BARON CLOSED HIS eyes and inwardly groaned.
He reopened his eyes and kept his hands clasped around his cocktail. It was his—well, he couldn’t remember how many he’d had. The previous ones had felt great going down, though.
This one was even better.
And then they had come along to spoil it.
“You that dude John Baron, ain’t you?”
Baron looked over at the three young men who were standing next to his seat at the bar.
The young female bartender nervously wiped out a glass and watched the confrontation.
Baron lifted the glass to his lips, took a sip, and let the smooth scotch cut by soda work its way down his throat. He set the glass down and said, “I am. Is there an issue?”
The men were dressed in dirty jeans, T-shirts, and oversized sneakers with no laces, and two of them wore Pittsburgh Steelers caps.
The first man, the largest of the trio, grinned maliciously. “An issue? Man, we ain’t got issues. But maybe you got some stuff hanging over you.”
“Such as?”
“Your damn family screwing this whole town.”
“And exactly how did they do that?”
“Closed the mines. Shut down the mills.”
“After running them for decades and providing employment for much of the town? Probably for your parents. And grandparents. And great-grandparents.” He took another sip of his drink. “Thus I see no evidence that we screwed anybody.”
“You ain’t give me no job,” said the man.
“I didn’t know it was my job to give you a job,” replied Baron.
The second man spoke up. “You live up in that big house on the hill. Think you’re better’n we are.”
“I can assure you that not only do I not think I’m better than anyone, I know that I’m not. As for the big house, looks can definitely be deceiving.”
“My mom says you got old coins and jewels up there. She said you just pretend to be poor.”
Baron turned to look at him. “Pretend to be poor? Who the hell would do that? Would you?” He looked at the other two men. “Or you?”
“Mom says you folks are inbred. Marry your sister and stuff. Screws up your mind. So maybe you would pretend to be poor.”
“Well, I don’t have a sister. And I’m not married. And I’m not pretending to be poor. So strike three and you’re out.”
“Don’t think so,” said the first man. He shoved Baron so hard he nearly toppled from his stool.
The bartender said, “Hey, don’t make me call the cops. Leave him alone.”
“You gonna let a girl fight your battles?” said the second man in a sneering tone.
“I’m warning you,” said the bartender, her hand on her cell phone.
The man pushed Baron again. “You gonna do that? Hide behind a girl, asshole?”
Baron threw the rest of his drink in the man’s face.
“No, I’m really not,” he said, standing up and towering over them.
His face dripping with scotch and soda, the man swung his fist at Baron, who caught it and wrenched it up and then behind the man’s back.
He gave him a hard push and sent him sprawling on the floor.
Baron blocked the blow from the second man and lashed out with his fist, catching him on the chin.
But the third man kidney-punched Baron from behind and he staggered and fell down against the bar.
The other two men jumped up and started punching and kicking him. There were other people in the bar, but none of them tried to stop the pounding Baron was taking.
Except one.
“FBI!”
Amos Decker had his weapon pointed at the men.
They all froze.
“Get away from him. Now!” barked Decker, who had just walked in to see this beating. After the men retreated, he glanced at Baron. “You okay?”
Baron, his lip bloody and his right eye puffy, struggled up and managed to stand while holding on to the bar, clutching at his side.
He rubbed his hand along his back and stretched. “No permanent damage, it seems,” he said, though he did wince in pain.
“He threw his drink in my face,” said the first man. “He started it.”
The bartender said, “No he didn’t. You jerks did.”
Decker snapped, “And it’s three on one and you guys are half his age?”
“You needn’t detain them,” said Baron.
“What?” said Decker.
Baron next looked at the bartender, who had started to punch in 911 on her phone. “You don’t have to do that. These young men are obviously a bit intoxicated. I’m sure they meant no harm.”
“I’m pretty sure they meant a lot of harm,” countered Decker. “To you.”
Baron held up his hand. “Nevertheless, it really won’t do any good to have them arrested. And it might do far more bad.”
“You sure?”
“Quite sure, thank you.”
Decker glared at the men. “You so much as think about touching this guy, your asses are mine. Do you understand?”
The largest of them glared at Decker as he wiped scotch from his eyes. “Whatever.”
Decker holstered his gun, marched forward, grabbed him by his shirt, and slammed him up against the wall. “No, not ‘whatever.’ Do you understand?”
“I understand, I understand, okay? Shit!”
Decker let him go and pushed him toward the exit. “Now clear out!”
The three men slowly left, each of them looking back at Decker and Baron before the last one slammed the door behind him.
Decker looked at Baron. “What was that all about?”
“Didn’t you hear?”
“No, I apparently came in too late.”
“Well, the gist of it was that the town is going to hell and it’s my fault.”
“Okay,” said Decker slowly.
“It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, and it’s doubtful it will be the last.”
“So people here hold grudges, I take it?”
“People here hold many things. Can I buy you a drink as a way of thanks?”
Decker sat down at the bar and Baron resumed his seat.
He put out a hand. “Formal introductions. I’m John Baron the Fourth.”
