’d said to keep one under the bed “in case fires and intruders.”
She aimed the nozzle at Dwight. “Clear out of here.”
“He owes me money, Ella,” Dwight whined.
“And you know there’s no gambling in The Marmot,” she shot back. “But if you leave now, I’ll let you come back again to play pool and drink beer. How about that?”
She was seriously impressive, and Dwight must have thought so too, because he headed toward the door. His departure immediately ratcheted down the tension in the room since the major cause of conflict had been, for lack of a better word, extinguished.
Ella hopped off the pool table, and we both went to check on Chef, who had taken on a greenish pallor as he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
“You alright?” she asked.
He nodded as he swayed backwards. The tall guy, the one protecting me, moved in to catch him before he hit the ground.
“Drunk as a skunk,” he pronounced as he held onto Chef around his middle. “Probably a little light-headed from the excitement, too.”
“I’m fine.” Chef briefly opened his eyes before shutting them and going silent.
Matthew stalked over to us, and, thank goodness, he wasn’t bleeding or limping, although there was a red area on his cheekbone that was starting to swell.
“I’ll get him home, Ella,” he said. “I’m sorry for disturbing the peace tonight.”
“It’s never peaceful here on weekends,” she said briskly, tucking a wayward curl back into the bun on her head. “Seems like people are angrier and drunker lately. I think I need a new business plan.”
Matthew guided Chef toward the door, and Ella and I followed behind them. The noise in the bar resumed, customers picked up chairs that had been knocked over, and life at The Mangy Marmot went on like nothing had ever happened.
“Can I get some ice?” I asked.
Her hazel eyes softened. “Are you hurt?”
“No, it’s for Matthew. I think his cheek is going to bruise. I noticed some swelling.”
She pressed her mouth closed as if trying to hide a smile. “Sure thing. We wouldn’t want to mar that pretty face of his.”
While Ella went behind the bar and filled a plastic bag with ice, I pondered whether she’d been teasing me about Matthew’s good looks because she knew I had a crush on him. Was it that obvious?
“Here you go.” She leaned over the bar and handed me the ice pack. That’s when I noticed the animal behind her—a taxidermied furry thing about the size and color of a groundhog, posed on a stump of wood.
“What is that?” I asked, pointing to him.
“That’s The Dude, our mascot. Don’t worry. He died of natural causes.”
“Is he a marmot?” I studied him and he stared back. “He looks disturbingly alive.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty adorable, honestly. You might see one around, if you stay long enough.”
“Fabulous.” At least they were smaller than cows.
I said goodnight to Ella and went outside to help Matthew take Chef Damon to the Suburban, which was parked in the street not far from where we’d left the pickup truck. He was compliant, but also on the verge of passing out. We managed to buckle him in before he slumped over, drunk as a skunk or, perhaps, a marmot.
“What’s going on over here?” It was Sam calling to us as he crossed the street, looking freshly showered and handsome. “Are you two going to The Marmot for a drink?”
