Page 22 of Thug

I flashed a smile. “Sure.”

Frustrated beyond measure, but hoping to hide it, I filled a glass and slid it in front of him. “So, what prompted you to drive from Portland to Esqueda?”

He pushed the empty glass to my side of the bar. “My brother and sister-in-law live there,” he said, nearly laughing as he spoke. “Go figure. Hell, three years ago, neither of them spoke Spanish.”

By my guess, he was in his early thirties. Wearing khaki pants, a sleeveless sweater, loafers, and a long-sleeved shirt, he was dressed like a sixty-year-old high school principal. His skin was as pale as a dead man’s, and his hair was fire-engine red. Mexico seemed like an odd place for him. Ireland was more like it.

Wearing a look of indifference, I lowered the dirty glass into the sink. “What prompted them to move there?”

“No comment,” he murmured.

I laughed. “Say no more.”

He glanced over each shoulder. “I can’t believe you’ve got dollar drafts and there’s nobody in here. If this place was in Portland, it’d be packed.”

Since Price declared the bar off-limits to the Rebels, I’d been struggling to survive. “I should be busy,” I said, expressing more frustration with the tone of my voice than I intended to. “I’m not for a reason. Long story.”

“I’d like to get to Tucson by ten,” he said, raising his glass to his lips. “Finish the story by the time I’m done with this beer, and I’ll listen.”

I saw no harm in telling him an abbreviated version of the truth. I needed to talk to someone about my frustrations, and he was my only option.

“I wanted this place to be a biker bar,” I said. “So, when I opened it, I rented that sign out front and spelled out the words ‘Maggie’s Place’, ‘Biker’s Welcome’, and ‘Now Open’. Nobody came, and I mean nobody. So, I added the words ‘Dollar Drafts’. The next night, a local bike club saw the sign. They liked the cheap beer, learned to like me, and loved the bar. They came in pretty much every day of the week. They brought in some of their friends and the occasional club hang around. It worked out pretty good for all of us.”

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “Cops busted ‘em? They’re all in jail?”

“Nope,” I leaned onto the edge of the bar. “Rival club came in last week and claimed this territory as theirs. If the other club comes in now that they’ve been warned, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “It is what it is.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it?”

“Not really.”

“So that’s it?” he asked. “You’re just supposed to starve to death?”

“Hopefully, I’ll build a new customer base. I’ll get creative with the sign. Maybe run some cool specials.”

“Hate to be the bearer of bad news.” He leaned forward as if preparing to tell me a secret. “Once a bar is labeled a biker bar, it’s branded for life. Civilians—or whatever we’re called—don’t want to walk into a biker bar. If there would have been motorcycles in the parking lot, I wouldn’t have stopped, I can tell you that much.”

He was right. After a year of seeing nothing but motorcycles in the parking lot, a local wouldn’t consider stopping in for a beer, no matter how attractive I priced my drinks. Right or wrong, most people feared bikers. Common citizens had no desire to mingle with one-percenters if they didn’t have to.

“I’ll continue to cater to bikers,” I said. “Maybe I’ll sponsor a bike night. Hopefully, it’ll bring in the local riders—you know, the ones that don’t ride with a club.”

“That might work.” He checked his watch and his glass. He was nearly finished. “Do you serve food?”

The jars of savory snacks I offered were on the shelf behind me. I gestured to them with my thumb. “Pickled sausages and pickled eggs. I have a kitchen, but it needs some work.” I smiled at the thought of one day getting it in order. “Maybe one of these days…”

He gulped the remaining beer and raised the glass. “Good luck to you, kitchen or no kitchen.” He pulled a few bills from his wallet and placed them on the counter, under his glass. “I’ll stop by on my way back to Portland and see how things are going.”

“I doubt anything will change,” I said. “How long are you staying?”

“Hard to say.” He hopped off the barstool and stretched his arms like a soaring eagle. “Maybe a month. I’m self-employed. Hell, I can work from my brother’s place, so there’s no real reason to leave. It’ll probably depend on how hot it is.”

“It’ll be 115 degrees, but it’s a dry heat,” I said with a laugh.

He raised his arms and gestured to the stains underneath his armpits. “Yeah, so is this.”