Dwight jerked the cell phone away from his ear. The roaring of his employer on the other end of the line, still heard plainly.
“I don’t care what you have to do, Evans! Just get those contracts signed and get them to me immediately or don’t bother returning here.”
Even on his best day never mistaken for a princely fellow, on this particular evening, Sir Reginald Dunwitty could truly be called a dark and stormy knight.
Carefully, Dwight closed his cell phone and reached for his handkerchief, his brow dripping with perspiration.
The suddenly attentive, bartender eyed the trembling customer. Pointing at the empty glass, he asked. “Would you care for another?”
“What?” Dwight stared at the bartender a moment before tracking the pointing finger to the glass in front of him. “Yes, I think I could use one more. Then I really must get back to work.”
Reaching under the bar for a bottle, Larry the bartender quickly filled a glass with the cheapest gin. “The boss is on the war path, huh? It sounded like he was about to go postal, I could hear him from here. In fact, I would guess that the guy at the other end of the bar heard him too.”
Wiping his forehead once more, Dwight sighed and said, “Yes, that’s an accurate assessment, I would say that is about it in a nutshell. He is indeed on the war path and about to go postal.”
“Well, what ya gonna do? Larry shrugged and gave a wry smile. “Bosses have all the power and usually, all the money. All of us peons just have to toe the line, I guess. I know I have to put up with a lot of crap from the big chief here. Gotta pay the bills though, and I have gotten used to eating three square meals a day.”
“Yes, indeed.” Dwight nodded, before upending his glass and draining it in one gulp. “What ya gonna do?”
Larry leaned across the bar and raised an eyebrow. “I tell you what I would do if I had just a little nerve.” he whispered. “This place makes quite a haul on payday nights. I would pick me up one of those little Saturday night specials, line my pockets with some long green and make a beeline for the border.”
Dwight, starting to feel the grip of the rotgut gin he had just consumed, wasn’t as shocked as he should have been. “Oh yeah?” he whispered, “Where might a person pick up one of those?”
Larry leaned back and studied the inebriated customer. “Well, I have heard that Little Mike, sitting right down there at the end of the bar, could be in that sort of business.”
“Oh yeah?” Dwight glanced down the bar at the giant black man. “Hey, Little Mike,” he hollered, “I want to talk to you.”
The next morning’s newspaper headline read… Heroic, quick acting bartender foils would be robber, shoots him dead! Gets reward!