Crooked River(72)

“I am.”

This was encouraging. “I’m looking for a friend.”

“And who might that be?”

“He calls himself El Monito.”

At this Corvacho seemed to go still, and he said, just a little too quickly, “Never heard of him.”

Coldmoon nodded. He took a sip of his beer—ice cold, surprisingly—while Corvacho made a show of wiping up the bar around him. Coldmoon could see the man had been deeply alarmed by the question and was trying to cover it up.

As he sipped the beer, Coldmoon considered what to do next. He could offer the man money, but he sensed somehow that would only frighten him more. Sometimes, he thought, the truth—or something close to it—worked better than an elaborate lie.

“I’m trying to find someone,” Coldmoon said, “came over in December from San Miguel Acatán, part of a group heading north to the U.S. Martina Ixquiac.” He took out a photo of her, given him by Ramona. “She disappeared and I’m trying to find out what happened to her.”

Corvacho barely glanced at it. “Don’t know anything about her.”

Again, the answer came too quickly.

“Look, friend, I’m working for her family, who are worried about her. I’m just trying to find her. I really need your help.”

“As I said, se?or, I have never heard of this man, and I don’t know anything about the group you are talking about.” His voice shook from fear. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.” He finished up his nervous wiping and quickly disappeared into the back.

Christ, thought Coldmoon, he’s going to call El Monito now and warn him.

But then, through the bar’s window, he saw the bartender come around the corner of the bar and climb into an old pickup. He was going to warn him in person. And Coldmoon had no car, no way to follow. Coldmoon swore under his breath; El Monito was either going to make a run for it—or, just as likely, assemble a gang to return for a fight.

But as he watched, the truck didn’t leave. The man, it seemed, was trying to start it. A moment later the bartender got out and slammed the truck door, and Coldmoon could hear him coming into the back room behind the bar and rummaging around—with the rattle and clink of tools.

Sensing an opportunity, Coldmoon slipped off the stool and quickly went outside into the parking lot. The truck was a single cab, nothing in the back, no way to hide unless he could hang on to the chassis underneath—which would be suicide on these potholed dirt roads. What to do? The bartender would be back out any moment. There was one thing: a long shot. He peered through the cab window and made a mental note of the exact mileage on the odometer.

Then he ducked into the bar just as the bartender came back out to the parking lot with a couple of tools in his hand. He threw open the hood, messed with the battery cable, slammed it, got back in, started the engine with a roar, and peeled out of the lot in a cloud of dust.

Coldmoon checked his watch. “Another beer,” he said, signaling to the boy.

The boy shook his head. “Not old enough to serve beer.”

“Right,” said Coldmoon. “Sorry. Can you recommend a hotel?”

“There is only one, se?or. Next to the plaza, the Sol y Sombra.”

“Thank you.”

Exactly thirty-two minutes later the bartender was back. He came in, red-faced and flustered. “You still here?”

Coldmoon gestured. “How much?”

“Fifty pesos.”

He put some money on the bar and left. As he passed the truck, he noted the odometer again, did a quick mental subtraction. The truck had gone 18.4 kilometers. He also made note of the nearly bald tires with just a hint of zigzag tread left.

Bag in hand, Coldmoon walked the quarter mile into the center of town. A small plaza was flanked by an old blue-washed adobe church on one side and the hotel on the other. He was glad to see a taxi sitting in front of the hotel, windows rolled down, the driver napping inside.

He went into the hotel, booked a room, and carried his bag upstairs. It wasn’t a bad room, spacious and sunny, with a bed, desk, and (thank God) A/C, which he turned on. The place also had a sluggish, intermittent semblance of Wi-Fi. He removed his iPad from the bag and loaded Google Maps, zeroing in on La Gloria. Fortunately, it was a village with not many roads radiating from it. There was a main road, Route 190, which passed by about five kilometers to the west. A dozen other roads led out from the town’s small grid of streets. They were all dirt and almost all seemed to go to outlying farms or ranch houses.

Using an online tool, Coldmoon measured 9.2 kilometers from the Del Charro out each of those roads.

Bingo. There was one, and only one, that matched within half a kilometer, and that ended at a farmhouse precisely 9.2 kilometers from Del Charro.

No suspicious-looking convoy of armed men had passed through the square headed for the bar while he made these calculations. Apparently, El Monito was going to wait for trouble to come to him.

He went downstairs and exited through the lobby to the street. He tapped on the cab’s window, rousing the driver.

“Are you available?”

“Of course, of course! Where do you want to go, se?or?” asked the driver, sitting up and starting his car, astonished to have business.

“I’ll tell you where to turn.”

“All right.”