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He parked in front of the first bar and went inside. The floor was packed earth, with four fold-up picnic tables arranged toward the corners. Mismatched chairs were around them, some were lawn chairs, others were old chairs from cheap kitchen sets. The bar was made of two metal oil drums with pieces of lumber, one-by-twelves it looked like, laid across the tops. There were maybe a dozen people drinking, all but two sitting at the tables. The two standing at the bar weren’t locals, judging by their clothes. Bobby thought they looked like small-timers out of Odessa, that group. There were enough of them around. He walked to the bar, ordered a Dos Equis, and got it handed to him out of a washtub filled with water and ice chunks.
`After a few sips Bobby called the bartender over. He was an emaciated, bony man whose shirt showed knobs for shoulders and thin reed-like collarbones, making the man appear to be made of sticks. He walked with a limp and part of one ear was missing.
“You wan’ another?” The bartender asked.
“Nah, little information’s all.” Bobby pushed a twenty across the boards, showing it to the man but leaving his hand over it. “Three women, two women and a girl, you see a group like that lately?”
The bartender slid his rag over the twenty and took it, “There was three in town this mornin’, about seven or so. Little girl looked like she was Indian or somethin’, had the big, bright colored shawl like the mountain ones do. They’re gone now, though.”
“Somebody take them somewhere?”
“I din’ see. They went down the street.”
“You know where?”
“No.”
Bobby skipped the next bar and went into the third one on the same side of the street. It was a lot better than the first, with a fresh- painted name over the door, El Longbranch. The floor wasn’t packed dirt, but hardwood, polished and shined. There were ten patrons at the tables and no drinkers at the bar, a real bar like out of a western movie, complete with brass foot rail.
A young-looking bartender, at the most maybe twenty, with a skin-close haircut on the sides and inch-long orange hair on top was drying glasses with a dishtowel. He wore a clean white shirt that must have been three sizes too large for him. The long sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and Bobby recognized the tattoo on the right forearm.
“What’ll you have?”
Bobby indicated something outside with a jerk of his thumb, “El Longbranch?” Sitting at the bar, Bobby could see the rest of the young man. He was dressed hip-hop: baggy pants, shirt outside the pants, tennis shoes.
“I watched old reruns of Gunsmoke a lot when I was a kid.”
Bobby covered a twenty with his hand, “You see a girl and two women in town this morning?”
The bartender picked up the twenty, examined it and put it in his shirt pocket, “Yeah, about seven or so. They came down the road from town. The little one, she went into Mora’s across the street over there, came back out and they left, same way they came.”
“You speak good English.”
“So do you.”
Bobby said. “So what are you doin’ here?”
“I own it. It’s not much, but with big tippers like you, my portfolio’s growing like Bill Gates’.”
“You’ve got some college, uh?”
“Nah, military. Skills they taught me, I couldn’t find a job for shit. Came down here, and now I’m doin’ all right.”
“You do anything besides barkeep?”
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“This and that.”
“I may have some things come up, time to time. Might be a little dangerous, though.”
“That’s what makes them fun. Come by when you’re ready, we’ll talk about it. My name’s Mingo Cruz.”
“Bobby Mata.”
Mingo’s eyebrows went up. “Ahh. You call me, uh?” He thought a second and said, “The women you want? Two men left town ten minutes after they did. I don’t know what happened at Mora’s, but that’s who talked to the men before they left. You know Mora?”
Bobby shook his head.
