Impossible.
* * *
Boone has keptthe place rocking for over an hour when Carter signals from the end of the bar.
“What do you need?”
“We got a problem, Rip.” He jerks a shoulder toward the front door and a pissed-off-looking man in a rumpled dress shirt standing with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Who—”
“Fire marshal. Says someone called in a complaint that we’re over our capacity.”
“Shit. I’ll go talk to him. Don’t worry about it.”
After I wipe my hands on a towel, I slide out from behind the bar. I have to yell over the music to be heard once I reach him.
“What’s the problem, sir?”
“I received a complaint that this business was a fire hazard due to overcapacity tonight, and just by looking, I’d say they’re right. But I’m going to let you tell me how many people you’ve got in here so we can sort this out.”
I can barely hear him, and I’m hoping the words I think are coming out of his mouth aren’t the ones he’s really saying.
A complaint? From who? This neighborhood isn’t exactly hopping, with only a few other bars and a tattoo shop on our lower-rent street.
I lead him toward the guy working the door, one of the people who came with Frisco when he first got here.
“We can’t be over capacity. Someone’s working the door. We’ve been watching the numbers.” Mentally I add,at least I hope someone has.
The fire marshal points over the crowd to the back door of the bar as it opens and more people pour inside.
“And what about that door?”
Oh hell.
“Umm, we’ll escort some people out. It’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it personally. We’ve never had this problem before, and I promise I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
Two hammered girls stumble toward the front door and their drinks go flying, splattering fruity red liquid all over the fire marshal’s white shirt. Previously white, I should say.
“You need to get at least a third of these people out. Right now, or I’m shutting this place down.”
No. No. No. Not on the only busy night we’ve had in years.
“Got it! Give me five minutes, sir. I’ll be right back.” I give the fire marshal a tight smile.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I make my way to the security guy and yell to him in order to be heard. “We have to get some people out. Can you help?”
“I can try.” Together, we usher people out the door as the fire marshal stands with his arms stiffly crossed over the stained shirt. That’s when the fight starts.
I don’t know who threw the first punch, but a scuffle breaks out in front of the stage. The music stops, and Boone points to someone in the crowd.
“Hey, asshole, what the fuck? You’re out of here.”
The security guard charges into the crowd, which surges in my direction as people try to get out of the range of the dozen or so people throwing punches. Two girls crash into my back, and my face smashes into the fire marshal’s shoulder.
“This is another reason why we have capacity limits,” he yells. “These people are going to get trampled. You’re done. I’m shutting you down. Get them all out.”