Small Bytes by Robert T. Germaux Copyright ©2001 by Robert T. Germaux Cover Art by Brandi McCann www.ebook-coverdesigns.com Marketing and Promotion by Susan Barton Susan Barton Marketing For Cynthia . . . my split-apart Table of Contents Author’s Note Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 About the Author Author’s Note To those of you who have read the other two Jeremy Barnes mysteries available on Amazon, a few quick comments. First, thanks! Second, Small Bytes is actually the first book in the series, written before Hard Court (#4) and In the Eye (#5). Thus, Small Bytes gives you the back story on JB and his friends. Finally, in the coming months, I’ll also be publishing Leaving the LAW (#2) and Speak Softly (#3). Again, thanks for taking the time to read my work. JB and I would love to hear from you. Bob Germaux November, 2019 Chapter 1 Tony’s Bar and Grill was your typical local hangout. Located in a working-class neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else and their business, it had gone through several changes of ownership over the years, but the one constant had always been that strangers weren’t particularly welcome, and anyone who lived more than ten blocks away was a stranger. I lived on the other side of town. When I walked into Tony’s on a warm spring night, the place didn’t suddenly become silent, the way things happen in the movies, but there was a noticeable drop in the level of conversation. I paused just inside the door and took a look around. Long, polished mahogany bar down the left, with an eating area one step up to the right. About fifteen tables, all with faded red-and-white checked tablecloths. Only three of the tables were occupied, but the bar was just about full, leading me to speculate that either the food was lousy or the beer was spectacular. Or maybe no one was hungry. I spotted Tommy Longwood near the end of the bar, sitting between two bruisers in their late twenties. Tommy was in his mid-thirties, just a little younger than me, but he looked a lot older. Ah, demon rum. It’ll do it every time. As I approached Tommy, I could see that he was in the middle of some sort of disagreement with the two weight-lifter types on either side of him. One of them was saying something to him about three weeks being more than enough time. Then the guy saw me and stopped talking. Tommy looked up and saw me, too. “JB. The hell you doin’ here?” “Good to see you, too, Tommy,” I said. Weightlifter number one, to Tommy’s left, frowned at me and said, “Who the fuck are you?” I gave him my best smile and said, “Jeremy Barnes, and you are . . .?” “About to kick your ass if you don’t get the fuck outta here right now.” “Wow,” I said. “That’s some name. I’m impressed. Listen, let me ask you something. How do you manage to fit all that on those tiny little lines on the coupons when you send in for rebates on soap and stuff?” “Hey, asshole,” he said, “I’m warnin’ ya, stay outta this.” “Believe me,” I told him, “I would love to ‘stay outta this,’ but I can’t. Look, I’m assuming Tommy here owes you guys some money. How much?” “Two-hundred bucks,” said the guy on Tommy’s right. “Okay,” I said, as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the money Angie had given me. “Here it is. C’mon, Tommy, let’s go.” “Wait a minute,” the guy said. “That only covers the financial side of his debt. Tommy still has a beatin’ comin’, on accounta his being late and all, you know.” I looked at him for a minute. I was hoping he’d wilt under the power of my stare, but it didn’t happen. I think he squinted a little, though. “Hey, fellas, let’s be reasonable, okay? You got your money. Nobody’s been hurt, so let’s just all walk away from this.” “Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” said the doofus on the left, “and real soon, too.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the bartender walking our way. His hand reached down under the bar, and when it reappeared, there was a Louisville Slugger in it. “Okay, gents,” he said, “whatever it is, take it outside.” “You heard the man,” I said. “Show’s over, I guess. C’mon, Tommy, I’ll give you a ride.” “I ain’t going nowhere with you, Barnes.” Tommy sort of slurred the s in Barnes. No surprise there. Goon number one said, “And we ain’t going outside, either.” Looking at the bartender, he added, “And if you don’t like it, tough shit.” “Okay,” I said, “this has gone far enough. Tommy and I are walking out of here now. Why don’t you two have a drink on us?” I tossed a ten on the bar and took hold of Tommy’s arm. He didn’t like it, but he knew from past experience that there wasn’t much he could do about it. As I steered him away from the bar, goon number two stepped in front of me and put his hand over my left wrist. “Don’t do that,” I said, and this time there wasn’t any humor to my voice. “You don’t like it,” he said, “then get outta here and leave your buddy with us.” I made a small move with my hand, and suddenly I had the other guy’s wrist in my grasp. He looked down as though seeking visual confirmation of what he had just felt happen. I leaned in close to him, putting my face inches away from his. “Listen carefully,” I told him in a quiet voice. “Tommy and I are leaving now. You and your friend sit down and have that drink I mentioned.” He tried to pull his hand away, but I tightened my grip a little, just enough to make him wince a
