The bar was quiet for a Friday night, especially considering the woman slinging the drinks. Her silky black hair fell to the swells of her ass through her tight black skirt, framing a sweet face with dark, inquisitive eyes. Even under a sports bra and a loose white tank, it was obvious why every guy in the bar, myself included, stared. She was gorgeous.
I heard as much, but I wasn't expecting just how goddamn jaw-dropping she was. The Seventh Heaven had a reputation and it wasn't because of the drinks. She plunked down a bottle of beer in front of a patron and he stammered, "T-thank you, Tifa."
She smiled at him, and it actually touched her eyes. Good trick, that. The best bartenders were experts at faking smiles and that mean more than just an upward swing of the mouth. I could read the tension in her limbs and stance, but the poor schlub melted like she offered to blow him. When he scurried away to join his friends at a table, he left behind at least a forty percent tip.
Tifa was not the only one in the bar to draw my eye. Seated in a corner, a mountain of a black man pretended to focus on his own drink and not me. He might have been just another brawler in a city of toughs in Digitown if it wasn't for his arm on the table. Not his actual arm, the flesh and blood one he rested on the bar near his drink, but a mechanical one, detached from his shoulder. The thing was capped with what looked like a steel bowling ball. I thought I heard of this guy. Barnaby or something like that.
In another corner, close to the door, a beautiful, tall brunette flipped the lids closed on a pair of woven baskets. A small stack of bills disappeared into her slim purse. She was whisper thin but with killer legs under a pink dress. A pink ribbon in her long hair matched the dress, and I dearly wanted to see where the flower necklace around her neck disappeared to between her perky breasts. The woman had style, but she was already moving for the door, waving at the black-haired bartender. The bartender waved back, and the brunette was gone.
I headed in Beefcake's direction and took up a seat next to him at the bar. "That arm make it hard to get dressed in the morning?"
He snorted, lifted his drink, and drained it in one go. He rapped the empty glass on the bar and Tifa cast him a long-suffering look. He grinned, then shifted his focus to me. "You Spike?"
I reached into my inner jacket pocket, pulled out a business card holder, took one of my cards out, and tossed it in front of him. Spike Sterling, Problem Solver. It had my office number and address too.
"You sound a hell of a lot more masculine than the person who called me," I said. I took off my jacket and tossed it across the stool next to me.
He pointed a thick finger at the bartender. "She's the one you want to talk to. Tifa Lockhart."
I knew the name from the call, but she wasn't in my files. "She owns the place?"
"Yeah. She call you about the thugs trying to intimidate her out of the place?"
I nodded. As if on cue, four guys stumbled through the door, all of them toughs, all of them piss-drunk. The call from Tifa came in about guys like these, guys who couldn't take no for an answer. I stayed loose, watching them out of the corner of my eye but not making a move yet.
"Oh shit, Tifa, you lookin' good tonight," one of them drawled. He was flabby but I thought he might be packing some muscle underneath. The rest of them were scrawnier but muscular in the wiry way of people who worked with their hands.
"Tonight's not the night to be messing around, Moreno," Tifa said, twisting the top off another bottle of beer and pushing it in front of a patron. She swept up the money on the bar and hurried towards the till.
The four guys took up spots near her, which put the one at the edge close to me. All of them wore badly fitting jackets and crop tops with so many goddamn useless zippers and belts it would have taken me all night to count them. I'm not sure what the hell was going on with their shoes, either. One guy seemed to be wearing yellow rubber booties. Another had mismatched leather shoes, both of which were done with -- yup -- even more zippers. Fashion in Digitown, man. This is a weird, weird place.
The guy looked at Barret and me blankly, and I asked, "How ya doing?"
He ignored me and focused on the bartender's tits. I couldn't exactly blame him, but my ego bruises easily. I liked attention when I wanted it.
The fat one, Moreno, drummed his fingers on the bar. "Ain't ya going to serve us?"
"I can already smell the alcohol on you. I'll get you water or some coffee, but that's it."
"We don't need you telling us when we've had too much," another one of the guys said with a voice so high it reminded me of a whistle.
"Four shots, four draft beers," Moreno said.
Tifa gave me a quick look, then leaned on the bar. Moreno and the others got an eyeful of what cleavage the sports bra would allow, and that was still plenty. They drew in a collective breath, and Tifa's hand shot out, lighting fast. I'm not sure I've ever seen faster. She grabbed Moreno by the ear and in one swift motion slammed his head down on the bar, breaking his nose and sending him reeling. His stool tipped and crashed at the same time I lashed out with a fist of my own, a backwards, awkward strike that nevertheless had all the momentum of my time with my dumbbells in my office. I hit him like a train and sent him flying backwards off his stool. He landed on his ass and somersaulted backwards, landing on something hard enough to make it audibly crack. He screamed, but I was already moving, going for a third guy while Tifa snapped a punch at the fourth. She missed, just barely, but I was there, a fistful of my guy's collar and the one she went after.
I jerked them both close to me, and growled, "You ever heard of Spike the Problem Solver?" They looked at each other and nodded. "That's me. And this bar is under my protection. Tell your friends, jackasses."
With that, I shoved them backwards. One of them hit an errant stool and went down with a startled cry. The other one bounced off a pool table and ran for it. I kicked the stool guy in the ass and he sprinted like he was coming off the blocks, out the door in a flash.
That left Moreno and the guy whose arm I'd broken. Moreno lay on his back, gripping his busted nose. I nudged him with my toes. His breath came in short, pained whistles. "Fuckin'... fuckin' bitch..."
I moved my foot to his face and hovered my shoe above his nose. "I think you meant to say, sorry, Tifa, we won't ever come back here."
When he didn't say anything, I shrugged, and settled the foot on his face. He screamed, "Sorry! Sorry! Never coming back!"
"Good boy," I said. He pushed himself upright, listing crazily side to side, and stumbled after his two friends. The remaining guy had a serious break, and whimpered when I drew close. Barret, the big man, came over holding some kind of jewel in his palm. Materia, I realized. He frowned at the break, raised the materia, and warm light pulsed between him and the guy on the ground. The cuts healed, but the break remained.
