Once a month, usually on the first Thursday, the Grassy Knoll Pub hangs a sign on the door that reads “Closed to the General Public.”
Inside, the Knoll’s staff sets to work on that day replacing the “conspiracy theory chic” decor with items more pleasing to those in law enforcement.
Gone, for example, were the pictures of Lee Harvey Oswald and Jack Ruby, replaced with photos of Wyatt Earp and J. Edgar Hoover. Cassidy, the Irish doorman of the Knoll, wanted to put of pictures of Joe Friday from “Dragnet” but Jesse Custer, the Knoll’s proprietor, nixed that idea.
“If we’re going to put up pictures of lawmen, Cass, we’re going to use real ones,” Custer said at the time of the idea.
“Aye, and Joe Fookin’ Friday’s the realest American lawman ye’ve ever seen, Jesse,” the Irishman had responded.
All of this was in service for “Cop Night,” the unofficial name for when the Grassy Knoll Pub, the only watering hole worth a damn in Mud Lick, opened its doors solely for law enforcement clientele.
The Reverend Jesse Custer was no fan of law enforcement, as he’d ran afoul of many in his days before he took up the cloth. However Tulip, the Knoll’s longtime hostess and Jesse’s girlfriend of many years, persuaded Custer to start cop night on two astute assumptions.
- People will pay more to drink with their friends when no one else is around.
- Cops will pay more to drink when there’s only cops around.
While Custer wasn’t a fan of cops, he did like money, so “Cop Night at the Knoll” was established and became a fixture on the pub’s monthly calendar.
On this particular night, a young woman in plainclothes wearing a badge around her neck was the first patron of the evening. She was fresh faced, and didn’t have the world weary look of most Mud Lick residents.
Gotta be either a new hire or a transfer, Custer thought as the young woman took a seat at the bar.
“Good evening, Officer,” Jesse said with a smile. “How can we be of service tonight?”
“I’m here for the cop thing?” the young woman asked.
“Well you’re in the right place, Officer,” Jesse said with a sweep of his hand. “Sit wherever you like and rest a spell. What will you have to drink this evening?”
The young woman thought for a moment. “A beer please?”
Young people these days, Custer thought. Every sentence they utter has to sound like a fucking question. He still kept a smile on his face for his customers.
“You have a preference?”
“Um..Miller Light?”
This prompted a howl of laughter from Cassidy near the door.
“Oh Jaysis Fook, Jesse! She comes to the Knoll and orders a fookin’ Miller Light!”
The Irishman cackled gleefully.
“You’re sure you don’t want something a little stronger, pretty bird? Maybe ye’d like to come over here and inspect ol’ Cassidy’s nightstick, eh?”
The young officer gave Cass a side-eyed glance. “The guys at the station told me about your doorman.”
“Don’t mind him,” Custer said. “He’s very old, very Irish, and very drunk.”
A surprised stare came from the young woman. “Funny you mention that. That’s what the guys at the station said. Almost to the letter.”
“Aye did ye hear that, Jesse? I’m fookin’ famous!” Cassidy cackled in glee.
The next man through the door put a stop to that. It was Deputy Ernesto Miranda, Sheriff Roy Templeton’s second in command and the guy who helped put “Cop Night” together with Tulip’s prodding.
“Evening Reverend!” Miranda shouted from the doorway.
“Cass,” he muttered almost as an afterthought as he approached the bar.
Cassidy responded by humming “La Cucaracha.”
Deputy Miranda turned towards the door at this and produced a five dollar bill from his wallet. Handing it to Cassidy, he said “I’ve got plenty of these on me tonight. Every hour you go without uttering a word I’ll hand you another. Do we have a deal?”
The Irishman took the proffered bill and didn’t utter another word for the next four hours.
Jesse didn’t mind. Although he’d been friends with his Irish doorman for years before the Knoll was even a gleam in Custer’s eye, it never got old seeing patrons give Cassidy his shit back in spades.
Deputy Miranda approached Custer at the bar with a $100 bill in hand.
“Hope you don’t mind not closing early, Reverend” he told the barkeep. “We’ve got some of the folks from Dismal Seepage coming in tonight. You should be pretty busy all evening.”
Custer took the bill and stuffed it in his pocket. “The collection plate thanks you for your tithe, Deputy Miranda. Please go visit Tulip for your boilermaker.”
