People on the street used simpler language.
You did not go there unless somebody inside wanted you there.
City inspectors rarely stayed long.
Drunks who started fights at other bars did not try it there twice.
And yet taped to the heavy steel door was a piece of cardboard with black marker across it.
BARTENDER WANTED.
Underneath someone had added:
KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT OR DON’T KNOCK.
Samantha stared at the sign.
A laugh almost escaped her.
Three weeks earlier she had been afraid to walk into a police station because her husband knew the officers.
Now she was considering asking thirty bikers for employment.
It was absurd.
It was also the first idea she had that did not involve sleeping outside.
She pushed the door open.
Sound hit her first.
Classic rock from an old jukebox.
Pool balls cracking together.
Men laughing.
Glasses striking wood.
Then smell.
Beer.
Tobacco.
Leather.
Motor oil that had somehow migrated in from the garage attached to the back of the building.
The room was larger than she expected.
Scarred wooden bar along one wall.
Pool tables at the rear.
A row of booths.
Several old photographs.
Motorcycle parts mounted as decoration.
Almost every man in the room wore some version of black leather or denim.
Conversation weakened as Samantha entered.