Free Cold Blood by Theresa Monsour

have to agree,” Murphy said. She sipped her Coke.
    He stared at Murphy’s chest. “You should be up there, baby.” He thumbed toward the stage; the boney blonde had been replaced by a chubby blonde, also with dark pubic hair. She turned her back to the crowd and bent forward, looking between her legs while hanging on to her ankles.
    â€œNo,” said Murphy. “That’s not my kind of dancing.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t have to dance,” he said. “All you’d have to do is get naked and stand there and they’d slide you wads of cash. Know why?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œÂ â€™Cause you got a rack.” With the word rack he slammed his right hand on the bar.
    â€œThanks,” Murphy said dryly.
    â€œNo. I mean it. I could talk to the manager. I know the manager.” He threw his left arm around her shoulders and leaned into her right ear. “Listen. Here’s the plan.” He stopped talking and frowned. “I forgot what I was going to say.”
    Murphy pushed his arm off her. “You were going to ask the bartender for a cup of coffee and a sandwich.”
    He nodded. “Good idea.” He raised his finger again. A male bartender—a tall black guy in a square haircut—approached him. The drunk pointed to his glass.
    â€œNo way, buddy. You’re done,” the bartender said, and walked to the other end of the bar.
    The female bartender set a plate of burger and fries in front of Murphy, and a bottle of ketchup. The drunk picked up the bottle and squirted a puddle of ketchup on Murphy’s plate. Set the bottle down.
    â€œHey!” said Murphy. He picked a couple of fries off her plate, dipped them in the ketchup and started eating them. She slid the plate in front of him. “Put this on his tab,” she told the female bartender. “He needs it more than I do.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” said the woman. “I’m gonna get someone over here to deal with this joker.” She walked over to thetall bartender and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and picked up a phone under the bar.
    â€œI got what I need,” Murphy said to herself. She pulled some bills out of her purse, threw them on the bar and hopped off the stool. Threw her purse strap over her shoulder and went out the door. She was reaching in her purse for her keys when she heard someone behind her. She turned. The drunk redhead. He had ketchup on his chin. “What the hell do you want?” she asked.
    He stepped toward her. “I think you know.” He pressed her against the side of the Jeep and cupped her left breast over her jacket. “You gotta be a hooker, coming into a place like this by yourself. With tits like these. What do you charge for a knob job, huh?”
    She pushed him off of her and he fell against her again. Reached around and cupped her buttocks with his hands. “Come on, baby. This your day off or what?”
    â€œMy friend,” Murphy said. “You picked the wrong ass to grab.” She pushed him off of her with both hands, stepped behind him and slammed him face-first into the Jeep. She grabbed each of his wrists in each of her hands and pulled his arms behind him.
    â€œMurphy. Need some help?”
    She looked over her shoulder. Two uniforms. She recognized both of them. The male bartender must have called them. “Yeah. Take this asshole to detox.” She stepped away.
    The bigger of the two uniforms held the drunk’s arms behind his back while his partner cuffed the guy’s wrists. They flipped him over so he faced them. He looked at Murphy. “Why’d you call the cops, baby?”
    Murphy was wiping the front of her jacket with a wad of tissue. The guy had ketchup on his hands and had gotten some on her. “I am the cops,” she said.
    â€œShit,” the drunk muttered.
    The two uniforms walked him over to their squad. They eased him into the back while Murphy