“It’s complicated.” Brody stopped at a red light. “I’ll tell you the long story later. For now, my friend Chet is in trouble. He’s an alcoholic and waiting on some bad news. He’s been in AA and mostly sober for a couple of years, but this week was more than he could take. According to The Pub’s bartender, Chet is looking for trouble and so are the guys he found.”

The Pub sat on the outskirts of Scarlet Falls. The bar had a long history. Like every other old building in New England, The Pub professed that George Washington had slept, eaten pot roast, or changed his socks under its roof. After all, no one could prove he hadn’t. Brody parked in the gravel lot and went inside. Hannah followed him. The halls were lined with historical photos and pictures of the owner with local celebrities. A row of beer mugs etched with the names of regulars hung over the bar.

Behind the polished wooden bar, Todd rubbed a beer glass with a dish towel. His ruddy Scottish complexion had gone red, and anger lent vigor to his strokes. He inclined his head toward a doorway. In the next room, Chet paced back and forth in front of the pool table, his movements too quick, jerky, and uneven.

Holding a tumbler of Johnnie Walker, he was gesturing at a big guy dressed like a biker in torn jeans, boots, and a dirty bandana over an equally dirty gray ponytail. Two more biker types occupied the table with Mr. Big.

“What’s the fight about?” Brody asked. Hannah stepped up next to him. She pressed her arms against his.

Todd shelved the glass and flipped the towel over his broad shoulder. “The big dude recognized him and started in on him with the usual cop-themed insults. And Brody . . .” Todd waved him closer.

When Brody leaned over the bar, Todd said in a low voice, “Chet was in here the other day. He was on duty. He only had a couple of drinks, but I thought you should know.”

“Thanks.” Brody turned to Hannah. “Please go back to the car.”

She eased backward toward the door.

Brody crossed the scarred pine floor and assessed the scene in the billiard room, a long, narrow, and dark space. Three pool tables were strung out end-to-end. Brody scanned the room. Shadows darkened the corners, but the room appeared to be empty except for Chet and the three bikers.

Should he call for backup? He didn’t want the incident to get back to the chief. If he could defuse the situation, he wouldn’t need assistance.

Mandatory retirement loomed in Chet’s near future, but he was all cop, from his ugly shoes to his calculating brown eyes. Sober, he could ignore insults to the badge. But alcohol sharpened his temper and thinned his tolerance.