If there were a ranking of the smartest people in the bar, the bartender would definitely be number one.
The bartender looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, wearing a white shirt and a black vest. He glanced at the two bucks on the table, then sized up Lance. Under Lance’s watchful gaze, he picked up the money and put it in his pocket.
He looked toward the stage. “That guy wearing blue jeans and a dark green cowboy hat is Hammer.”
The bartender turned back to Lance. “Don’t cause trouble in the bar.”
Lance gave a slight nod and walked to the edge of the stage.
Hammer was in a bad mood today; this was his second drink.
After reporting the illegal immigrants to the union, Hammer’s complaints were ignored by the union folks. He was angry and exhausted from work every day, yet barely made any money. He blamed all of it on those illegal immigrants and immigrants.
The anti-immigration movement didn’t last long, but it gave many failed federals—those who couldn’t find reasons for their failure—a vent for their anger.
They believed their failures were caused by immigrants.
In reality, even without immigrants, they wouldn’t succeed, but now they could convince themselves with a clear enemy to hate.
Hammer should have left after the first drink, but maybe something about the kid he hit at the dock changed his mood, so he ordered another.
He couldn’t help it; his friend also ordered one.
Beer with whiskey—it didn’t seem very strong, but the water went to the bladder, and the alcohol entered the bloodstream. Its effect was neither weak nor small.
Now both were somewhat tipsy, cursing loudly, making the dancers on stage face them.
The dancers were used to freeloaders like these and continued performing their best for customers who tossed coins.
“These hookers are so snobbish, they’re here for show anyway, why not give us more attention!” Hammer kept complaining, whining.
“Fuck!”
He took another big gulp. The cold beer mixed with just enough alcohol made him feel relaxed.
He wiped foam from his mouth and suddenly laughed loudly, bizarrely.
At that moment, several people approached him. One even put an arm around his shoulder from the left side.
“Hammer?”
Hammer looked at the young men around him—none he knew.
Almost instinctively, or unconsciously, he raised his left arm and twisted away, forcing the arm around him to let go.
“Who the fuck are you?”
His colleague stood up too. Both were dock workers, strong and somewhat intimidating.
The man pushed away, Dracy (Hiram’s friend), lost face a bit.
“We need to talk to you. Come with us.”
Hammer blinked and pushed Dracy’s chest.
“You say come, we come…”
Lance, standing beside the stage, grabbed the large beer glass Hammer left on the table and smashed it hard on Hammer’s head!
Blood flowed from the cracked wound on his forehead, staining half his face.
Shattered glass and half a beer turned to foam flying everywhere. The dancers quickly stepped back but didn’t scream.
Hammer’s head was badly hit, losing balance. He grabbed the stage for support but still fell to the floor.
His colleague wanted to help but was held at gunpoint and had to step back.
Dracy and others immediately raised boots and kicked Hammer’s head. The alcohol and the heavy blows made it impossible for Hammer to stand.
He tried to get up but fell hard halfway, earning more kicks to his head and face.
Bar fights among drunk workers were common in port bars. These workers had little education and could start fighting over just a few words when drunk.
The crowd wasn’t scared but excited, shouting “Beat the shit out of him!”
They were just a bunch of people who enjoyed watching chaos.
The bartender asked someone to watch the bar and came over, standing beside Lance.
“You said no trouble.” His expression was sour.
Lance glanced at him, then grabbed a shoulder of someone nearby and jumped onto the stage.
“I’m buying everyone a drink!”
Those watching the fight or planning to leave showed surprised looks at Lance, raising their glasses, whistling, and cheering loudly. Their raised arms showed their enthusiasm.
Lance jumped down from the stage, took out a wad of cash—not counted but at least seventy or eighty bucks—and stuffed it into his pocket.
“If it’s not enough, I’ll have someone bring you more tomorrow. If it’s enough, the rest is on me for you and your friends.”
The bartender was stunned, giving Lance a meaningful look.
“Get him out as soon as possible,” he said, then returned to the bar, where a big crowd was waiting for drinks.
As for Hammer?
