Nothing Short of Dying (10 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

W
e paid, then followed the walking path to the next big bar. I was still jumpy, preoccupied with how to proceed once we got to Leadville, but Allie was right. I was too worked up to sleep anyway. The river behind us gurgled loudly and smelled clean and fresh. The willows and the cattails along the water swayed with the wind.

The building was old, but the bar had been decorated with new, cheap junk to make it look older. Fake antique signs, and factory-weathered skis and oars hung on the wooden walls. There were maybe twenty people inside, all young and good-looking. And in a corner, a band setting up.

“What should we drink?” Allie asked.

“Beer?”

“Beer it is.” She swung off to the bar, talked to a couple of the kids who could have been fashion models, then ordered. The bartender's face lit up when Allie talked to him. She came back a while later carrying a pitcher of beer and two glasses.

“So much for one drink,” I said.

“Well, one
pitcher
,” she replied, smiling.

I filled her glass, then mine. I bent to take a sip and then
gagged. “What the hell is this?” My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth.

“Microbrew. The bartender recommended it. It's called blueberry ale. A world traveler like you is always up for a new experience, right?”

“It'll do,” I said, trying not to hurt her feelings. Actually, the brew tasted like bear dung, but it must have been pretty high in alcohol content, because halfway through the pitcher I was pretty buzzed.

It was at that point that I noticed that the number of people in the bar had tripled and that most people were on the dance floor, thrashing to a song with a thumping beat. Allie looked over at me and put her glass down.

“How about it, Barr. Do you dance?”

“Only when I have half a pitcher of beer in me.”

“Then I'd say you're prequalified. C'mon.” She rose from the table and motioned to the dance floor.

We hopped around to a couple fast songs, arms swinging and heads bobbing like we were spastic marionettes. During the slow songs we assumed the middle-school dance position: Allie's arms around my neck and mine around her waist. She smiled at my discomfort.

Then the band took a break between sets and Allie announced that she had to pee.

“Good idea,” I said. We made our way to separate bathrooms and disappeared inside. After minimal eye contact with a bunch of cologne-smeared guys inside, I stepped back into the hallway and waited for Allie to come out. As usual, the number of women waiting to do their business was long so I struck up a conversation with two dark-skinned guys in cowboy hats who were standing next to me, also doing sentry duty. The other guys spoke Spanish,
so I did, too, trading friendly comments with them about the beaches in Baja.

Allie came out then, engrossed in a conversation with her own new friends: two tall blond women, all angles and cheekbones. Allie saw me, waved, then pointed outside, and walked out the door with the women.

That left me with my buddies. We talked about playing pool, until I mentioned darts. They seemed up for it, so we made our way over to the dartboards. For me, there isn't a better bar game than darts. Unlike pool, which requires a geometry degree, darts is all about muscle memory and instinct. It's a game that appeals to the lizard part of the brain. My kind of contest.

I won the first round. Eduardo the second. I scanned the room for Allie, wondering why she hadn't found me, and saw her dancing again—with her new friends and a couple of men. I felt a pang of jealousy, but pushed it away, knowing I had no right to be jealous.

We were about to play a third game when a man at a table next to us stood up and started talking to us. He had his arm around a nice-looking redhead. He wore a fresh shirt, but it was stretched to the breaking point by the gym-grown physique beneath. His arms couldn't rest against his sides because of the giant lumps of muscle in the way. He had no neck, had close-cropped hair, and carried himself straight and tall, chin up. Probably ex-military or ex-cop.

At first we ignored him. But when my brain switched back to English, I started hearing words like
beaners
,
wetbacks
, and
spics
. Jaime and Eduardo heard the words, too, I'm sure, because they pulled their hats down and stared at their boots.

I put my darts down and took a step toward the loudmouth's table. “What's your problem?” I asked. In Spanish.

“Learn our language, assholes,” he said, laughing and checking to make sure his girlfriend had heard. She had but didn't look very impressed.

I took another step toward him and his girlfriend. “What's
our
language, smart guy?” I asked in English.

He laughed, a little uneasy because he was laughing alone. “American,” he said, then corrected himself. “English.”

“Wrong.” I took another step. “This country doesn't have an official language.”

He didn't have an answer to that. So he puffed up his massive muscles like a cat lifts its fur and said, “It's people like your friends who are ruining this country.”

“Wrong again,” I said, shifting a little weight to my back foot. “It's loudmouthed, ignorant assholes like you who are ruining this country.”

The loud guy smiled. “Did you just call me an asshole?” This is what he wanted, to provoke someone into a physical showdown, trounce them, make himself look like a prime male specimen in the eyes of his fair lady.

“
And
ignorant,” I said.

