However, I couldn’t help but notice the argument raging at a nearby table. Two men spoke loudly as if they were in their own kitchen, not caring a fig who might be listening. I put the older man at sixty. Hard. You could roller skate on him. The younger man was twenty, twenty-five maybe, and soft, with a pockmarked face and a pale complexion. Life in the great outdoors hadn’t done him any good at all. Jab a cigarette in his mouth and lean him against the lamppost outside the bus depot in downtown St. Paul, and he’d look just like any other punk you’ve ever seen.

“You don’t believe me, you go on down to The Forks Casino and Restaurant. Take a look at the number of little kids locked inside the cars while their parents are gamblin’ away the grocery money,” the older man said.

“Can’t stop folks from being shitty parents. Just look at you, old man,” replied the younger. “But you can put money in their jeans. That’s what a gamblin’ casino does, gives people work. Looka what happened when the Indians built The Forks.”

“What happened? What happened?”

“We got businesses movin’ in.”

“What businesses? The Forks ain’t brought no business here exceptin’ the pawnshop. Isn’t that great? We got a pawnshop now. And the resort that bitch is buildin’ on Lake Peterson, across from where they say they’re gonna build a new casino? That’s gonna take business outta town, not bring it in.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s good for whores,” the younger man insisted. “Too bad your old lady croaked. You coulda put her out and made a fortune.”

The older man wiped his face slowly and deliberately with his hand as if the punk had just spit on him and he was deciding what to do about it. He stood.

“You aimin’ to try me, old man?” The punk jumped to his feet and gestured with both hands for the older man to come ahead. The older man took one determined step forward. As he did, the younger man reached into his hip pocket and brought out a knife. The blade sprang from the handle like a flash of lightning. The older man backed away.

The younger man giggled. “C’mon, c’mon, you’ve been asking for this.”

“Excuse me,” I said. While the punk was terrorizing the older man, I crept quietly behind him. He spun at my voice, the blade of the knife held low. I grabbed his knife hand, making sure my thumb was tight between his third and fourth knuckles, and then simply dislodged the switchblade with my knee. When he dropped the weapon, I pushed him backward, not enough to knock him down but far enough to be able to retrieve the knife from the floor unmolested. I went back to my stool and closed the switchblade, tossing it on the bar top.

“You may continue,” I said.

What a smart-ass. No wonder the older man turned on me. “Any of this your affair?” he shouted.

Before I could answer, he was on me, covering the floor like a cat. I pushed myself off the stool and fell to my knees, ducking under his haymaker and punching him in the groin. I followed with an elbow to the jaw, and he went down. Only he didn’t stay down long. He rolled and sprang at me again. Again I hit him and again he fell. I stole a glance at the punk. He watched for a few moments, grew bored, and turned his attention to a pinball machine in the corner as the older man struggled to his feet. It took him a little longer this time, but he made it, licking at the blood that now flowed freely from a tear in his upper lip. He smiled—actually smiled!—giving me the impression that he had been in many a barroom fight in his time and that he was enjoying himself immensely.

I almost shouted at him, “Hey, old man, you win, I’ll go quietly”—anything to get out of that place in one piece. But I didn’t have the chance. He charged at me again. This time I was able to brush him aside, letting his momentum carry him into an empty chair and table. “Jesus, how do I get into these things?” I asked aloud, shivering with the realization that I needed to hurt this big hard-ass and soon. Hurt him before he hurt me.

He was back on his feet, quicker this time, but the murderous light in his eyes flickered out as he looked over my shoulder toward the door.

“You just about finished here, Johnny, or do I have time to go out for popcorn?”

The voice was soft and low, but it resonated with the hard ring of authority. It belonged to a woman wearing a deputy sheriff’s uniform. I turned just enough to see her moving toward us while still keeping a wary eye on the older man.

“Whoa, boys, it’s Deputy Sweet Cheeks!” yelled a patron with a Green Bay Packers cap on his head.

“Sweet enough to use your balls for batting practice if you call me that again,” she replied, looking at him without a trace of malice.

“Police harassment!” someone shouted.

“No, that’s sexual harassment,” she countered, smiling sweetly. Everyone had a good laugh, including the Packer backer, his buddy slapping him on the shoulder, saying, “She got you good that time.” The tension in the room dissipated quickly. All those country boys, they were on her side now. How to Win Friends and Influence People with Humor. I wished I could do that.

Still, Johnny raised his fist as the deputy approached. She casually slapped it down. “Cut it out, you guys,” she said for everyone to hear and then asked in a low whisper, “Are you really going to hit me in front of all these folks, Mr. Johannson? I mean, you could, but it ain’t gonna look good, you know? ‘Hear ’bout Johnny?’ people will say. ‘Punched hisself a little girl over to The Last Chance.’ People around here be jokin’ on you for a hundred years. They’d be sayin’ you ain’t no gentleman.”

That last remark caused Johnny’s head to flinch ever so slightly. And then he lowered his eyes. Cops are taught to read body language, and Johnny’s told me that while he’d be happy to stomp my heart into the floor, he would never hit a woman. I wondered if the deputy had seen it. Apparently she had.

“Best you step outside with me. In private,” she said to Johnny. “Later, you can tell these jokers that it goes against your upbringing to punch me out. You can tell ’em I remind you of your daughter. How is Angel, anyway?”

“She’s doin’ good,” Johnny answered in a soft voice, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. “She’s thinkin’ of movin’ up to Superior end of summer. Maybe finish school.”

“Is that right? Good. Well, let’s you and me step outside. You, too,” she said, gesturing toward me with her chin. “Superior, huh?” she added as we moved toward the door. “Gotta remember to pay my respects before she leaves.”

Gretchen Rovick had short, straight, sun-splashed hair tucked neatly under her wide-brimmed hat, eyes that nearly matched the mahogany trim of her deputy suit, a small, round face, and an athletic figure. She was one of the few women I’ve met who actually looked good in a uniform.

“It was my fault,” I admitted when she asked the inevitable question: What happened? “I interfered in a private dispute.”

“Dispute?”

“My boy got a little outta hand,” Johnny Johannson said. “I guess this young fella thought he was doin’ me a service. Weren’t necessary.”

“Your boy?! That was your son?!” I asked. He did not answer.

“Are you pressing charges, Mr. Johannson?”

“No, ma’am,” he answered without looking at me.

“How about you?” she asked me.

“No ma’am,” I replied.

“Now all we have to worry about is Eldon,” Gretchen said, gesturing at the bar.

“Don’t worry none about him, Deputy,” Johannson said. “Him and me go way back. ’Sides, I don’t think nothin’ got broke.”

“Well, maybe I should arrest you both, anyway. Can’t have people fightin’ in public places, know what I mean?”

Johnny nodded his head.

“If there’s a next time …”

“Won’t be a next time,” Johnny vowed contritely.

“All right, then,” Gretchen said, tossing her hands in the air, closing the incident. However, when Johannson headed back toward The Last Chance, Gretchen called after him, “You gotta do something about that boy, Mr. Johannson. He’s headed for big trouble again, just like in Minneapolis. And no slick lawyer is gonna get him out of it this time.”