A Portrait and a Bullet

By Mark Calder

Henry Flannigan lives by no rules. He's a man gifted all God's offerings yet he summons chaos to his world. A day of hunting in Montana turns tragic when Henry pulls the trigger, ending the life of a fellow mountaineer. In revenge, Henry's wife is taken hostage, testing her faith and fueling Henry's determination to brin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Calder
• Release date: Aug 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986228822

Book preview

1

The Little Rock Bar and Grill

Montana. Winston, Montana. Population of nine-hundred seventy-six. Winston has one butcher, one hardware store; there’s a church, two doctors, three police officers, but fifteen bar and grills. Yeah, it seems everyone in Winston liked to have their drinks.

It was early spring; the sun rose into skies of blue and began to melt the last of the snow from the peaks of The Frontier Mountains while sharing its light as it poured on the Jefferson River’s white waters as they carved their way, twisting and turning from as far north into the mountains as the eyes could wander, before settling down to form a beautiful lake in the town of Winston, where people began to come to life now that the long cold winter was gone and the promise of a new beginning was in the air.

Welcome to The Little Rock Bar and Grill. Chicken is your choice of soup, baked potatoes or rice. Rib steak or pork chops for your main course.

Wasn’t anything fancy, but those were the words Sheila would bellow as she led you to your table, and after you were comfortably seated, she then politely would ask, And what can I get you from the bar?

It was Friday, the second of May, 1974. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. The lights inside the bar were dim. Johnny Maestro music played softly from the jukebox as a young couple shuffled their feet on a small dance floor located in the center of the room.

Wood-paneled walls behind the bar were adorned with various posters. One picture was of a cowboy being thrown from a bull, advertising the upcoming rodeo. A young Cassius Clay posed as he boxed next to a photo of a radiant Raquel wearing a jungle outfit while blowing a kiss, and the longer you drank, the surer you were that you were who Raquel was sending that kiss to; drink just a little more and that jungle outfit was gonna be on the floor of your bedside.

The posters were taped alongside an 8 by 10 mirror. An old-fashioned brass cash register against the back wall rested in the center on a shelf, surrounded on one side by a black telephone next to a flower-filled vase; on the other was a signed photo of the outlaw Jesse James above a holstered gun that some argue once belonged to him.

In front of the walls and behind the sticks, pouring an assortment of beer from a tap was everyone’s favorite bartender, Joe McAlister. Joe, a good-looking young man with dark short hair and innocent brown eyes, who had just turned twenty-two, was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt with writing in bright green, reading The Little Rock Bar and Grill, est. 1907.

There was a small gathering of the Montana faithful getting an early start to their weekend. They called it happy hour, as trays of hot wings and pastas were placed on an aluminum foldup table near the entrance to the bar.

Sometimes we can find out more about ourselves by moving forward rather than looking back. Sometimes the problem is, maybe we don’t really want to know who we are at all.

Joe McAlister mixed a vodka martini as he spoke to a young woman who, through tears, was pouring out her adventures as if somehow she would be absolved for their misgivings. Joe reached for and held onto her hand to offer comfort, saying, I’m sure you’re probably being hard on yourself and what you did wasn’t that bad.

Maybe you’re right, she said as she dabbed at her eyes with napkins. Maybe what I did wasn’t that bad.

Of course not, Joe said sliding the vodka martini in front of her while still holding her left hand.

The young woman took a sip of her drink, placed it on the bar, and while crying softly she said, Still, it wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have cheated on Stanley and slept with the Gillespie brothers last night. I guess I can blame it on being a little drunk. Oh, poor Stanley. And we were only just married two weeks ago.

Joe pulled his hands away quickly and washed them in the sink below the bar.

Hey, Joe. When you get a second, came a shout from the far end of the bar where Jim Delaney took a seat nearest the front door. Jim, a twenty-five-year-old single guy was co-owner of The Little Rock.

Be right over, Jim, Joe responded before turning his attention back to the crying woman, saying, I’m sure things will work themselves out, Rita, as he handed her more napkins.