He was a massive guy—over 250 and at least six five—and he'd likely seen combat. But I would have bet money I'd seen worse. He stood his ground, looked around, and didn't see anyone watching. Other than his girlfriend, who looked bored. Either he wanted an audience or he was afraid that someone might have seen something that would damage his reputation and ego. Seeing neither, he told me where I could go and what I could do to myself, then sat back down.

His girlfriend stared at me like I was the devil incarnate, then leaned over and whispered something into the big man's ear. Whatever was going to happen next would be her fault. Luckily, all the big man did was fume and swig beer. I left
Eduardo to set up the next round of darts and went to the bar, where I ordered a lemon water.

When I returned, things had gotten Western.

The big guy had Jaime against the wall, two meaty fists wrapped in Jaime's fancy shirt. He was yelling something about stealing jobs and how he was going to throw the trash out of the bar. Eduardo had disappeared. Redheaded girlfriend was smiling, happy to see her man take action.

I checked the bar, couldn't see Allie.

I should have gone to look for her. That would have been the smart thing to do. The rational thing. Walk away, let the big guy and my friend work out their differences on their own and leave quietly. The civilized part of my brain—the part you use when you play pool—was screaming at me to do just that.

But I'm a dart player.

I grabbed a pool cue from the nearest table, walked over, and stood directly behind the loudmouth. “Let him go,” I said.

“I'm gonna teach your little friend a lesson first,” he shouted back, “then it's you and me.”

I didn't want to wait my turn.

I tossed the lemon water on the back of the big guy's head, watched the water run down his shirt. He let go of Jaime and whirled around, snarling, showing me his perfect teeth.

I watched his eyes flick as he made a microsecond assessment. He saw the pool cue, and the way I was standing, and planned accordingly. His training, or experience, told him he needed to hit first, to get inside the swing of the pool cue. So without a word, he rushed.

He was fast and knew what he was doing. If I hadn't been ready, he probably would have beaten me to a pulp. But instead of swinging, I lifted the cue up and stuck the heavy end
in the bull's-eye of his throat, right below his Adam's apple. I braced myself the same way a Masai would against a lion charge, and let the man's momentum hurt him.

The impact rattled the stick and sent shock waves through my arms and legs. I stayed braced until the man fell back and went down, coughing and gagging, grabbing his throat. Part of me saw the wounded man and wanted to finish him off—wanted to deliver three or four good thumps to his head, to make sure he stayed down. Maybe kick him a couple of times for good measure.

But I didn't. This wasn't the savanna; it was a public place in the middle of a busy town. When the big guy's girlfriend started racing toward us, I dropped the cue and walked away, trying to disappear into the gathering crowd.

I found Allie two rows back. She'd been watching.

“Let's go,” I said.

“You think?”

We hauled ass along the walking path, too busy worrying about the police showing up to stare at the river or take in its cool scents. Allie hustled in front of me, looking back with reproach. “You're an idiot, Barr,” she said.

“The guy insulted my friends. Deserved it.”

“Does the zoo keeper know you're missing?”

I didn't answer, just tried to keep up with her frantic pace.

We made it back to the motel. No one followed. As I paused to light a cigarette outside our door, Allie whirled on me.

“Jesus, Barr. Just tell me one thing: Why do you keep doing things that could get you killed? Do you have a death wish? Don't you care about what will happen to you?”

I sucked in the nicotine and thought about it. I didn't have a death wish. It's just that when you spend enough time in
places with horrors, you lose yourself. You lose any ego. When people need help, you say “Why not? What do I have to lose compared to others?” And when you don't care, it lets you operate at a higher and faster level. Ironically, not caring was one of the things that kept me alive.

“I don't know,” I said, shrugging.

“Jackass,” she said, then sighed and went into our room.

I finished my smoke, went inside, and fell onto the empty bed by the door. Crawling under the cold covers, I somehow felt lonelier than I had in years.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

M
y cell phone woke me up with a tinny electric song as the sun started to curl around the edge of the dingy curtains. I muted the phone by throwing it into the wall, furious that it had pulled me out of my snoring slumber and a strange lack of dreams. The dull intellect and ragged emotions that present themselves after a night on the sauce were there in full force, leaving me unable to feel much more than pissed and horny.

I looked over at the other bed. Allie lay sprawled on the half-drawn-down bedsheets, still in her black dress, her arms stretched above her head, her legs straight and wide apart. It looked as if she were trying to make snow angels in her sleep. I pulled her dress back down, so that I wouldn't be tempted to wake her up. Then I showered, threw on clothes, coat, and hat, and opened the door.