Miranda did as instructed.
“Excuse me,” the young officer at the bar asked. “Did he call you “Reverend?”
“That he did.”
“What’s that all about?”
“Well, I used to be a Southern Baptist Minister before opening this place,” Jesse said. “I’m not much for evangelizing these days but the nickname kind of stuck. And Cass tells me bartenders are the closest thing to a confessional secular folks get, so I guess you’re kind of in church at the moment.”
“I never knew drinks could be a confessional,” the young woman quipped as she finished her beer.” “I’m Grace Ruiz, by the way. Detective Ruiz.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Detective,” Custer said, extending his hand. “Can I get you anything else to drink?”
“I’ll have a martini,” she replied.
“Put Ruiz’s first one on my tab!” Miranda called from his end of the bar.
“I was going to make it on the house, but if you insist,” Custer shot back.
“Hey, I’m a public servant over here! Don’t take your capitalist fantasies out of my paycheck!”
“Too late,” Custer smiled. “It’s already on your tab.”
The night slowly started to swell as more patrons arrived. There were the Jensen twins, the two officers who watched over Old Man Cocke’s Garage 46 operation. Next in were a couple of vice officers from Dismal Seepage who were more interested in shooting pool and talking shop than actually drinking.
As the night picked up, so did the tips and the tunes from the jukebox Custer installed the month prior. He was originally adverse to music that wasn’t live in his establishment, but it was extra money in his pocket and he only threatened to Elvis the machine if someone put on Vanilla Ice or some other godawful white rapper tunes.
“Hey, where’s Tyrone?” one slightly inebriated officer asked a colleague after a few rounds of darts.
“We don’t talk about Tyrone,” his opponent sang in a tune oddly similar to a Disney number.
The night progressed along with a nice hum, and the tips were flowing. The register kept making Custer’s favorite noise all night as it opened and closed taking in cash, and the credit card reader kept cranking out receipts.
Around 12:30 AM, the Knoll was officially jumping. Cassidy’d brought out the karaoke equipment and two officers were in the midst of serenading their colleagues with Hank III’s “PFF” when the doors of the Knoll burst wide open in an authoritative snap.
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF SWEET BEAR BRYAN IS MY DEPARTMENT DOING IN A DEN OF ILL REPUTE?” the figure in the doorway roared.
All fell silent as Sheriff Roy Templeton entered the Grassy Knoll Pub and surveyed the scene.
Men and women with badges and healthy buzzes parted like the Red Sea as the Sheriff made his way to the bar. Sheriff Roy eyed Jesse Custer with an icy stare as he took a seat in front of the barkeep.
“Custer,” Sheriff Roy began. “You responsible for this mess?”
“Among other guilty parties,” Jesse replied.
“Who assisted you in setting this debacle up?”
“Barkeep/Client privilege prevents me from divulging that, Sheriff.”
One could hear a pin drop into a pile of hay as everyone in the bar waited for the Sheriff to respond.
“Then I suppose you’ll pour me a bourbon while I’m sitting,” Sheriff Roy began. “After that I’ll take a scotch, then a beer. I’d like to close my tab after that.”
Everyone in the Grassy Knoll Pub roared in approval.
Tulip slid three fingers of bourbon to the Sheriff. “With the compliments of the house, Sheriff,” Tulip said with a wry grin.
Jesse wasn’t about to disagree.
As Sheriff Roy finished his beer—an O’Doul’s, to be specific, he paid for his tab and then turned to the assembled patronage at the bar.
“Everyone in this building who’s an officer in Dismal Seepage, I thank you for coming to support our local businesses. If you’re part of the Mud Lick Sheriff’s Department, I suggest you be present for roll call at 5 AM tomorrow. We’ve got some PT to get through, and I’m sure all of you are up to the task in your present conditions.”
Sheriff Roy paid no heed to the boos as he left the pub. Their asses belonged to him in the morning, and that was satisfaction enough.
Jesse started counting the night’s take after last call. It was one of the Knoll’s best nights in years, and the first time Sheriff Roy’d graced their presence.
“Do ye think the head lawdog will come back, Jesse?” Cassidy asked as he drooled over the payday.
“If he does, Cass, he gets the same treatment as everyone else.”
“Stick it to him by charging double the next visit when he’s good and loaded?”
Custer laughed heartily. “You know me too well, Cassidy.”
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