Rita blew her nose loudly and said, Thank you, Joe. She grabbed her pocketbook and headed to the ladies’ room.

Anytime, Joe said as he made his way on over to his good friend Jim.

The two men greeted one another with a handshake and a smile as Joe asked, What are you drinking?

You practicing your philosophy again?

Yeah, I do kinda like words.

You’re not very good at it you know.

I know. I kinda like basketball too, but I ain’t very good at that either.

What can you say to help her when she’s crying like that? Jim asked.

Mostly I just listen, Joe replied.

That’s really kind of you.

It’s easy. You just have to care for people, Joe said.

Yeah, that’s not that easy.

You should try it sometime.

If you ask me, she should find a treadmill, and avoid mirrors.

That’s probably why she’s not sitting next to you, Jim! That’s probably why no one sits next to you, Joe said, as he wiped dry a couple of long-stem glasses and placed them on an overhead rack.

Jim lit up a cigarette, placed his keys on the bar, and asked, Where’s your brother? And what was she crying about anyway?

She just married Stanley the butcher two weeks ago and last night she got drunk and banged Kieran and Kyle.

The Gillespie twins?

Yeah, Joe said.

Jim laughed and said, Oh shit. That’s not what I woulda guessed. I’m gonna look at her a little differently now.

Why?

I don’t know. It’s like, if I get drunk enough, there’s a soft pillow kinda waitin’ for me in that person.

That don’t make no sense.

Let me think about it, and let me get a Heineken.

Joe bent down and opened the sliding glass door to a refrigerated compartment that ran along the lower part of the back wall; he grabbed two beers and opened them using a Coca-Cola bottle opener that flipped the cap to a waiting bucket. He handed Jim the beer as he guided an ashtray in front of him, and said, It does kinda make a little sense, I guess.

Jim leaned forward in his chair to extinguish his cigarette. He glanced to his left and said, Look, Joe, and with a head gesture nodded toward Rita as she left the bathroom. Jim continued, There goes a now-smiling Miss America heading back to her seat. I guess nothing a few lines and a couple Valium couldn’t handle to get rid of them blues. She’ll be laying on her back spreading for the good men of Montana again in no time at all.

I always thought it was my words that made them feel better, Joe said as the bells above the front door shouted and a trio of men were to follow.

First to enter was William Schall. Willie. Willie was Winston’s Chief of Police. He earned the honor of being chief by being the best shot Winston had to offer. Whether it be by pistol or rifle competition, there was nobody quicker, and no better sharpshooter. Willie was a tall, well-built man with a mustache and dark complexion. Willie loved his guns and ever since he was a young lad he was never to go anywhere without them.

Willie was followed close behind by John McAlister. John a man in his late thirties was a couple inches shy of short, and very round. Kind of a guy who just existed. Kind of guy who doesn’t want to be bothered, doesn’t bother anyone; the kind of guy who waits on an assembly line just doing what he has to do, and then dies. John was the older brother to Joe, the bartender tonight. John McAlister was the other half who shared ownership of The Little Rock with Jim Delaney.

Last to enter was Henry Flannigan, a six-foot-four inch, two-hundred-and-twenty pound Irishman. Henry was twenty-four and it seemed from an onlooker’s point of view that he had all anyone could want. All the gifts life had to offer always seemed to go his way. He captained his football team, dated and later married the high school prom queen, went on to have two beautiful kids. The story-book life. Henry’s presence commanded everyone’s attention; his size and smile would steal the night—male or female, everyone wanted to have a drink with Henry. Henry Flannigan was a rock star without ever having hummed a tune.

Jim Delaney backed up on his barstool and stood up to greet his buddies.

Hey, Willie, it’s good to see you. He stared at Willie’s armor for a second, tapped at its side and asked, What are you wearing?

It’s a vest, Willie said.

Let me see it. What’s it for?

Willie pulled the vest over his head and handed it to Jim as he said, Stopping bullets. The police department sold it to us.

Jim studied the material and asked, Does it work?

I haven’t been shot yet.

Well, give me your gun. I’ll see if it works.

