A red flush crept up from Boyce's neck and headed for his face where it had room to spread out. "Bring me a shot of tequila, then," he said, trying to salvage what was left of his pride. "Make it a double."
"Will that be with lime or without?"
"Without!"
"That's better, son. I was starting to get worried about you." Jake poured the tequila into a shot glass and sat it in front of Boyce. "First thing you know, you're drinking light beer, next thing you know, you're riding side saddle, and you don't even know how it happened. It's good to nip these things in the beginning before they get out of hand." He winked as he put the bottle away.
Boyce grinned but he didn't look like his heart was in it. The shot of tequila sat in front of him, waiting. "Jesus, Nash, I don't know if I can drink this stuff or not. It smells like kerosene."
"Just drink it and shut up."
Boyce tipped up the glass. A second later, a horrified expression spread across his face and he sprayed tequila all over Nash.
Nash just stood there with tequila streaming down his face. He said nothing, made no effort to wipe it away. Several drops of the liquid rolled down his forehead, gathering speed as they reached his nose, launching themselves into space. They looked like tiny kamikaze skiers going to their death as they splatted on the bar.
The spectacle was so fascinating, Boyce was rendered speechless.
"You know what's really amazing about this?" Nash asked.
"No, what?" Boyce responded in a subdued voice.
"That I let myself be seen in public with you."
"Does this mean you want me to move down the bar?"
"I'd like you to move to another state, but a few feet down the bar will do for starters."
Clutching his empty shot glass, Boyce shifted down two barstools. When Nash kept staring at him, he moved down one more.
Jake sauntered over and refilled Boyce's glass. "You put that one away pretty quick. I told myself when I first saw you that you were a tequila drinker. Old Jake can always tell. I'll just leave the bottle."
Boyce gave him a sickly smile.
Nash ran his hand over the dark wood of the bar, staring intently at the surface as though looking for something. "Jake, where's the spot on this bar, you know, the place where Thomas Black Eagle bled when he got killed? Is that it?" Nash touched a swirl that was darker than the rest
"You ask that dumb shit question every time you come in here," Jake said. "It's a couple of feet to your right, over there by Boyce."
Bobby laughed when Boyce moved his drink. "Jake, you're a bigger liar than Nash here ever was. There ain't no bloodstain on the bar. That's just some crock of shit you cooked up to sell drinks."
Jake seemed unoffended by the remark. "Maybe it is." He pulled out another beer, sat it in front of Bobby. "And maybe it ain't." His gaze didn't flinch and Bobby was the first to look away.
"Anything going on in the back?" Bobby asked. He took a drink to cover the fact he couldn't face Jake down.
"There's a couple of shooters back there"
"Anybody I know?"
"No," Jake answered. "I ain't never seen neither one of them before."
"They know what they're doing?"
"You mean, can you hustle them? No, I don't think so. These boys look like they been around."
"Maybe I'll go back there and see for myself."
Jake stared at Bobby with flat, black eyes. "Maybe you'll just sit your ass right there and wait for Jesse Black Eagle to show up. That's who you got a game with."
A small tic caused Bobby's right eye to twitch, but his face remained deceptively calm. "You want to watch how you talk to me, Jake. My old man can put this shithole place out of business with one phone call."
"Maybe he could," Jake admitted, "but then he'd have to find out that his son couldn't cover a bet on a pool game. He'd have to find out that old Jake had to loan the boy some money. I don't think Chester would like that, do you?"
Bobby looked over to see how his friends were reacting to this. They picked up their drinks and drifted over to a table in the corner.
Jake flashed a quicksilver smile that fit him like a prom dress on an old hooker. "We're friends here, ain't we, Bobby boy? There ain't no need to get into all this unpleasantness. We're both here to make ourselves a little piece of change tonight." Jake spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "Am I right? Tell you what, to show there's no hard feelings, the next round's on old Jake here."
"I'll play against Jesse," Bobby said, "and I'll let you back me." He looked Jake in the face and this time the younger man didn't turn away. "But after this we're quits, Jake. I mean it." Bobby pulled out some crumpled bills and laid them on the bar. "You ain't buying me a drink. I'm kind of picky about who I let buy me a drink. You understand what I'm saying, Jake?"
