Accustomed to the Dark Page 13

  It was a Sunday night in winter, and it was late, nearly midnight. Except for some couples at the tables near the lighted fireplaces, the room was empty. There were only a few people at the bar. Gordon, the bartender, stood under the lamp by the cash register, his right foot propped against the metal rack that held the bottles. A New York Times magazine lay folded open on his raised thigh. Gordon worked the Times crossword puzzle every Sunday night, and he worked it with a ballpoint pen. I always found this vaguely annoying. I would learn later that Rita did the same thing.

  Gordon looked up, saw me, put aside the magazine and the ballpoint pen, strolled over. “Joshua. How goes it?”

  “Fine, Gordon. You?”

  “Can’t complain. Jack rocks, water back?”

  “That would be extremely nice.”

  He smiled and turned away to make it.

  I glanced around the bar. To my right, alone, sat an old man named Jonathan. I had seen him around Santa Fe, had talked to him a few times. He hadn’t remembered me from one time to the next. Until the administration of the high school fired him for drinking, ten or twelve years ago, he had been a teacher. Now he shambled around town in a long black overcoat that had once belonged to someone taller and wider, and he gave away business cards that he’d typed onto plain paper and carefully cut out with scissors. I liked him for the business cards.

  Across from me, toward the end of the bar, sat an attractive young blonde woman in a white cable-knit turtleneck sweater. A wing of her hair fell down along the right side of her face, concealing it. What I could see of the face looked familiar, but I couldn’t hang a name on it.

  Separated from her by an empty chair were two Hispanic men. The one nearest her was standing, leaning slightly toward her, his head lowered, his forearms resting on the tall back of his chair. He was saying something that the woman was doing a pretty good job of ignoring. The other man sat to his left, also leaning toward the woman. Both men were good-looking and both were in their twenties. Both had black hair, thick and shiny, combed into complex pompadours. Both wore black leather jackets with the collars turned up. Brando had no idea what he was unleashing upon the world.

  Gordon brought me the drinks, the Jack Daniel’s and the water. “So how’s the PI business?” he asked me.

  I didn’t get a chance to answer. The blonde woman called out. “Bartender? Excuse me?”

  Gordon turned to her. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “But could you please ask this gentleman to leave me alone?” She didn’t seem nervous. She sounded very matter-of-fact, and she didn’t look at the Hispanic man as she spoke.

  Gordon was tall, maybe six feet three, but in his blue jeans, denim shirt, and black vest he probably didn’t weigh more than a hundred and sixty. The standing man was almost as tall, and both men were a lot broader. Even so, Gordon didn’t hesitate. He walked toward them.

  The standing man smiled easily. Still resting his arms against the back of the chair, hands drooping, he said, “Fuck off, bro. None of your business.”

  Gordon leaned forward, arms apart, and put his palms along the edge of the bar. From where I sat, his back hid the standing man. Gordon said something I couldn’t catch, and the standing man must’ve said something in reply, because his friend laughed. Smiling, watching Gordon, the friend pushed back his chair and stood up.

  So did I.

  I was younger then, and I had more to prove and less to lose.

  I walked around the bar. The man nearest the woman had moved his right hand off his chair and draped it on the shoulder of the shearling coat that hung over the back of hers. She was canted to the side, away from the hand and him, but she had her head turned in his direction. She didn’t seem happy, but she still didn’t seem nervous.

  Closer up, the taller man was less good looking. His face was beginning to put on meat, and his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked at me and he gave me the same easy smile he’d given Gordon. “You got a problem, bro?”

  “I think it’s time for you to leave,” I said.

  He nodded, pleased by the notion. “That what you think, bro?”

  “That’s what I think.”

  Lazily, he pushed himself off the back of the chair and turned to face me. His friend stood there, waiting, his glance flicking between me and the tall man.

  The woman snatched her purse from the bar, slipped off her chair, and came around me, on my right. I heard her mutter “Jesus,” under her breath. She sounded more irritated than frightened.

  The tall man shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Why you want to say something like that?” He shook his head regretfully. “Not very polite, bro.”

  “Gordon?” I said. I didn’t take my eyes off the tall man.

  “Yeah?”

  “When he pulls his hand out of his pocket, I’m going to deck him. You dial nine-one-one.”

  “You got it.”

  The tall man laughed. He looked me up and down with elaborate amazement. “You gonna deck me, bro?”

  “That’s right.”

  He grinned. “Hey, I gotta tell you, bro. I’m scared. I’m quakin’ in my fuckin’ boots.”

  “Then you’re smarter than you look,” I said. I was younger then.

  He smiled broadly. “But hey, bro,” he said, “what about my friend here?” He jerked his head toward the other man.

  I glanced at him. “He’s probably not,” I said.

  He laughed again. “You’re something else, you know? You insult us? You say rude things? And you gonna deck the both of us?”

  “Right.”

  Grinning again, he said, “Hey, what you think? You think I got a big ole knife in there, bro? In my pocket? All the greasers, they all carry big ole knives, right, bro? Switchblades.” Still grinning, he twitched his shoulder toward me, feinting a pull from the pocket.

