I catch sight of frantic movement by the front door and realize the crowd outside has gotten tired of waiting and is now trying to push past the bouncers to get in. They’re not even real bouncers; I didn’t have the money available to hire the security a night like this needed.
Things are about to get ugly.
I spot Zach behind the bar, drenched with sweat as he pours three drinks at once and faces the stretching arms in front of him with a zombie-like stare.
“Finish those and stop serving,” I order. I raise my voice loud enough for the other bartenders and the first row of people waiting to hear. “No more drinks from here on out! Bar’s closed!”
Apparently that was the wrong move.
People immediately start yelling profanities and banging their fists on the bar. Their faces warp and twist into booze-fueled snarls, eyes hazy but still sentient enough to focus on one thing: anger. I’ve created a hoard of angry drunks.
“You heard me!” I roar as loud as I can. It’s not the first time I’ve had to cut someone off; it’s possibly the first time I’ve had to cut quite thismanypeople off, but the principles are the same. “We have water if you need it. If not, go dance or go home!”
The few customers close enough to stand a chance of hearing me don’t seem to be in a state to process the words. I hear someone loudly refer to me as a bitch, but again, wouldn’t be the first time. I can practically feel Zach’s nervous energy radiating off him even as he stands his ground, copying my arms-crossed-feet-planted-wide bartender power stance as we face off with the crowd.
This is the moment of truth. This is when they either back off or we find ourselves dealing with an all-out riot.
A few assholes keep pounding on the bar, but by now, the message that there’s no more alcohol being served has rippled back a few rows, and the less tenacious party-goers are turning to the dance floor.
“Come on, kids,” I mutter under my breath. “Don’t make me have to call the cops.”
We’re at least twenty or thirty people over capacity. I should have put my foot down, but a few of Code Ventura’s friends showed up late, and I gave the bouncers permission to let them in. The last thing Taverne Toulouse needs right now is a health and safety violation charge.
“It’s working!” Zach shouts in my ear. “They’re giving up!”
He’s right; like sullen teenagers retreating to their bedrooms, the crowd seems to have accepted that they’re not getting what they want. A hefty portion shuffles towards the door in search of a bar thatwillserve them, and it’s the first time in a long time I’ve been glad to see so many customers leave.
Only they can’t leave.
A handful of my staff are forming a human barricade to keep the people on the street from bursting inside like broken water main.
“Shit.”
Zach follows where my attention has gone and immediately cries, “DeeDee!” before tensing his muscles like he’s about to hurtle himself over the bar.
I put a hand on his chest. “Easy there, cowboy. She’s fine. I need you to go cut the audio in the back and turn the house lights on. We’re shutting this party down.”
He doesn’t look happy about leaving DeeDee where she’s quite capably making up part of the front door defence team, but after a moment of indecision, he nods and follows his orders. I just hope the guy knows how to kill the sound system. There are a lot of wires back there.
I let myself out through the gate and onto the main floor, where I commence the perilous crossing to the front door. DeeDee greets me with a string of French curse words when I finally appear beside her.
“They’re cray cray!” she shouts as a guy in a tank top tilts toward us before righting himself at the last second. “Totally cray cray!”
She’s the only person I know who still says ‘cray cray.’
“We’re closing!” I call out, loud enough that I hope the bouncers can hear too. “They’re about to cut the sound. Show’s over.”
DeeDee bobs her head and then moves back a few inches, cupping her hands around her mouth.
I cover my ears in preparation. She inhales like an opera singer about to deliver a particularly difficult aria and then let’s it rip.
“YOU HEAR THAT, MOTHERFUCKERS? SHOW’S OVER. GET THE FUCK OUT.”
DeeDee and I have had many chats about hownotto close a bar, but for once, I’m glad none of my lessons have ever stuck with her. The music isn’t even off yet, and I doubt a single person in here didn’t catch at least some of what she said.
Unfortunately, the warning doesn’t come quite quick enough. Just a few feet to my left, some guy punches some other guy over whatever insult he shouted before DeeDee’s grand announcement, and it’s like the whole crowd perks up to sniff the scent of violence. They’re rowdy and pissed off already; the blood dripping from the guy’s nose is like gasoline spewing over a fire.
People start pushing harder. They start yelling louder. Somebody else throws a punch, and that’s when people start running.