The toothpick poised quietly while Jake thought over Bobby's words. He finally nodded. If Jake was upset, it didn't show on his face, but then the same thing could be said when he was happy. He sat the beer down in front of Bobby and picked up the crumpled bills, made them disappear. The toothpick began its dance again. "I was just trying to help you out and that's the thanks I get. You sure wasn't talking to old Jake like this when you needed money to cover your bet."
"You'll get your money back tonight," Bobby said, "and a lot more to go with it. I hear old Jesse's got himself a pretty good bankroll these days."
"That's a fact," Jake said. "He won most of it right here." Jake looked at Bobby and there was something vindictive about the smile that touched his mouth. "Maybe I'm backing the wrong boy. Maybe I ought to be backing Jesse."
Bobby turned his back to Jake and watched the band for a moment while he took a long drink from his beer. "No, you're backing the right boy. You know why?"
"Tell me."
"Jesse's got a bad temper, worse than mine. I give him a nudge at the right time and he'll blow the money shot." Bobby turned and sat the empty beer bottle down on the bar. "Tell me something, Jake, what's Jesse doing with that bankroll of his? He sure ain't spending none of it. He's still driving that crappy old pickup."
"I hear he's saving up so's he can leave our fine burg."
"No shit." A flicker passed behind Bobby's eyes like a fast-moving cloud, leaving behind something unidentifiable. "Well, you sure can't blame a man for wanting that." He stared into the distance, lost in thought.
"Me, I like it here fine," Jake said. "Crowder Flats has been good to me."
"I guess I'll be here forever, too," Bobby said, "or until my old man finally pickles his liver and I can sell the Broken R."
Bobby turned his attention to Jake, who was watching him intently. "If you're thinking you can use that little piece of information, forget about it. Chester already knows. Sometimes I think the only thing that keeps the old bastard going is knowing I'll sell the place before he gets cold."
Jake said nothing, wondering if maybe he had misjudged Bobby.
Bobby prodded the bartender with a laugh. "What do you think about that, Jake?"
"I think I'm glad I never had any kids."
The boy was a lot tougher than Jake had first thought and that would make him hard to control. Just when you thought you had everything figured, something like this had to happen. Jake almost felt sorry for himself.
Jake looked over Bobby's shoulder as the front door opened and the smoke in the bar swirled. His toothpick flickered once and then was still, like the twitch of a dying fly. "Well, up and at 'em, Bobby boy. Looks like Jesse finally showed."
Turning slowly, propping his elbows on the bar, Bobby watched Jesse Black Eagle cross the room. The two sized each other up, their friendly expressions disguising whatever they really felt.
Jake watched them with a slightly bemused expression; he could never tell if they really disliked each other or not. They had been friends since grade school. Of course that was before Amy Warrick had come into the picture. Jake was glad he wasn't young anymore. Goddamned hormones screwed up a man's thinking.
"Looks like you brought your whole entourage along with you tonight," Bobby said with a lazy grin, nodding to Manny, Ernesto, and Jesus. "These your bodyguards, Jesse, or you thinking about starting up one of them Mexican marimba bands?"
Jesus looked confused until Manny leaned in and translated, then he started toward Bobby. Manny grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back.
In spite of himself, Jesse laughed. "A Mexican marimba band. That's pretty funny, Bobby. You know how we minorities have to travel in packs. It's the only way we can protect ourselves from all the love-starved white women who want to get laid."
Someone back in the crowd gave an anonymous cheer.
The hands from the Broken R drifted over and stood next to Bobby. Both groups of men watched each other warily. The crowd on the dance floor became still, watching to see what was going to happen next. The band quit playing and silence descended over the large room.
Bobby uncoiled slowly from the bar, the lazy grin still on his face. "As much as me and the boys would like to kick the shit out of you and your wetback buddies, Jesse, that ain't the reason I came here." Reaching down, Bobby picked up his cue-stick case. "I thought we might have us a friendly little game."
"We'll have a game, but I doubt it'll be friendly." Jesse laid his case on the bar, opened it, and took out his cue stick. He screwed the two halves together. "You ready?"
"I'm looking forward to it." Bobby eased off his stool and headed toward the back room. The crowd began drifting along, eager for some entertainment.
