Coal Country (a vignette)

By Paul Clark (aka motomynd)

In a split second, my friend Buckshot had a knife blade through his hand, all the way through, so that the point was protruding maybe two inches out the back. When that happens on TV, or in the movies, all hell breaks loose. Looking back some 40 years, I still marvel at how everything went into slow motion. Playing it back, I can still see the scene, and what led up to it, almost in stop action, frame by agonizing frame.
    It was a fairly quiet night at Jack’s Place, the biggest, toughest bar in coal country. Buckshot was a 30-something coal miner whose boss had talked him into helping with security work. I was a 22-year-old insurance agent, who Buck had pulled into his doings way more than I ever wanted to be a part of them. When someone is a nice enough guy, in his gruff, coal country way, and he is your lifeline for landing more clients in the region, you play the game. But this game was getting out of hand.

Buckshot and I had been sitting at a table, talking business, me drinking a scotch, him a beer, both keeping a wary eye on the noticeably well-dressed guys drinking wine at a table on the other side of the well-worn dance floor. There were four of them and they were from up North, Jersey probably, or maybe New York City. We knew they were mob “muscle” and they knew we knew, and they didn’t care. Where they were from, no one dared stand up to them; they had only just begun to learn that coal country was a different kind of place.
    A waitress went to their table, then tried to back away as one of them gently but firmly grabbed her by the arm, his left hand around her right wrist. So he was a lefty. That might be important to know. Over the din of Willie Nelson blasting out of the raspy speakers, you could hear her “Let go!” We couldn’t hear his reply, but we could read his lips, something like “I get what I want, and I want you.” She was a beautiful strawberry blonde, early 20s, maybe five foot five inches and 110 pounds: at least he had good taste, if bad manners.
    “Hey,” the bartender yelled, “cut it out.”
    Two of the guy’s friends stood up, and he himself slid his chair back so he was clear of the table, and then he put a little more pressure on the blonde’s wrist and pulled her onto his lap.
    “Well shit! Here we go,” said Buck, getting to his feet. “Cover me.”
    “He’s a lefty,” I said. “Watch it.”
    “Thanks.”
    Buckshot circled to his right so he didn’t block my line of sight as he approached the table. One of the two guys who had stood up took a step toward him. There was a flash of motion, what looked like an awkward punch, and Buckshot blocked it with his left hand. And there he stood, knife blade coming out the back of his hand, and the guy still holding onto the handle.
    The bartender yelled something. The blonde screamed. People started rising to their feet. A beer bottle shattered as it fell to the floor.
    Buckshot’s right hand shot out, grabbing his attacker by the throat. Back in Jersey, or New York, this guy was feared. Here he was just a slightly built, well-dressed city boy who had just stabbed a guy built like a refrigerator with a head. Already fighting for air, he let go of the knife and grabbed Buckshot’s forearm with both hands. With the knife still sticking through his left hand, Buckshot clamped down harder with his right hand and started dragging the guy back toward our table.
    The other guy who had stood up took a step forward. “No!” yelled the guy who still had the waitress in his lap. I noticed he was looking straight at me as he said it, and I realized he and I were the only two people in the bar still seated. It had all happened so quickly, I still had my right hand under the table, and my shot glass in my left hand. He still had his left hand around the blonde’s wrist, and his right hand under the table. We both knew what that meant.
    Buckshot dragged the guy he had by the throat past our table and on toward the back door. “Shoot anybody that tries to follow,” he told me loudly, as he kicked open the door and dragged the guy outside. I heard a loud “damn!” from outside and assumed he had just pulled the knife out of his own hand. Then I heard his truck start, the distinctive exhaust coughing loudly as the motor came to life.
    I never took my eyes off the guy still holding onto the blonde. I never moved my right or left hand. He put his mouth close to her ear, said something quietly, and let go of her wrist. She stood up, furious but under control. He reached in his suit jacket, pulled out something, handed it to her. It looked to be a bill, probably something that was big money for a waitress in 1970s coal country. She managed a smile, backed away, and disappeared behind the bar.
    He looked at me again. Then he put both hands on the table, and then raised his wine glass and tipped it toward me. Keeping my right hand under the table, I raised my shot glass with my left hand and tipped it.
    There were now three of them, one of me. They were all pros, no doubt; I was an insurance agent in way over my head. But they knew what had happened a few months earlier when three of their cronies had ambushed Buckshot and I happened to be riding with him. They also knew just about everyone in the bar was a friend of Buckshot’s. If this settled down with only one guy lost, and no cops called, they would take that. They had tested the situation, probably learned something in the process, and lost a guy they probably weren’t all that upset about losing. There are a lot of deep, dark mine pits in coal country; they no doubt anticipated that their associate would wind up in one of them the moment Buckshot grabbed him by the throat.
    The waitress reappeared from behind the bar. The guy put up both hands, an apologetic gesture it seemed, and she cautiously walked to his table. He reached in his jacket pocket, gave her a couple more bills, and pointed my way. She looked at me, raised an eyebrow, again disappeared behind the bar.
    Then he stood, turned toward the front door of the bar, and walked out, one of his friends in front, the other directly behind, making sure no one could get a clear shot, just in case.
    Within minutes the bar returned to what one could call almost normal. I was pondering the best bet for safely walking to my car, when the waitress came to my table. She was carrying a bottle of scotch, Laphroaig 10-Year Cask. “That guy bought this for you, said he was sorry we didn’t have anything better. Said to give you the bottle, figured you wouldn’t drink it unless it was sealed.”
    We both laughed. “This is a great scotch,” I said. “Hardly any place would carry anything better.”
    “I wondered about that,” she said. “We never used to have it, but Buckshot makes sure we keep it here for you. Want me to open it for you?”
    “No. I really need to get out of here. Just pondering strategy.”
    “Stay as long as you want. Bartender said he has two friends near the front door keeping an eye on things.”
    “Thanks.”
    And there I sat, a stranger in a strange town, my only local friend gone who knows where, and my .357 revolver locked in my car, in a dark parking lot, surrounded by trees and bushes. Buckshot’s gun was in a box he had left on the table, but it was some sort of semi-automatic I hardly knew how to shoot. The only thing my right hand had been holding under the table was my right knee, trying to keep it from shaking. Sometimes a bluff works.

Copyright © 2020 by Paul Clark