DEPUTY JUDD LARAMIE GLANCED UP AT THE SIGN THAT DANGLED AND SQUEAKED FROM A WROUGHT-IRON HINGE MOUNTED OVER THE DOOR OF THE BAR.

THE ANGRY ANGUS.

Well, that’s what it was supposed to be, anyway, but someone had slapped some black paint over the second g, making it the Angry Anus.

Judd was betting a variation of “hold my beer and watch this” had been a factor in the vandalism. Of course, this was a bar so it didn’t require any of his cop skills to figure out that one.

Despite the Closed sign, Judd opened the door that was meant to mimic one from an old barn. Rustic with crisscrossed boards. It, too, squeaked, and he stepped in, the cool air from the AC immediately spilling over him. It felt good, considering the afternoon April temps were in the high nineties and still expected to climb.

The place smelled like a bar. That was the first thing he noticed. The clash of wine, beer and limes. There was a chalkboard sign on the shiplap wall right next to the door. Stupid Sh*t Men Say was scrawled out in cursive letters.

And, yes, it had the asterisk instead of the i.

Beneath that were comments and examples. Some were also in cursive, some in print, and one was so illegible that he again suspected large amounts of alcohol had been involved.

Tell your tits to quit staring at my eyes.

Whoa, you’ve put on a few pounds, haven’t you?

Think you can get your friend’s number for me?

He had to study the last one a bit because of the drunken scrawl, but Judd was pretty sure that it said: “You’re only three feet away from having the best sex of your life.”

Sh*t indeed.

Sometimes, there wasn’t much good he could say about his gender.

Judd let go of the door so that it swung shut behind him, and he glanced around at the rest of the place. Black-and-white cowhide seats with whitewashed floors. Hay bales, saddles and other tack were big in the decor. But the focal points, if you could call them that, were the life-sized plastic cows and steers. There was one in every corner and a pair on each side of the bar, and they looked downright spooky with their blank, wide-eyed gazes.

The furnishings were obviously “Western,” meant to go along with the name when the second g hadn’t been blacked out. But there were enough glass-and-silver whatnots and doodads throughout to make it look trendy.

It definitely wasn’t a bar that would have been a fit in Coldwater, where he lived, but then that applied to a lot of places. The small Texas ranching town might be only forty miles from this bar in San Antonio, but they were worlds apart.