The Transman and the Preacher: A Roaring 20s Love Story
Breaking all the rules
A pencil-mustached man with slicked-back hair weaseled himself in between me and my sweetheart Minnie. “Is this cat bothering you?”
“Uh — ,” Minnie started, but he cut her off.
His voice raised just a hair; my ears picked it up. “Don’t worry, darlin’,” he said. “Name’s Aaron.”
My head cocked to the side. I gripped the steel in my pants pocket.
He stuck out his hand for her to shake. She looked to me. I gave her the signal, a slight nod she’s learned to look for. She stepped back. Without taking my eyes from his, I yanked him close to me by his elbow. With my other hand, I whipped out the ole faithful — a revolver that’s been in the Harris family for quite some time now.
He let out a yelp. I rammed my body weight into him, sending him flying into the rickety bar. Even Smooth Tony with the saxophone paused, sending the jazz ensemble to a screeching halt.
In a low, cool voice, I said, “Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?”
He growled as if he had any control of the situation. “Don’t need to.”
I shoved the piece into his ribs. He jumped in my grip, trying his best not to make a sound.
