Real-Life Roadhouse


I’d been out of police work for several months when the owner of a rowdy extremely rowdy nightclub/bar called to ask if I’d join him for lunch. I thought the request to be a bit odd since I really didn’t know the man, but I agreed to the meeting. Besides, it was free meal in a decent restaurant.

After the usual pleasantries, he got right to the point. He was experiencing a rash of trouble at his club—fights, drug sales, shootings and stabbings—and he needed help to “cool” things down. Not only was the damage to his place becoming expensive, the local authorities were threatening to revoke his business license.

The place definitely had a surly reputation and my initial reaction was to say, “Thanks but no thanks.” However, I was sort having a touch of withdrawal symptoms from missing the many years of sudden bursts of adrenaline pulsing through my tired veins. Hell, I hadn’t been shot at in nearly eight months. Not even so much as someone waving a knife in my direction. Yes, my life had become as dull as a