Free Perfect Justice by William Bernhardt

happened?”
    “Well, that Vietnamese fella was minding his own business, sitting just where you are, when in walks Vick. They talk a little bit, and then he up and says, ‘You—’ ”
    To Ben’s dismay, Mac stopped suddenly, just as the story was becoming interesting. “Maybe I shouldn’t say any more.”
    “Don’t stop now!”
    “No, no.” Mac picked up a bar rag and began polishing the woodwork. “I’ve said too much already.”
    “Mac, I have to prepare a man’s defense. This is a capital crime. You have to help me!”
    “Like hell I do.”
    Ben leaned across the bar. “Look, I’m desperate. You’ve gotta see that—”
    Ben felt two hands slap down harshly on his shoulders, shoving him back onto his stool. Before he had a chance to become curious about who it was, the hands whirled him around.
    It was the two local boys who had accosted him that morning, Garth Amick and his tough-looking friend. Except now they had a third friend, who looked even older and meaner than the first two.
    Garth—still the group spokesperson—leaned into Ben’s face. “I thought I told you to get out of town.”
    “I think you did. So?”
    “You talk pretty tough for a big-city lawyer who’s about to get the hell beaten out of him.” The smell of beer on his breath was thick and nauseating.
    “Why don’t you just go back to your beer and leave me alone?”
    “I’ve got somethin’ else in mind. Hold him, boys.” Garth’s two friends each grabbed one of Ben’s arms.
    “Kincaid!” It was Mac. He’d raced around the side of the bar. At first, Ben thought Mac had come to his rescue. He was quickly disillusioned. “I thought I told you I didn’t want any trouble!”
    “Me? Why are you telling me? I was just sitting here minding my own business.”
    “Should’ve minded it somewhere else.” Garth drew back his fist.
    “Garth!” Mac yelled. “Take it outside. I don’t want any more damage to my place.”
    “Fine.” Garth grabbed Ben by the shirt collar and jerked him toward the front door. His two friends held tight to Ben’s arms.
    They made it to the door just at the same split second that Sonny Banner and his two bodyguard buddies came in. Banner and Garth almost bumped heads.
    “Banner! Thank goodness!” So this was what it had come to, Ben thought grimly. He was overjoyed to see a bunch of white supremist headbashers saunter in. “What are you doing here?”
    “This wath where you thold uth to wait, ’member?” The thickness of his tongue left Ben little doubt about what the boys had been doing all day. He began to have serious doubts about the imminence of his rescue. “What the hell ith going on?”
    “None of your goddamn business,” Garth barked. “Just get out of our way.”
    Banner inflated his chest. “Not till I get thome answers.”
    “We’re just going out for a chat.” Ben felt the hands on his arms tightening.
    “Zat right?”
    Ben shook his head. “They’re taking me outside, to use their own words, to beat the hell out of me.”
    “Zat so? Three against one? Figures. Vietcong-loving punkth.”
    “Screw off, you redneck freak,” Garth said. “I don’t have to take—”
    The first punch landed squarely on Garth’s jaw and sent him reeling. Ben felt both of Garth’s friends release his arms. They raised their fists to defend themselves.
    “Take it outside!” Mac shouted from behind them. “Take it—”
    It was too late. Ben ducked out of the way and the three locals took on the three ASP men one-on-one. Garth and his crew were spirited and resilient, but they were outmatched in weight and skill. The three ASPers were a bit sluggish, but they were still more than able to hold their own.
    Ben watched Banner spin Garth through the bar, punch by punch, while one of his friends delivered a swift kick to a townboy’s groin. The stylish fighting moves came more naturally to the ASPers. Ben supposed that was understandable. This was what they trained for every day,