“Welcome to the Diamond Belle, gentlemen.” A bartender in—well, not historically accurate, but the effort was appreciated nonetheless—attire, set his hands on the counter. He was middle-aged, fit, and sported an actual handlebar mustache. His nametag said Mick. “What can I get you both?”
Calvin inquired after trade whiskey, and the bartender said they did, in fact, offer it.
Mick placed two tumblers before us, the contents a bit cloudy-looking. “It’s more for the novelty than the flavor.”
I picked up my glass, tapped it against Calvin’s, then took a sip. “There’s actual cayenne in this?” I asked, pursing my lips a little at the lingering heat.
Mick nodded. “And did you pick up the metallic note?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s the gunpowder.”
“What doesn’t kill you,” Calvin said, taking a second sip.
Mick gave a hearty laugh. “That’s the spirit. Where you gents from?”
“New York,” I answered.
“Oh, yeah? The state or the city?”
“City,” I clarified.
“And what brings you out to humble Durango?”
“I was told we needed a vacation.”
“He tries very hard to make it sound like a punishment,” Calvin added, a wry smile on his face as he rubbed my back a few times.
Mick smoothed his mustache and said, “You picked a damn good destination, if you don’t mind my saying. I visited twenty-two years ago and forgot to ever leave.” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder in indication while asking, “You gents booked at the Strater?”
Calvin agreed.
“Great place. Great place. Watch out for ghosts.” He added that last comment as an almost afterthought.
“I’ll look both ways before crossing the street,” I agreed.
Mick stroked his ’stache again. “What floor you on—at the Strater?”
“Third,” I said. “Why?”
“Folks usually hear things up there. Feel things.”
I glanced at Calvin, who shrugged and sipped his gunpowder concoction. I looked at Mick again. “Things.”
“Creaking at night, like someone’s walking around.”
“It is a hotel. People come and go at all hours,” I said.
“Sure.”
“And it’s quite old—over 130 years. It’s bound to have a squeaky floorboard or two.”
“Yup.”
“But?” I pressed.
“Guests report the steps originating frominsidetheir room,” Mick concluded.
