Lewis’s near-daily practice, he was still down two when we heard a commotion out front. Shouts rose above the usual din of the crowded pub, and I turned my head to see the crowd actually morphing, moving as it accommodated a growing brawl. A crowd in a bar fight seems to become a living thing.
“Christ, it’s Murphy’s boys,” my father said.
Lewis looked at me quizzically.
“Hand me that,” I said, gesturing to his pool cue. He did and I stood waiting. So did my father.
Within two minutes, the brawl had pushed its way into the pool room. I recognized three of my cousins and all five Murphy brothers going at it. One cousin connected with a solid left hook on the square chin of Pat Murphy, and let loose with a stream of expletives, ending with, “…that’s what you get for beating up a woman.”
That was enough for my father and me. I hoisted the pool cue and brought it down on the shoulder of Jimmy “Tank” Murphy. He turned to take a swing at me, but I held the cue like a bat and gave him a solid swing right in the ribs. He fell back against a pool table, grabbed a glass and threw it at my face. It missed and shattered to the floor. Next thing I knew, a striped pool ball barely missed my forehead. Chairs were overturned, more glasses broke, and I decided I’d had enough.
I looked around at the escalating fight and knew Tank was the key to it. Whenever the biggest, burliest, nastiest Murphy went down, the other brothers usually fell in line. Blood poured from Tank’s nose, but still he charged like a bull. I took the pool cue as he came at me and instead of swinging at his ribs, I lowered the cue and brought it up, with all my might, between his legs. He immediately collapsed as I connected with my intended pair of targets.
Slowly, surely, the brawl died down from there. The Murphy brothers were bounced out the door by Tony’s three sons—one a muscle-bound bodybuilder the width of my Cadillac. The pub was a mess, but it was no showplace to begin with.
Lewis surveyed the wreckage. “Do y’all know how to throw a party without it ending up like the O.K. Corral?”
“It’s an old feud.”
“Feud? I’d say it’s World War III.”
“Come on.” I kissed my father goodbye and gingerly climbed over the broken glass and chairs, making my way with Lewis outside. When we got out on the sidewalk and started walking to our car, I said, “My brother, Mikey, fell in love with the youngest Murphy sister. They’ve been living together for a year now.”
“Isn’t your brother in prison at the moment?”
“Yeah. He gets out next month. But Marybeth and my brother are still sickeningly in love. Anyway, there’s bad blood with the Murphys. Always has been. My father and old man Murphy used to fight it out over bookmaking territory. And the brothers are really not nice guys. I take it one of them hit a girl tonight. But really, it’s old stuff—mostly having to do with Dad.”
“Your father was involved in illegal activity?” Lewis asked with mock horror.
I punched him in the arm. “Go back to the South, you ass.”
“So these Murphys, they just show up and start brawls?”
“Pretty much.”
“You’re quite handy with that pool cue.”
“Practice. My father and brother have been hustling pool my whole life. Sometimes people don’t take too kindly to losing.”
“I was so close to beating him tonight.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“But I was!”
“Lewis, you’ve improved, but Minnesota Fats doesn’t have to worry.”
We turned a corner, and I immediately stopped in my tracks and put my arm out to halt Lewis, too.
“Wish I’d brought that pool cue,” I muttered. Because there, sitting on the hood of my land tank, was the biggest, most hulking man I’d ever seen in my life. And he was clearly waiting for us.
Chapter 2
“Can I help you?” I asked warily.
The man slid off my hood and stood on the sidewalk, thrusting out his hand, which was the size of a baseball mitt. “Joe Franklin,” he said, smiling.
I didn’t take his hand. “What do you want?”
“A minute of both of your time.”
I turned to look at Lewis, but he had broken out in a huge grin. “Joe Franklin! My God, but I once made a thousand bucks off of you.” He walked to the man and shook his hand.
“You two know each other?” I asked.
“No,” said Lewis. “Never met. But this is Joe Franklin from the New Orleans Saints. Center. Retired. Blew his knee out, home game against Tampa Bay Bucs.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. I was completely confused, but then again, this was Lewis we were talking about. He invites confusion with the wily way he talks sometimes.
Joe Franklin smiled. He had the slightest of gaps between his two front teeth, which gleamed like a toothpaste-commercial smile. “We had a few losing seasons when I was with the Saints. You must have bet against the home team.”
“Naw, not me. I bet the over-under. I would never bet against the Saints. And you were the greatest center in the NFL at the time.”
“Thanks. Nice to be remembered. Well, listen, Mr. LeBarge—”
“Lewis.”
“Well, Lewis…Ms. Quinn—”
“How do you know my name?” I asked suspiciously.
“I’m the founder, with my partner, C.C., of the Justice Foundation.”
Now it all made sense to me. The Justice Foundation was a nonprofit group dedicated to freeing innocent prisoners through the use of DNA evidence.
“I’d like,” he said, “to buy you both a drink and see if maybe you might see it in your hearts to help us.”
I rolled my eyes. Where I come from, we know that if you’re in prison, even if the charge is made-up, chances are you belong there anyway. The guy they originally thought killed my mother was freed when he came up with an alibi. But he was arrested not six months after his release for strangling his stepdaughter.
“I don’t know.” I hesitated.
“Well, I could always use a drink,” Lewis said. “If you promise to regale me with the story of the time y’all beat the Bucs with that Hail Mary pass, I could at least listen to what you have to say.”
“Deal,” said Joe, flashing his megawatt smile. “Margaritas sound okay?”
Lewis nodded. “Man after my own heart. I like a nice tequila myself. Also like a smooth
