“I can,” Johnny said, pointing at the cooler. Drennen stood up and got him another beer.
“We need to make some money,” Drennen said. “We’re just about out and there is no work out there. We couldn’t even get on at a dude ranch since it’s September and the end of their season. Man, we burned through the whole wad in a couple a weeks.”
“Maybe we can kill somebody else,” Johnny said, patting his pistol and dropping his voice. “That’s easier than hitting the road in an RV.”
Drennen grunted. “Nobody we know needs anyone whacked,” he said. “So there’s no business there, either.”
Johnny said, “Maybe we can get unemployment from the government. I heard one of those gas guys saying you can collect for something like two years now before you have to even look for a job. That sounds like a sweet deal to me.”
Drennen rolled his eyes. “That’s subsistence level, man. We can’t do that. We’ve got to live higher on the food chain.”
“So where do we get an RV?” Johnny asked. “Those mothers are expensive.”
“I haven’t figured that one out yet,” Drennen said, dismissing Johnny’s concern.
“And if we do somehow get one, why would Gasbag Jim trust us to lend us his whores and give him his cut? He don’t know us from Adam. And along the same lines, if this is such a great idea, why won’t Gasbag and his buddies just do it? Why do they need us?”
Gasbag Jim was always shadowed by two large Mexicans named Luis and Jesus. Luis openly wore a shoulder holster. Luis had a trickedout tactical AR-15 he sometimes used to shoot at gophers using his laser sight. The Ruger also belonged to Luis.
Drennen had a blank expression on his face that eventually melded into petulance. “I didn’t say I had the whole fuckin’ thing figured out,” he pouted. “I said I had a concept that I’m working through. One of us has to think ahead farther than the tip of our dick, you know.”
Johnny looked down at his lap and smiled. At least that felt like his. “Wish I could figure out where I left my pants,” he said. Then: “I’ve been thinking, too. What about that Patsy? I bet she’d part with a whole bunch more if we got to her and said we might have to talk. Hell, she got that bag of cash from somewhere. I bet there’s a hell of a lot more where that came from.”
Drennen shook his head and said, “I’m ahead of you on that one. But all we know is she’s from Chicago. We don’t have an address, and we don’t really even know if that was her real name. It’s not like she gave us a business card, bud.”
“I went to Chicago once,” Johnny said. “You’re right, it’s big. And I think Patsy knows people, if you know what I mean.”
When Drennen didn’t respond, he looked back at his friend. Drennen was sitting in the dirt, legs crossed Indian fashion, head tilted back. He was squinting at something in the sky.
“What?” Johnny said. “You’re not gonna ask me what animal a cloud looks like again, are you? Because I’m not interested.”
“Look,” Drennen said, gesturing skyward with this beer can.
Johnny sighed and looked up. It seemed like a lot of effort.
“See it?” Drennen asked.
“What?”
“That bird. An eagle or whatever, going around in circles?”
Johnny squinted and finally found it. It was a long way up there.
“Remember when we got that job done in the canyon? Remember we saw a bird like that?”
“Yeah.”
They both got the same thought at the same time, and they looked at each other.
“No waaaay,” Drennen said, forcing a smile.
“Hell no,” Johnny said, feeling a little sick after looking at Drennen square in the face.
25
Joe entered the dark and windowless Stockman’s Bar. After he had spent all day outside in the bright September sunshine, the sudden gloom required a momentary hitch just inside the front door. As he waited for his eyes to adjust, his other senses took over: he heard the click of pool balls from the tables in back, the thud of a beer mug being put down for a refill after the ranch hand ordered a “re-ride,” and smelled the piquant combination of sweat, dust, and cigarette smoke. The sound track for the emerging scene was the jukebox playing Lucinda Williams’ “Can’t Let Go.”
Neither can I, Joe thought.
Most of the stools were filled. Half by regulars deep into the last stages of a three-day bender before going into extra innings of the holiday blues. Keith Bailey, the part-time Eagle Mountain Club security guard, was there again at his usual place, cradling a cup of coffee between his big hands. There were a few tourists Joe didn’t recognize, mixed in with the locals but still standing out from them, and a bumptious gaggle of college-age cowboy and cowgirl wannabes clogging up the far end of the bar. But not the man he wanted to find. Joe felt sorry for these people who chose the dark solace of a cave when a bright, crisp, and multi-colored almost-fall day was exploding outside all around them in every direction.
Buck Timberman appeared out of the dark when Joe could see. Timberman towered over the seated customers with both his hands flat on the glass and his head tilted forward with a “What can I get you?” eyebrow arch toward Joe.
Joe said, “Did anyone just come running through here? A male, mid-thirties? Thin, with fashionista stubble on his face? Black shirt and ball cap? Goofy look in his eyes?”
Timberman said, “Sorry, I can’t help you, Joe” with his mouth, but his eyes darted down the length of the bar toward the back as he said it. He did it in a way that none of his customers could have picked up. Joe nodded his appreciation, and meandered down the ancient pine-stave floor that was sticky with beer spillage as if it were his own idea. He excused himself as he shouldered through the wannabes, past the wall of booths, and around the pool tables. When one of the shooters looked up, Joe said, “He go this way?” as if they knew each other. The man gestured with the tip of his cue and said, “Out that door in the back.”
“Thank you kindly.”
The door between the COWBOYS and COWGIRLS led through a cramped storeroom to a back door that opened up in the alley. It was used for deliveries. Beer crates and kegs were stacked to the ceiling, but there was an aisle through them to a steel back door. Electrical boxes, valves, and water pipes cluttered the wall next to the exit. Joe searched for a light switch, but couldn’t find it and gave up.
He pushed out into the alley and quickly looked both ways. No Shamazz.
He put his hands on his hips and tried to think. Where would he go?
Joe jogged around the building to the sidewalk to see if the small knot of Bud Jr.’s colleagues were still out front so he could ask them for a confirmation. But they were gone, too.
Joe wished he could call for backup, but once again he was operating completely on his own. Was Bud Jr. in town for the trial? If so, why had he run when Joe recognized him? There was nothing wrong with attending a trial where his father was the featured player.
Since Bud Jr. wasn’t on the street or in the alley and Joe hadn’t heard a car start up or a door slam, Joe was befuddled. Then he recalled seeing a rusty ladder in the alley to the roof of the building, and cursed himself for not looking up when he came out of the bar. Maybe Shamazz had clambered up and watched Joe run around below him like an aimless rabbit?
And was he sure it was really Shamazz? If so, Bud Jr. was in what he’d consider his civilian gear. No puffy white shirt or jester hat for street performance, no white mime pancake makeup. He was even wearing his ball cap as a ball cap should be worn with the bill rounded and to the front and not backwards, sideways, or unbent with the label still showing on the bill in street fashion. And he was walking around without bouncing a Hacky Sack on the top of his foot, which for Shamazz was a trademark. But Joe remembered those vacant eyes because he’d seen them so many times. Pale blue eyes that saw the world in a different way than Joe did, as a place that oppressed him and other free spirits like him. And not just because the pupils were nearly always dilated. Eyes that said, “Why the hell me?” as a response to any request Joe ever made on the ranch, like, “Could you please go get the post-hole digger?”