Chapter 1

1

Roy Dunham gave a lackadaisical swipe to the shiny surface of the bar. He glanced up at the clock, then issued the time-honored warning. “Last call for alcohol.” It was a few minutes short of one o’clock in the morning. Most of the regular crowd had already tipped their last glass or bottle and left. A couple of die-hards were going to wait until the last minute. It had been a slow midweek night. His tips barely made the shift worthwhile.

Oh, well, there’ll be other nights.

He stepped out from behind the bar, starting across to turn off the flashing neon advertising sign and flip the one on the door to read CLOSED. At that moment, the door swung inward. A tall, impressively well-built man in the dark blue uniform of the San Pablo police department entered the bar, a sleek, tawny dog at his left, pointed muzzle even with his knee. Roy stopped in his tracks.

Gawdamighty, that’s the most gorgeous hunk of manhood I’ve ever seen.

The officer could have posed for a recruiting poster for some Viking’s crew, an epitome of Norse masculinity. He wore his sandy-blond hair buzz-cut close to a well-shaped skull. Chiseled features with high cheekbones and an angular jaw set off a pair of brilliant blue eyes. Below that, broad shoulders barely fit through the bar’s front door. His body was a perfect wedge, tapering from those impressive shoulders down to lean flanks and long legs. The man’s military posture set off his uniform, well-fitted navy blue shirt and trousers, glossy black leather belt, holster and other gear, and the shiny bronze badge on his chest.

“Everybody, stay right where you are. My dog located drugs in a car out in the lot. The man who was heading toward it fled when he saw us. I think he came back inside.”

Roy stood his ground. “Nobody’s come in for the past half-hour, officer.” The man might look like a Teutonic god, but his arrogant tone grated. “This is a quiet, orderly place. We don’t tolerate drug dealing, violence, or anything but law-abiding behavior.”

The gas-flame blue eyes flickered to him and as quickly away, in clear dismissal. When the policeman barked a harsh, guttural word, the dog left his side. It began to move around the room in a zigzag pattern, dark nose twitching.

Roy stepped back a couple of paces to edge behind the bar. The dog and the cop both ignored him. After the dog sniffed and then passed the three remaining patrons, the cop gave them a nod. “Get out. It’s closing time, whether you’re done or not.”

For a moment, Roy considered raising a protest, but then he decided it wouldn’t do any good. Besides, the Tavasci Brothers, who owned The Sundown Club and several other bars around San Pablo, didn’t like trouble. They wanted business to be quiet, orderly and completely within the confines of the law. Crossing a cop was not in their standard operating procedures.

Like many families on the fringes of organized crime, Phil and Emil Tavasci operated a number of legitimate businesses, which they kept squeaky clean. They were good employers if you were loyal, reliable, and played by their rules. Roy had known worse over the years, for sure. Knowing that, he tried to do the best job he could. He needed the work, a steady job, while he got back on his feet after leaving the Navy hospital. He relied on his pay to keep a roof over his head and food on the table. It was a point of pride to support himself.

He went back to his evening clean-up routine, keeping an eye on the officer and the dog, but with no particular concern. He felt sure no one had come in recently. The muffled sound from the direction of the storeroom at the rear of the bar caught him by surprise. When he wheeled to face the doorway, he found himself looking into the muzzle of a large caliber pistol, probably a .44 Magnum.

Obeying the stranger’s silent hand signals, Roy edged back until he found himself between the stranger and the cop. Maybe he’ll get distracted in a minute, and I can disarm him. Yeah, right. Me and how many Marines?That wasn’t much of a hope, but he could hardly argue with a man holding such a businesslike weapon on him.

From their reactions, the officer and his patrol dog both saw the swarthy man at the same instant. The policeman barked another command. The dog froze, staring intently at the intruder, almost quivering with tension as it awaited the command to attack. Stopping midreach in going for his own sidearm, the cop’s gaze riveted to the pistol in the man’s hand. In a heartbeat, the intruder closed on Roy, snaking an arm out to get him in a choke hold.