Jesse peeled the cover off a giant Steepleton and began rolling a cue ball up and down its length, observing the path of the ball. It rolled true. "This one suit you okay or did you have another table in mind?"
"If you like it, Jesse, then it suits me to a T," Bobby said. "We need somebody to rack the balls, just to keep things on the up and up. Somebody neither of us knows."
Bobby and Jesse quickly scanned the crowd, looking for an unfamiliar face. There were a few because tourists had started coming in for Crowder Flat's only claim to fame, Frontier Days.
"How about you, Pops?" Bobby motioned to an old man in a ratty-looking leather jacket. "You look like you got an honest face. You want to make a few bucks tonight racking some balls for me and Jesse?"
The old man stepped out of the crowd. "Thanks, son, I don't mind if I do. I could sure use the money."
"You do know how to rack balls, don't you?" Jesse asked. "Good and tight?"
The old man smiled, showing toothless gums, and Jesse was suddenly reminded of Amos. "I've racked a few sets in my day," the toothless man assured him. "Been doing it a lot lately, gettin' real good." He winked at somebody in the back of the crowd.
"Where you from, Pops?" Bobby asked.
"Texas."
Bobby smiled. "That's your red Caddy out there in the lot, ain't it?"
"She's a beauty, ain't she," Pops said with a proud smile. "I got her for a steal."
"Yes sir, she sure is," Bobby agreed. "Me and the boys was admiring her just before we came in. I'm afraid I got a little bad news for you, though." Bobby arranged his face so that it held the proper sorrowful expression. "Did you know your side-view mirror is missing and both your taillights are busted? You must have been clipped by a bad driver."
"Imagine that," the old man said in an amazed voice. "I wonder how something like that could have happened. It was fine when I pulled in." He looked at Bobby and the friendly eyes went dark for a moment like blinds being pulled on a window. "Just a few minutes ago I was out getting myself a little nip from the trunk when I noticed both your mirrors are gone and all your lights were busted." The dark went away and the sun returned, causing his face to light up. "Sounds like a damned epidemic of bad drivers to me."
Nash laughed so hard beer blew out his nose.
"Say, what do they call you, Pops?" Bobby asked, fighting back the sudden rage that washed over him.
"They call me Earl, son," the old man said. "Earl Jacobs."
"Well, Earl, grab that rack and make yourself handy. I can't stand around here jawing all night about bad drivers. I got to make a little money."
"All right," Earl said. He shuffled over to the table and picked up the rack, began dumping the balls into it. "What you boys gonna play tonight, a little nine ball, maybe a little straight rotation, eight ball?"
"I think a little eight ball," Jesse said. "We both like eight ball, don't we, Bobby?"
"Yeah, Jesse, eight ball it is."
"That's a good choice," the man said. "I always liked a good game of eight ball myself." He began arranging the balls with surprisingly deft hands.
"What about the stakes?" Jesse asked.
Earl suddenly fumbled a ball and it squirted across the table. Bobby reached out, grabbed the ball, and handed it back to the old man. "You all right there, Earl?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, son. Just got a little tickle in my chest. Must be all the smoke." He put the errant ball back in its spot.
"How about a hundred a game, to start off with?" Bobby said. "Once we get warmed up, we might want to up the ante a little. That sound okay?"
"Yeah, it sounds more than okay, it sounds almost friendly." Jesse dug into his pocket, pulled out a nickel, and tossed it to Bobby.
Bobby examined the worn coin with contempt. "An Indian-head nickel. Is this the fortune I been hearing about?"
Jesse's jaw tightened with anger, but he controlled himself with great effort. "I thought we'd flip it to see who's going to break."
Bobby tossed the nickel to Earl, who sent it spinning into the air. The coin disappeared high into the darkness.
"You call it, Bobby," Jesse said.
"Heads."
The coin came down on the table, bounced once, rolled down to the bumper. Fell over. "Heads it is." Earl picked up the nickel and flipped it back to Jesse.
Bobby glanced once at Jake, but Jake seemed completely uninterested in the proceedings. The old bartender was pouring a gin-and-tonic for some sweet young thing in tight jeans who was hanging on his every word.