Willie laughed, grabbed hold of his vest and placed it on the bar.

Jim reached his right hand out to John and said, Hey, John. You look like you lost a few pounds…and then found some more.

John shook Jim’s hand and in his gruff voice said, Let’s get a table.

John had two missions: one was to waddle to his destination, and the other and more important was to get a drink. So he led the way, almost tipping over at times, until he was joined by Sheila who steadied him and escorted him to a table in the back of the bar.

Hello, men, Sheila said. Hello, Henry.

Sheila was a waitress since her high school days, a fairly attractive single woman, twenty-eight years old. Her brown hair fell just below her shoulders, her eyes blue and kind of sad, and when she smiled it didn’t quite match; it was as if she could be both happy and sad at the same time. Sheila still believed that one day her life would be that of a princess, that one day her dreams would become truths and somehow life would be right.

While taking their seats, Jim asked, How long have you been working for us, Sheila?

Two years, fourteen days, and I don’t think… Sheila paused for a moment, looked at the four gentlemen at the table. Sheila was exactly where she wanted to be; she wanted the stage, and although this wasn’t Broadway, it would do.

Sheila ran her hand through her hair. She slowly maneuvered her fingers along the back of her neck, down the front of her body, stopping at her inner thighs. Sheila’s mouth was open as her tongue appeared and circled her lips. She had their attention and continued.

…and I don’t think, Jim, that a day’s gone by without you trying in some way to seduce me or to take me home with you. So I guess you won’t be surprised that tonight the answer will be ‘no’ just like all the other nights. However…Henry, if you’re looking for a midnight dance, I’m all yours.

Fuck him! Jim blurted out. He’s married and he’s, he’s…impotent. Sorry, Henry. I know you wanted to keep that a secret between you and me but I thought it’s only fair that she be aware of your condition.

Sheila looked at Henry. Well, what will it be, Henry?

Henry smiled. A Heineken, please. Four of them, and let me think about it, Sheila.

Just be sure, Sheila said. You let me know if you’re feeling lonely or a little cold.

I’m cold, Jim shot out as he rubbed his hands up and down his arms.

Sheila turned to Jim and said, I’ll go get you a jacket, Jim, before slowly making her way back to the bar.

Don’t you ever get tired of getting turned down by that woman, Jim? It can’t make you feel good, could it? Willie asked.

Willie, you’re a cop. Women love you for your uniform, and they say they feel safe around you. Henry here, he just has to walk into a room and women line up and start dripping. You look at John; I really do think he has it the best. He truly just doesn’t give a shit if it’s a man or woman he’s talking to. He’d simply rather talk to neither. Me, I ain’t all that good looking, and life ain’t getting prettier, so I gotta keep taking my chances. Anyway, it’s Friday night, and I’m tired of sleeping alone. Who knows? One day Sheila just might say ‘yeah.’

At that exact moment, Sheila arrived with Heinekens, a bottle of whiskey, and said, Forget it, Jim. Their ain’t enough money, booze, or desperation.

Aw shit, Jim said, as Sheila, with great confidence, bent over to pour the drinks, reaching across the table rather than walking around, revealing the back of her upper thighs and the top portion of her chest, which always was a nice look.

Well, boys, Sheila said, will there be anything else I can do for you?

Jim blurted out, How about a blowjob back at my place, then you make me dinner, and then you leave?

John interjected, and with a grin said, Sorry, Sheila. Remind me later that you deserve a raise.

I’ll give her a rai—

John interrupted and said, That’s all we need for now, Sheila. Run.

Sheila smiled at John, winked at Jim, turned and walked away.

I think you almost had her there, Jim, Henry said as he poured himself a shot of whiskey, drank it, then poured another and continued. It must have been your charm. She looked confused and it’s certainly not ’cause you’re good looking.

Jim looked at Henry and said, I can’t believe I’m gonna have to spend another four minutes thinking about your wife tonight.

That’s the best you can do? Henry offered.

It would be quicker if she didn’t spend the first two minutes pretending to be hard to get.