  I did nothing, and he rocked back on his heels and laughed.

  I said, “Gordon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s not much point in waiting. Why don’t you go ahead and make the call.”

  “Right.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw him moving toward the telephone.

  The tall man grinned again. He looked me up and down again. He cocked his head. “Hey, bro, what’s your name?”

  “Joshua Croft,” I told him.

  “Josh-you-ah,” he said. “Josh-you-ah Croft.” He nodded. “I’m gonna remember that name, bro.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and nodded once more. “I think so.” He turned to the friend. “C’mon. Maybe we see Josh-you-ah again sometime.”

  The friend glanced at me, and then the two of them walked toward the doorway, strutting—to demonstrate, to me and to themselves, that the departure was their own idea. The tall one still had his hands in his pocket. When he was nearly at the door, he stopped, turned back to me, and whipped his hand from his pocket as though it were a gun. It was empty and the finger was pointing at me. “Bang!” he said. He laughed once, sharply, then he turned around and sauntered off, plucking with both hands at his collar to make sure it was still up.

  I turned to Gordon. He was standing at the telephone, holding the receiver. “I don’t think you’ll need the cops,” I said.

  “I never called them,” he told me. He smiled. “Looked like he was going to fade.”

  “He’s an asshole!” shouted Jonathan from the end of the bar. He cleared his throat. “Ernie Martinez. He was always an asshole. A big asshole. Always.”

  “Jesus,” said the woman.

  I turned to her. I was surprised that she was still there. When she slipped by me, I had thought she was leaving.

  I hadn’t realized how short she was, about five foot one. But she was perfectly proportioned and she was very well packaged in the turtleneck sweater and tight faded jeans and a pair of tan Frye boots. Her eyes were gray.

  She said, “A person could get testosterone poisoning just breathing the air around here.�
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  I looked at her. I smiled. “You’re right,” I said. “We should’ve let him maul you for a while. Maybe, if we were nice, he would’ve let us join in.”

  She stared at me for a moment, her lips pursed. Then, lightly, she tossed back the hair that swept down alongside her face and she raised her chin. “All right,” she said. “Thank you.” She turned to Gordon. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

  “No trouble,” he told her.

  She turned back to me, and the hair fell into place along her cheek. “But that remark you made, about his being smarter than he looked. You were deliberately trying to antagonize him.”

  “Maybe a little,” I admitted.

  “And wasn’t that just a wee bit childish?”

  “Just a wee bit.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What would’ve happened if he’d actually pulled out a knife?”

  “I’d have gotten stabbed, probably.”

  “Lordy me,” she said, smiling as she put her hand between her breasts, a parody of the Southern Belle. “An honest macho-man. There can’t be too many of you around.”

  “Me and another guy. But he got stabbed.”

  She laughed. “Well, I suppose I should thank you for springing to my defense.” She held out her hand. “Sally Durrell,” she said.

  I took the hand. “Joshua Croft.” I nodded toward Gordon. “Gordon James.”

  “Hello, Gordon,” she said, then turned back to me. “You work for the Mondragóns.”

  “And you’re a lawyer,” I said. “I’ve read about you.”

  Another smile. “Small world.”

  “Small town, anyway.”

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. Jonathan, bundled up in his overcoat. His lank gray hair was tousled and his hollow cheeks were stubbled with white. “You did real well,” he told me. “With that Ernie asshole. Here.” He handed me one of his homemade cards. I thanked him and put the card into my shirt pocket. He handed one to Sally Durrell.

  She looked at it, smiled, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Richards.” She slipped the card into her purse.

  “He was always an asshole,” said Jonathan. “Wiseass little shit.” Then he turned and shuffled off, out the door and out into the night.

  “Time for me to leave, too,” said Sally Durrell. “This has been more excitement than a girl can stand.” She set the purse on the bar, came around me, lifted her coat from the back of the chair. She eased it on, the left sleeve, then the right. It was a pleasure to watch her.

  I said, “Did they see you come in?”

  She glanced toward the door. “Those two? They came in behind me.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  She smiled. “I don’t really think that’s necessary.”

  I shrugged. “If I’m wrong, I’m the one who looks like a jerk.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And does that happen often?”

  “Being wrong? Or looking like a jerk?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “All the time. You’ll get to see it, probably, in a few minutes.”

  She sighed theatrically. The wing of blonde hair trembled as she shook her head in mock resignation. Or maybe it was genuine resignation. She picked up her purse.

  Gordon said, “Joshua?”

  “Yeah?”

  He reached his right hand down below the level of the bar-top, brought it up holding an old-fashioned cop’s nightstick. “Here you go.” He tossed it to me and I caught it. “I had you covered,” he said. He smiled and added, “Bro.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Sally Durrell. She made a face. “I’m surrounded by vigilantes.” She buttoned up the coat, looked up at me. “This is a real treat. It’s not every day I get escorted to my car by a thug with a nightstick.”

  “A good thing, too,” I said. “Think of all the overtime you’d have to pay.”

  She smiled, but the corners of her mouth were slightly down-turned in irritation. “Do you have an answer for everything?”

  “Not everything.”

