Free Tombstone Courage by J. A. Jance Page B

customers got to her—Don Frost most of all. An obnoxious loudmouth and self-appointed expert in everything, Frost freely shared with Angie his encyclopedic knowledge of mixology and was forever offering her unsolicited advice as she struggled with learning the intricacies of her new job.
    Don Frost fancied himself quite a catch, always hinting that there was a whole lot more money where the trust funds came from, and whatever woman was lucky enough to land him would be in for quite a ride. Since Angie was literally the “new girl in town,” Frost maintained a constant barrage of what he regarded as flirtatious banter. He had even gone so far as to bring in one of his recently completed works of art for her approval.
    Angie Kellogg’s taste in art was fairly unsophisticated. When Don assured her this was a five-thousand-dollar piece, she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to pay that much money for a chunk of painted garbage. Had Angie still been working the streets, one dose of Don Frost would have been more than enough. But here he was one of Bobo’s regulars, someone whose daily presence contributed to both paychecks and tips. So she made the best of it.
    With a sigh, Angie plucked the driver’s training manual off the counter. As she slipped it into her purse and stowed it under the bar, Don noticed.
    â€œSo when do you take the exam?” he asked. “How long before the streets stop being safe for humanity?”
    â€œThursday,” Angie answered. “What’ll you have?”
    Frost grinned. “A nooner?” he asked hopefully.
    The stranger in the booth caught Angie’s eye and waved to her. “I’ll have another,” he called.
    Angie left Don Frost sitting at the bar and wentto mix the Bloody Mary. “When you make up your mind,” she said over her shoulder, “let me know.”
    When she came back from delivering that drink, Frost was ready to order his early-in-the-month Kahlú and coffee. By the end of the month, he’d be down to beer spiked with occasional shots of tequila.
    â€œWhy do you suppose Mr. Burton Kimball is out slumming?” Frost demanded morosely, nodding toward the stranger in the booth as Angie put the chipped coffee mug down in front of him. “I’ve never known him to set foot in the Gulch.”
    â€œWho’s Burton Kimball?”
    â€œIf Bisbee had a Mayflower , Burton Kimball’s family would have been on it. It’s his uncle’s case that’s supposed to start in Judge Moore’s court tomorrow. You’ve probably heard about it. The daughter claims her old man liked to play hide-the-salami with her when she was little. Now she’s hired herself a lawyer, and she’s taking his ass to court, suing him for damages.”
    â€œGood for her,” Angie said, and hurried down the bar to bring Willy and Archie another pair of beers.
    â€œYou got something against men?” Don Frost asked, when she came back past him.
    â€œOnly ones who mess with their daughters,” she replied.
    â€œYou’re not one of those feminazis, are you?”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œDon’t you ever listen to Rush Limbaugh?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThat jerk on the radio. I don’t listen to him, either,” Don Frost said, pushing his cup away.
    â€œHe makes me sick. Give me another.”
    Angie poured herself a cup of coffee at the same time she made Don Frost’s drink. “Let me give you some advice about when you take the driving part of your test,” Frost said. “Signal for everything. And keep checking the rearview mirror. They mark you off if you don’t check that enough. Do you know the manual forward and backward?”
    Angie shook her head. “I should have spent more time studying over the weekend, but I was busy with the phone bank.”
    â€œFun bank?” a puzzled Archie McBride called from down the bar. Years of setting off