Who the fuck cared? Good riddance if someone beats that bastard to death!
A few men dragged the bloody Hammer out of the basement by his hair. In less than ten minutes, everyone was soaked in sweat.
Hammer’s colleague was brought out too. Lance glanced at him, counted out five two-dollar bills, pinched them between his fingers, and put them in the guy’s pocket.
“Go wash up, get a good sleep. Nothing happened.”
“You don’t know Hammer. You don’t know what happened.”
“If I can find him, I can find you, right?”
After all, these were just ordinary workers. Even if he was tough, when facing a group clearly not from their kind, he had to back down.
Besides, there was ten bucks.
“I… uh, I’m not really that close to him,” he said helplessly, but honestly.
Lance patted his shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid. Go.”
The man took a few steps, then looked back repeatedly, then ran as soon as he reached the alley.
The guards and doormen looked at the bloody Hammer being dragged out and winced in pain.
Most people’s shoes had nails embedded in the soles, mainly to protect the leather.
It sounded funny, but it was true.
The first thing most people did after buying leather shoes was nail their heels to reduce wear.
People weren’t wealthy enough to buy new shoes often, so they nailed their shoes to make them last.
Of course, it also made a crisp sound when they walked—some liked that sound. This happened more between the lower and bottom classes.
Lance’s crew were from the bottom. The first thing they did when getting new shoes was to nail them.
You can imagine that although the nails were mostly flat or slightly bumpy, getting kicked in the face with those was still terrifying!
Hammer’s face and head were full of wounds, looking like a bloody gourd.
Lance had someone bring the car around. He took out the two confiscated pistols, removed the magazines, and gave them back to the guard whose face had a blistered hole.
“We can be strangers, friends, or enemies. How we act is up to you.”
“Remember my name—Lance.”
He patted the doorman’s chest, showing thanks for his calmness. When the car arrived, they threw Hammer inside and left.
The doorman looked at the guard.
“Lance?”
The guard was a bit annoyed. Although Lance took the magazines, they weren’t worth much; in other words, they hadn’t really lost anything.
“I’ll go check inside.”
The guard went into the bar. There was no panic—if anything, it was livelier than usual.
He squeezed next to the bartender, who was busy with two apprentices, sweating.
“What happened just now?”
“He bought everyone a drink. Including us.”
The bartender definitely didn’t buy everyone whiskey but the usual forty-proof “bomb”—a large beer plus an ounce of cheap whiskey.
That wouldn’t cost more than fifty bucks; the rest was theirs.
The bartender took out a bottle of Copper Label Napow whiskey. In a low-end bar, it was mid-tier.
He poured a big glass and handed it to the guard.
The guard scratched his head. This was a tricky situation.
Even if he told the gang leaders upstairs, the bar didn’t lose money—instead, it made a lot of profit. The bar owner wouldn’t mind, and neither would the customers.
The only injury was to his face. Was it worth starting a gang war over a small scratch that might not even scar?
Maybe the big boss would throw him into the trash. Gang wars cost money too.
What to do about this?
He was puzzled.
Meanwhile, in the car, Hammer, sobering in the cool night wind, had started to be scared.
He clutched his head and groaned, “You’re looking for the wrong person.”
No one paid attention. He quickly changed his words.
“If I did wrong, I apologize. Please forgive me. Sometimes I act without thinking…”
Ethan beside him raised his fist and started pounding him.
Lance, driving behind, saw the car jolt and knew Ethan was beating him.
The car finally stopped beside the hospital alley. Lance went to the ward. Allen and another young man were chatting at the door.
They stood up immediately seeing Lance and briefly explained the situation.
Lance handed them four packs of cigarettes and twenty bucks.
“Work hard tonight,” he said, then entered the room.
Elvin had already woken up, looking grim.
“The guy has been found. Do you want to deal with him yourself, or should I?”
Elvin immediately perked up.
“I want to do it myself!”
Lance went to the door and said to Allen,
“Get a wheelchair.”
Soon, Lance pushed Elvin outside. When the now subdued Hammer saw Elvin, he knew where the trouble lay.