Winter Counts(24)

Marie went in while I pretended to make a call on my phone. All of a sudden I wished I’d brought the gun rather than leaving it in the car. Too late now. I spotted her in the bar, walking around the front counter, and then she went out of my field of vision. I moved over a bit, trying to get a different angle, but couldn’t see her. A few minutes passed. I wondered if she’d found Rick, and what she might be saying to him.

I waited a few more minutes, then walked over to a different window and looked inside. No Marie, no Rick. I’d promised that I’d let her talk to Rick without interfering, but I needed to keep an eye on them. I decided I’d give it a thirty count, then go in.

I hit twenty-nine, and readied myself to go inside and confront Rick and the gang. Just as I put my hand on the door, it opened.

“He’s not there,” Marie said. She looked frustrated.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Checked the whole place, front to back. Even stuck my head in the men’s bathroom. Bad idea.” She shook her head.

“All right, let’s get out of here.”

“Wait,” she said. “Let’s go back in, see if anyone knows where he is.”

“You think that’s smart?”

“Come on, tough guy. Can’t hurt to have a drink.”

I stood there at the front door for a moment, then pushed it open.

MY EYES ADJUSTED to the darkness inside the bar, and I looked around. A solitary pool table, a battered Formica bar, and a dozen men—all Latino—staring at me.

The bartender sauntered over to us. He looked to be about forty—slender with a small goatee on his face. He wore a backward baseball cap with sunglasses on top, and I noticed the tattoo on his arm, in stylized cursive letters: SUR 13. On the other arm was a crude drawing of an Aztec warrior holding a woman. The Aztec Kingz. We were in the right place.

“Help you?” he said, not smiling.

“Bud Light for her, a Coke for me.”

Without being too obvious, I sneaked a glance around the bar. A few people were still watching us, but the attention our arrival had brought was dying down. We sipped our drinks and tried to look like we fit in. I stared at a college football game playing above the bar. Marie took out her phone.

After a few minutes, a man wearing a faded orange Denver Broncos shirt turned to us. Well, turned to Marie. In his inebriated state, I don’t think he even noticed me. The stench of hard liquor radiated from him.

“You from Globeville?” he said to her.

I could see her effort to mask her distaste. “No, we’re not from around here.”

“Commerce City? I got a cousin over there, lives by the oil refinery. Stinks like shit. Not him, the refinery. Well, he stinks like shit, too.”

“We’re from South Dakota. Just visiting,” she said.

“You a chola? You got pretty hair,” he said. “But the eyebrows ain’t right. You look like a tough girl. Chido.” He motioned to the bartender for another drink. “You want to do a shot? You ever had a Mexican Killer? Tequila and peach schnapps. Kick your ass.”

“No, thank you,” Marie said.

“Su pérdida. Los ni?os y los borrachos siempre dicen la verdad.”

This guy definitely spent a lot of time in this bar, so I reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, we’re looking for a friend of ours. Tall guy, long black hair, Indian dude. You know, Native American. Comes around here every so often. Name of Rick Crow. You see him lately?”

The drunk guy was losing interest in us. “No, ain’t seen nobody like that.”

There didn’t seem to be any point in hanging around Los Primos. The bartender hadn’t shown any sign of friendliness, and the other customers looked equally disagreeable. I signaled to Marie with a little motion of my head. We finished our drinks and left.

We started walking back to the car. I was disappointed we hadn’t gained even a shred of info as to where Rick might be. Marie had been pretty confident we could find him at the bar, and I didn’t know our next move.

All of a sudden, I heard footsteps coming behind us. Fast. I looked around and saw a man about a block away running toward us.

“Stop!” the guy yelled. I checked to see if there was someone else he might be chasing. No, he was after us, and from the speed he was going, it didn’t look like he wished us well. I turned around to see what the possibilities were in the event of a confrontation, which seemed imminent. We were in an industrial area with no cover available. I calculated whether we could make it to the car—and my gun—before the guy caught up. Not enough time. There was only one option.

“Get behind that dumpster!” I barked at Marie. “Hurry!”

“I will not,” she said, “it’s filthy over there—”

“Hide behind it now, or I’ll throw you in!”

She scurried over to the large trash container. I ducked around the side of the building in the alley.

“Hey!” the man yelled, looking down the alley for me. I grabbed him from behind, trying to pin his arms. He broke my hold and faced me. I feinted a jab with my left hand. He went for it, opening up his side. I used the opening to land a hard blow to his face. He made some garbled sounds as he bent over and tried to shake off my punch.

I used that split second to assess him. Latino guy, a little older, big dude, short hair. Dressed in black jeans and flannel shirt. Standard gang wear. Couldn’t see any weapons, but that didn’t mean anything. I had to get him down before anyone else joined in to help.