1: 11 PM, DES MOINES, IOWA

I had watched him come in a few minutes ago. His hair was slick. In the dim light, it seemed blue, and shimmered a bit as he stalked along the wall. He had a wicked looking mouth, pursed in concentration. His eyes had been locked on something in the center of the room, and he circled it. Just like a shark. Determined. I watched him over a bottle of some German import, debating whether my interest was justified. Occasionally, he glanced around, scouring the place with his cold eyes. He was skittish. I figured that meant he knew he was going to be hassled.
His little predator routine continued, moving in slowly. I kept him in my peripheral vision, and followed his gaze. Now I could see why he was so damned single-minded. He was staring at a woman sitting a few tables away, and she was gorgeous. Long black hair, slick, with a few strays that kept falling into her slim face. Her lips were thick, dripping with red lipstick and red wine. She wore a little black tank top, too tight, and a pair of hip huggers. Just as I started to forget him, shark-boy moved in. He stood at the table and stared at her, muttering something. The jukebox was playing some country song, and I couldn’t hear a thing. She didn’t want any part of him, I gathered.
He was insistent, but finally gave up. He turned, and his shoulders slouched. Might have been the look of a rejected suitor, but it didn’t seem right. He wasn’t the rejection type. Seemed to me, this guy would push till he was slapped. He didn’t walk away. He looked like he was chuckling or something. I stood up, feigning a full bladder, and saw his arm shoot out at the lady. By the time my eyes focused on his hand, the gun had already fired once. The flare was an orange fan, and the beauty’s head jerked back. Square in the head.
Now the place went crazy, screaming and diving for cover. I was already on my feet, and it only took two big steps to get to him. I was the first, and I hit him hard with my shoulder. He dropped the gun, buckled in mid-air and landed, fetus position, sliding three feet under a nearby table. He wasn’t moving when I picked up his gun, a .38. The tables around me had emptied, and I pushed aside the one he was under. Somebody shut off the jukebox. He was quivering again, and in the silence of the shocked bar-crowd, I could hear his voice. He was sobbing.
I didn’t know what to make of it, but I hauled him up and tossed him onto the table. He was limp. I noticed now that he was pretty young. Early twenties, maybe even late teens. He had looked taller from across the room. That one shot had changed him from a thug to a scared kid. I pinned him down.
“You.” I pointed to a big guy by the bar. “Call the cops. Now.”
He nodded and scurried over to the payphone in back.
“Everyone, my name’s Rod Haraway, and I’m a private investigator. I currently have this man in custody, but I’d appreciate it if everyone would remain calm, and stay right where you are. There are going to be a lot of questions soon, and I don’t want to be stuck here any longer than you do. Get comfortable, and don’t touch anything near these tables. Everyone clear?”
They grumbled and nodded. I was glad I didn’t have to be a prick. Not that I normally mind, but I was tired, and I’d spilled my beer. Great day.