Outside, the sun had just crawled above the horizon, and the town was just starting to move. I sat down at a concrete table and watched the birds flit and play in the surrounding trees. Ravens, crows, and starlings fought for the few scraps ringing people's overstuffed trash cans. And on the phone lines, squirrels were performing miraculous acrobatic feats
despite their obesity. The smell of still-wet leaves piled under the trees lingered in the early morning air. I was surrounded by enough of the natural world, even in a touristy town, to keep from going crazy, but I still longed to get away from the buildings and the vehicles and the people.
Soon enough
, I thought.

I pulled out the phone and checked the missed call. It read “unavailable,” but whoever it was would call back if it was important. I hoped it was Jen.

I fought the urge to smoke and tried to remember last night. I recalled dancing, and a little spat with a racist jerk, and Allie. Tried to remember everything we had done.

The phone vibrated on the concrete table, buzzing and dancing in tight little circles. I looked at the ID. Unavailable.
What the hell
, I thought, and flipped the phone open. “This is Barr.”

“Mr. Barr, this is Lance Alvis. Let me just say this: you need to stop looking for me and your sister.”

Well, well—the man himself.
“And why is that?”

“Because, Clyde, you are interfering with my business. At this point in time, I need my operation secret and removed from those who would exploit its location.”

“I made a promise to Jen,” I said.

“She agrees with me that you should stop looking for us. She's worried about you, Clyde.”

“You don't say. Well, put her on the line then so we can clear up this misunderstanding.”

“She isn't here with me, but I assure you she is fine.”

“You haven't hurt her? Because if you
have
—”

“I haven't hurt her. But I will, if you keep coming. Ask around, and you'll hear that I can be very creative in expressing my displeasure.”

“Really? Well, I guess that means we have something in common.”

“Let me
reiterate
: I'm only calling because your sister has asked me to tell you to stop. For your own good.”

He sounded slick, which could easily be confused with sincere. His pitch made me pause, though. If there was a shred of truth to what he was saying, I might be tilting at the proverbial windmill. I was willing to bet that he was lying, though. And I
had
given Jen my word.

“Sorry, I made a promise to Jen. It's sort of a thing with me. Like Scout's honor. You were probably in the Boy Scouts, Lance. You know what I'm talking about.”

“Promises can kill, Mr. Barr. In this case, fulfilling your promise will force me to kill Jennifer, as well as the rest of your family. Have you visited sisters Deborah and Angela since you've returned to the area? I can supply their addresses if you like.”

“I'm sure the Feds would love you to get near my sisters, Alvis,” I said, lying through my teeth. Bullshitting was a survival technique I'd mastered over the years.

Alvis didn't say anything immediately, then sputtered, “What—what are you talking about?”

“The Feds actually think I work for you, Alvis. That's pretty rich, eh? It's a bit of confusion having to do with my taking out some of your brother's people. You see, they have this theory that your brother is trying to make a move against you, and they've ID'd me as your chief tidy upper. They've been tailing me and watching my family ever since.” Some of this tall tale I'd previously concocted, figuring Lance might go down the “I'm going to terrorize your family” path. Some of it I was making up on the fly.

“Mr. Barr, you are truly an irritant.”

“Sorry you feel that way, Alvis. I hoped we could be chums.”

“You're heading into a hell you can't imagine.” Alvis was seething.

“And I look forward to seeing you there.”

We were both blowing smoke at each other, of course, trying to convince the other that behind the black clouds was a raging inferno. I had no doubt that Alvis was exceedingly dangerous, but the situation being what it was, I figured my best play was to dispel the idea that his knowledge of my family's whereabouts constituted leverage. I had to convince him that going after them risked full-on exposure and that I wasn't about to be stopped anyway—that I was full-on crazy.

Maybe I was.

Alvis hung up the phone before I could beat him to it.

I was getting very sick of the phone and wanted to smash it against a tree or drive the Jeep over it a couple of times. But I still had another call to make. I autodialed Juan.

There was no small talk. “Chopo's dead,” I said.

“Yeah. I heard.”

“I tried to keep him alive, Juan. I really did.”

“No one's blaming you, Clyde. He went out the way he wanted. The way he said he would.”

“Still . . . I should have done more. Or I should have gone alone.”

“You couldn't have done either. It's okay. Alejandro has already made a call to California.”

“That's what I was calling about.”

“They're on the way. Chopo will be avenged. Big-time.”

“Just one thing, Juan. Tell Alejandro he can do whatever he wants with Jefe and his boys, but Alvis is mine, okay?”

Juan sighed. “You at the head of some army I don't know about, Clyde?”

“I've got one enlistee and there may be more help where I'm going.”

“You're going to get yourself killed, Clyde—you know that, right?”

“Maybe, but I've got to play out this hand.”

After I hung up I went into the lobby and filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee that smelled like a parking lot puddle. It was horrible but hot. I took a couple long sips, then reached for my phone. I had one more call to make—if I could remember the devil's number.