Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) by Jerusha Jones Page B

The fact that it was a tavern was evident only from the No Minors sign posted on the door.
    “There’s a back exit to an alley,” Josh continued, “but last night the hallway to the exit was jammed with empty cartons and bags of dirty linens. I doubt it’s any clearer today. The bikers usually park around the corner in an area they’ve staked out as their own. We’ll check there before going in, just to know how many we’re dealing with.”
    I nodded. I was going to give myself an open sore, the way I was chewing on my lip.
    Josh pulled the key out of the ignition and handed it to me. “Put that in your shoe. If anything happens to me, there’s a freeway on-ramp straight ahead in about half a mile. Get out of here first, then call for help. You got that?”
    I nodded again.
    Josh unbuttoned his shirt and yanked the hem out of his waistband. He pulled it off, revealing a form-fitting black T-shirt underneath. He shoved the garment under his seat to join the coveralls—yet another layer of the onion. “They’re going to pat us down, so I’m not packing. You shouldn’t be either.” He pitched a brow at me.
    I nodded yet again. Then shook my head. Agreed. No weapon. I hadn’t risked bringing one with me on the plane, anyway.
    We exited the car and quickly jaywalked toward the tavern. The air was still and silent, stuffy even though there was a bitter edge to the temperature, as though all living creatures were in hiding, peeping out at us from hollows in the telephone poles and cracks in the concrete.
    Josh dodged around the corner, and I followed him. One lone bike was backed against the curb, leaning on its kickstand. It could have been one of the Harleys I’d seen in Gus’s shop, but they all looked pretty much the same to me.
    Josh glanced at the license plate number. “Butch,” he whispered. “Whose real name is John Paul Mawbry, by the way. I guess a name like that was a little too tame for an outlaw biker.” A quirky smile played about his lips.
    It occurred to me—too late—that maybe he was trying to lighten my mood, help me relax. Unbidden, Clarice’s foul-language ditty sprang into my mind. I really was not looking forward to seeing Butch again, or his boss.
    “Geronimo,” Josh murmured close to my ear.
    I nodded again and gave him a wobbly smile.
    He hooked a hand under my elbow and ushered me back around to the tavern entrance. But at the door, he did the most ungentlemanly thing and barged in first, leaving me trailing in his wake.
    It took a long minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim, practically nonexistent lighting, and I realized why Josh had kept his sunglasses on until we were inside. I bumped into him, and he steadied me with a hand to my hip.
    “What on earth are you humming?” he muttered.
    “Nothing,” I whispered back. “ Gilligan’s Island .” I sucked in a deep breath and clenched my fists, willing myself a hefty length of steel backbone, determined to make Clarice proud of me.
    And then I coughed. The deep breath had been a mistake. Even though the state of California forbid smoking in places of business, the atmospheric particulate density inside the tavern indicated this particular establishment didn’t follow the rules. My sinuses immediately went into overdrive.
    Josh grinned down at me. “Showtime, Mary Ann.” He strode forward along the length of the bar on our right, heading for something back in the shadows.
    I stuck so close to him that I tripped on his heels. A few old men perched on stools as though they’d sprouted from the wood seats and then petrified in the same spots. They exhibited absolutely no interest in us. I guessed they were human fixtures that came with the place, from opening to closing every single day. Because who else drowns themselves in cheap whiskey in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday? For a brief moment, I thought of Loretta and Tarq and wondered if they’d ever frequented dingy bars like this one in order to numb their