Henry replied, Alright, I’m not gonna try and match wits with you, I’m just gonna beat the shit atta ya.

What time are we hunting tomorrow? John vocalized to no one in particular, and no one answered for no one was listening. John was plenty content with the outcome, not really sure why he asked; he just drank his beer and then quietly answered, I’m probably just gonna sleep a little late tomorrow.

Joe walked over to the table of men with a tray of hot wings and pitcher of beer, leaving Sheila behind the bar. He placed the wings in the center of the table with some napkins while taking a seat and asked, Jim, we still going fishing in the morning?

Yeah, that’s cool. I’ll meet you at our regular spot at about ten.

John grabbed a couple of wings and said, What happened to hunting? I thought we were going hunting tomorrow?

Naw, we’ll go hunting next week, Jim said. I’m fishing tomorrow.

John took a bite of the wings, licked at his fingers and said, Jim, let’s go play a game of pool.

Yeah, alright. I’ll play if you clean the chicken grease off your hands, Jim replied, as the two men left for the poolroom in the rear of the bar.

2

The Vest

Joe retrieved Willie’s vest from the bar and brought it to the table. He put his drink down, leaned forward, held the vest in front of him saying, So this is it? It’s heavier than I thought it would be. Does it work?

I don’t know, Willie said, but the department said it works on small caliber bullets and it worked on the video.

We gotta test it, Henry said as he poured another three shots of whiskey and drank one.

Tomorrow on the range, Willie said.

That don’t count. It has to be on someone.

Who we gonna put it on? Willie asked.

Henry drank the second shot and said, A couple more of these and I might strap that contraption on Jim, or I might just shoot him without it.

* * *

The Friday afternoon bar’s crowd was growing louder and a little more rambunctious as most of Winston finished up work for the week and were crossing a bridge to the high life in the comfort of drinks with a few friends when the shattering of a glass that fell in the center of the bar grabbed the attention of Joe, Henry, and Willie.

Oh shit! Joe said to himself, but loud enough that Henry and Willie heard.

What’s up? Henry asked.

I’m not sure.

Well, what might it be? Willie asked.

You see the two guys sitting in the middle of the bar facing one another? Joe said as he nodded in their direction.

Henry stood up to get a better view as Sheila came around the bar to sweep up the broken glass.

The two guys right behind Sheila, Joe said quickly.

Yeah, I see them, Henry said as his chest instinctively pumped out. What about ’em?

You love this stuff, don’t you, Henry? Willie said as he lifted his revolver, spun the cylinder to make sure it was fully loaded, and with ease placed it back in his holster.

Yeah, Henry said with a huge smile. He sat back down and continued, I think maybe we have our volunteer.

Who are they, Joe? Willie asked.

Joe’s apprehension was quickly soothed, his confidence lifted at the sight of Henry and Willie and the realization that they were on his team. He sat back in his chair, took a sip of his beer and explained.

The guy sitting on the left, with his gun on the right side of his belt, his name’s Digger. He worked here for a week last summer cleaning the place and stocking booze. He always was bragging about how he and the other guy, with the blond hair coming out the back of his baseball cap—Whitey’s his name—well they were always talking about the small places they held up, scoring some cash and how one day they were gonna make a big splash; they were always trying to talk me into riding with them. I don’t know what they’re doing here.

I think it’s time we find out, Henry said as he stood and walked the necessary distance, placing himself to the right of Whitey. Henry looked down upon the two men, estimating their ages to be in their early twenties. Henry never did feel it necessary to look at someone’s size. Willie followed close behind, taking a standing position to the left of Digger. Although Whitey and Digger remained seated, Willie guessed both their heights to be a couple of inches shy of six feet; both the men were on the slender side.

Joe drank a shot of whiskey and quickly placed himself behind the bar, asking Sheila to bring two beers to John and Jim in the poolroom. He handed a fresh beer from the tap to both Willie and Henry. He picked up a dry rag and while wiping the bar clean he asked his newest guests, What can I get for you guys?

Digger, wearing a blue bandana across his forehead, holding back thin brown hair, turned