Decker shook his hand. “Amos Decker. I take it the town is named after your family?”
“You would be correct in that, yes. It used to be a good thing, actually. A point of pride. It no longer is, I’m afraid. Well, I suppose you saw that for yourself.”
The bartender said, “Whatever you want, it’s on the house, John. And here, take this.” She handed him a plastic baggie of ice, which he placed against the bruise on his face.
“Very kind of you, Cindi,” said Baron, smiling at her. He ordered a fresh scotch and soda. Decker asked for a beer.
“Here on business?” asked Baron.
“Vacation.”
Baron looked bemused. “You actually came here for…pleasure?”
“My partner has family here. She’s visiting. I tagged along. We’re staying with them.”
Baron took a sip of his drink. “And where is your partner now?”
“Back at the house. I wasn’t ready to go to sleep.”
“And are you enjoying our little paradise?”
“Can’t say that I am, actually. Maybe it has to do with a bunch of murders.”
Baron nodded thoughtfully. “I heard about that. Sounded pretty awful. But hard times lead to bad things.”
“That’s your explanation?”
“I don’t have an explanation. I’m just slowly becoming drunk and jabbering away.”
“Do you do that often?”
“I don’t have much else to do. I come here for about an hour once a week, and then I go home and never leave until I come back here, except to run a short errand or two. And I really have no obligations or responsibilities to get in the way of that little routine.”
“Lucky you.”
“Maybe not so lucky, actually. So, when you came in you called out, ‘FBI.’ Are you a special agent or was that just hyperbole?”
“I’m just a regular cop, but I work with the Bureau.”
“Where are you from?”
“Burlington, Ohio. Rust Belt town like this one.”
“Indeed. And have you been reading into the town’s history and my family’s culpability in its demise?”
“A little.”
“It’s partly true, you know. The town was created because my ancestor, after whom I’m named, discovered a particularly rich vein of coal. Much of it went to Pittsburgh for the blast furnaces in the steel mills. That was why he built coal and coke plants too. And after that he built textile mills. And then he discovered natural gas. He also ran many other businesses and actually owned much of Baronville. In fact, most of the town was in his employ back then. A regular Energizer Bunny of an entrepreneur, with far more luck and capitalistic drive than his family has experienced since.”
“I heard about all the businesses he built. But I hadn’t heard about the steel component.”
Baron nodded. “The coke used in making steel is derived from coal after it undergoes a distillation process. And back then coal was abundant and relatively cheap. Steel magnates flourished, and so did those who supplied their enterprises. In that regard John Baron Sr. was following a tried-and-true formula. He was a ruthless man, so I understand. He crushed unions, paid off corrupt politicians, polluted rivers and the air and the ground. He paid his workers as little as he possibly could and treated people in general as badly as he could. He made an immense fortune and his descendants sponged off that accomplishment.”
“But then it all came tumbling down?”
“It almost always comes tumbling down. America, in general, doesn’t like economic dynasties. Families like the Rockefellers are the exception rather than the rule. We each pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps. Or at least that’s how the theory is supposed to work. I guess there are enough people on the Forbes List who inherited their money to lay waste to that supposition.”
“But your family still had money?”
“Some. At least for a time.”
“Did you know any of the people murdered?”
Baron looked over at him with a curious expression. “That’s quite an abrupt segue. Why do you ask?”
“I’m a cop. I ask questions in the hope of solving crimes.”
“Who were the victims again?”
Decker told him. “The last two have not been identified yet.”
“I can’t say that I know any of them.”
However, Decker noticed the man’s hesitation.
“You sure about that?”
Baron held up his drink. “I’m hardly ever sure of anything. Especially in the Mercury Bar.”
Decker glanced at the bartender, who was listening intently to their conversation while pretending to wipe down the bar. She was quite beautiful, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a tall, lean figure outfitted in black jeans and a sleeveless blouse revealing wiry tanned arms.
Decker looked back at Baron. “You really come here once a week?”
“There’s hardly any other place to go.” He glanced at the bartender. “And I prefer the company here.”
The woman smiled at this, caught Decker staring at her, and quickly turned her attention to putting dirty glasses into a dishwasher behind the bar.
“Can I get your address?”
“Why?” asked Baron.
“I may want to talk to you again.”
“Why?”
“I already told you. I’m a cop trying to solve a crime.”
“Well, then look to the highest spot in town and you will see the biggest, ugliest home. FYI, the doorbell does not work and I don’t get up early.”
Baron drained his glass and inclined his head at the bartender and slid some cash across to pay for the drinks. “Thank you, Cindi. See you next time.” He patted Decker on the shoulder. “And thank you, Mr. Decker, for saving my ass.”
He walked unsteadily away.
“Hey, are you okay to drive?” Decker called after him.
Baron turned, gave a low bow, and held up a hand. “I am absolutely not okay to drive, but I will make a valiant attempt regardless, considering the odds are very good that whatever I might hit will have my family’s name engraved upon it, which will lessen my legal liability.”
Decker watched him go for a few moments and then turned back to the bartender.
Only she was gone too.