  “Thank goodness.” She nodded wearily. “All right,” she said, “let’s get it over with.”

  I turned to Gordon and told him I’d be right back. He nodded.

  We left, walking out the door and down the concrete steps to the parking lot. I held the nightstick down along my thigh. “Which is your car?” I asked her. In the yellow light of the sodium lamps, the lot was nearly empty.

  She nodded toward the end of the lot. “The Fiero.”

  “Okay.”

  We were halfway across the asphalt when they came at us from the shadows, running side by side.

  19

  I AWOKE AT dawn on Wednesday in Oakley, Kansas, with another hangover. I drank a couple of pints of water. I called the hospital in Santa Fe. Rita was the same. I showered, dressed, loaded the car, signed out on my bill, ate some gray bacon and some gray scrambled eggs at the diner next door, swallowed some scalding coffee. By eight o’clock I was on the highway, heading south.

  Except for a big rig or two, the road was mostly clear. By ten-fifteen I was in the Oklahoma panhandle. Forty minutes later I was in Texas. The countryside around me didn’t look much different from the way it had looked since I left Denver. Expanses of flat prairie or flat farmland in every direction. The occasional tiny house squatting in the middle of an emptiness that seemed infinite. The occasional tiny dust-blown town—a cluster of houses, a water tower, a grain store, sometimes a silo. But now the sky was overcast, making everything seem still more grim and bleak and oppressive. Behind me, in the north, bilious black clouds were piling up on the horizon. A storm was following me.

  I thought about Rita. I thought about Ernie Martinez. I thought again about that night in the parking lot of Vanessie’s.

  When the two men rushed toward us, I pushed Sally Durrell forward. She stumbled and went down, her hands scrabbling at the air. Martinez had his knife out, so I slammed the stick at his wrist as I sidestepped. The knife went flying and he gasped and doubled over, clutching at the wrist as the other man dieseled into me and slammed his arms around my shoulders. I knifed the stick into his belly, below the belt, and he hissed and let me go, and I swung down and bounced the stick off his shin. He yelped once, reached for his leg, and I stiff-armed his shoulder and he went down onto his backside with a dull flat smack.

  It had all taken only a few seconds.

  I turned to Martinez. He was standing there, staring down at the wrist he held cradled to his chest. He looked over at me in disbelief. “You broke it, you fuck.”

  “Get out of here,” I told him.

  “You broke it, motherfucker.”

  “You’ve still got one left.” I jerked my head. “Out. Take your friend with you.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  I slapped the nightstick against my palm. “Out.”

  “This ain’t over, bro.”

  “It is for now.” I took a step toward him.

  He backed away. “Yeah, right,” he said. “For now.” He turned to his friend, who was sitting up now, rubbing at his shin. “Carlos.”

  Awkwardly, Carlos got to his feet. He hobbled toward Martinez. In the yellow light, his teeth showed in a rictus of pain.

  Martinez said to me, “Another time.”

  “Sure.”

  “Believe it, bro.” He looked at Carlos, nodded, and then the two of them walked off, Martinez holding his wrist, his friend limping.

  Sally Durrell was up. She was examining a tear at the left knee of her jeans. “Damn it,” she said. She looked at me. “These are Calvin Kleins.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She straightened up and expelled a rush of air, part laugh, part incredulous gasp. “Sorry? You knock me down, you rip up my clothes, you rip up my knee. You make me listen to some of the most incredibly stupid, macho conversation I’ve ever heard. And you’re sorry?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Look at that,” she said, in a kind of awe. She was holdi
ng out her hand, fingers spread, and it was trembling. “That won’t do,” she said. She fumbled open her purse, rummaged in it for a moment, found her keys, held them out to me. “You drive,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You got me into this. You can get me out.”

  “And where am I driving you?”

  “Home. My house. You can take a cab back.”

  I nodded. “You don’t want to report this? To the police?”

  She shook her head dismissively. “They’d be out in an hour. Let’s go.”

  As it happened, I didn’t take a cab back from Sally Durrell’s house. I stayed there that night, and in the morning she drove me to the parking lot. As it happened, we were involved for a while, and then, as it happened, we weren’t. About a year and a half after the incident in the parking lot, she defended me in court when Ernie Martinez sued me for damages.

  At eleven o’clock—ten o’clock in Santa Fe—I was still on Highway 83 South and I was coming up on Perryton, Texas. I tried the cellular phone. There was a dial tone, and I called Norman Montoya.

  “Mr. Croft,” he said. “How good to hear from you. I understand that your conversation with Mr. McBride was fruitful.”

  “Yes it was. I meant to call you, to thank you, but I’ve been running around. I apologize.”

  “Not at all. You’ve had good reason to be distracted. Mrs. Mondragón is still in the hospital, I understand. There’s been no change?”

  “No. Mr. Montoya, is your offer of help still good?”

  “Of course. As I said, I am in your debt.”

  “Are you familiar with Luiz Lucero?”

  “Only by reputation. A most unpleasant man.”

  “There’s a possibility that he and Martinez may be running for Texas, or maybe for Florida. I was wondering whether you had any contacts in either place.”