Neil McMahon - Lone Creek

He didn't take well to being helpless, and he was stonewalled by powers that he couldn't counter without damaging our lives. The fight seemed to slip out of him after that, and more and more, it was like he was going through the motions. When he learned that he had terminal pancreatic cancer, he seemed almost relieved.

I had to admit that my scenario was pure speculation. I'd never found any tangible reason to believe anything other than that Celia had been thrown by a horse. And while Pete had sentenced himself and carried out the sentence, some part of me wished I'd never awakened that night and stopped my father from whatever truth he might have uncovered.

The Red Meadow was a no-frills blue-collar bar near the Labor Temple, with a clientele mostly of older men whose hairlines were compressed from wearing cowboy hats or hard hats or military helmets all their lives. It usually got busy at quitting time on weekdays, but right now there were maybe half a dozen regulars talking quietly at tables, holding off the drag of a Sunday afternoon. I liked the Red Meadow fine, but I tended toward places like O'Toole's that had more exotic aspects, such as women, and I came in here only once in a while after work.

Elmer hadn't yet arrived. The bartender, a spry gent of about sixty with a ducktail haircut and a neatly folded apron, greeted me with the old-time saloon keeper's question:

"What's yours, pard?"

It almost made me smile. I told him, laying down one of Balcomb's hundred-dollar bills. I'd brought along several of them, thinking I might have a chance to finish settling up with Sarah Lynn. I didn't want his money in spite of the bullshit he'd put me through, and I'd already decided that if the judge did drop my bail, I was going to send back whatever was left over. But he could damned well buy Elmer and me a few drinks, and I was going to set aside a few more for Slo and for Madbird.

The bartender got out a frosty can of Pabst, poured a generous shot of Makers Mark to go with it, and was just setting down my change when he looked sharply toward the door. His face was not happy. The rest of the room went quiet. I swiveled around.

Bill LaTray, my bail bondsman, was standing there with his granite stare fixed on me.

My feet just about left the floor, from the shock of seeing him, confusion about how the fuck he'd known where I was, and worry over what he wanted.

He didn't come inside and he didn't pay attention to anybody else-just jerked his head in summons and stalked out again.

The bartender's gaze swung back to me. It hadn't gotten any happier, and I realized he figured I was one of Bill's clients. I wanted to say, Wait, it's not what you think.

But it was.

I pushed a couple of dollar bills toward him for a tip.

"I'll be right back," I said. I hoped to Christ that was true.

Bill was standing on the sidewalk when I stepped out, wearing his trademark caramel-colored leather coat. He looked like if you hit him with a baseball bat, it would break. His face was an exploded minefield of pockmarks and scars; his eyes were the color of mud. He had on some kind of cologne that got my own eyes watering from five feet away, which was where I stopped.

He cupped a match and lit a rum-soaked crook cigar, inhaling a drag that burned half an inch of it, then crushed the still flaring match between his blunt fingers.

"You blow town, it's gonna cost me twenty-five thousand bucks," he said. "You know what that means?"

"I'm not going anywhere. The charges are being dropped."

"That ain't official till tomorrow. And I hear you got something else on the burner, a lot bigger. So let's get this straight-you're there at the courthouse first thing in the morning."

I'd calmed myself a little by realizing that how he'd found me wasn't so mysterious. I'd driven past his pawnshop, only a few blocks away. That was one disadvantage of having a highly visible vehicle like mine. He must have seen it, jumped in his own rig, and caught up with me here.

But the why of it was a lot less soothing. If his contacts in the sheriffs' department had told him I was a flight risk, and he was nervous enough about it to chase me down, it suggested that I was still very much on the radar in Kirk's disappearance-that if anything, the heat was rising. They might even have come up with new reasons for suspicion since this morning.

"What did you hear?" I said.

The lit end of the cigar pointed at my face. "Don't bullshit me. You know what I'm saying."

"I'm not bullshitting you. Gary Varna talked to me about Kirk, yeah, but everything seemed OK."

"That's between Gary and you. What I'm telling you is if you don't show, you don't know what trouble is."

That might not have been entirely accurate, but it was true that he made the law look benign.

"I'll be there," I said. "Trust me."

He blew out a contemptuous snort of smoke.

"Let me give you a little advice. Don't never say that to a bondsman."

"Sorry," I said. "It just sort of slipped out."

His stare bludgeoned me a few seconds longer, but then he gave a nod that seemed grudgingly satisfied.

I wanted to find out what he knew, but it was clear he hadn't come here to share information, and I'd heard stories of him punctuating these kinds of warnings with a couple of thumps that would leave a man pissing blood. I started edging toward the door of the bar.

But Bill seemed to relax, his tone turning almost friendly.

"If things go your way tomorrow, your girlfriend got some money coming back," he said. "She can come by the shop and pick it up."

"Thanks, I'll pass that on," I said, remembering unhappily that I'd never returned Sarah Lynn's call.

"Or you could leave it on retainer. Let's say the pop's a hunnert next time."

"What? A hundred thousand?"

"Right. That's ten grand up front for me, so we're talking another seven and a half," he said, with an air of cheerful companionship. "Now, if a guy's got trouble coming up with that kind of cash, I'm willing to work with him, but I'd need some collateral. You got a place up Stumpleg Gulch, right?"

"Jesus Christ," I said. "Are you telling me this is about to happen?"

"You never know. I'm just saying you got backup, that's all." He stepped forward abruptly and gave my deltoid muscle a viselike squeeze between his thumb and forefinger. No doubt it was intended as encouraging, but it made me feel like a chicken being sized up for the pot.

My new best friend lumbered away. I walked back into the bar, lightheaded, like I'd just gotten up from a knockout punch and wasn't quite in touch with where I was. I told myself that he didn't really know anything solid. It was perfectly reasonable that he wanted his hat in the ring if a lucrative bond came around. He was just a businessman trying to drum up a little trade.

The bartender hadn't dumped my drinks and eighty-sixed me, thank God. He still seemed wary, but I'd kept my trouble outside, which was the cardinal rule, and the hundred-dollar bill had probably helped.

I downed the shot and chugged half the beer, and bought another of both.

Elmer came in a few minutes later, wearing the pearl gray Stetson he saved for town. He was well known at the Red Meadow-all the men greeted him, and when he came to stand next to me, I could feel my status rise. The bartender brought his drink, a brandy sage, without his having to ask. I'd never known anyone to drink sages and presses-short for Presbyterians-except these kinds of aging westerners. Probably not many bartenders knew how to make them anymore.

When Elmer reached for his wallet, I stopped him, and we went through the little hand-wrestling match that men did in situations like that.

"This is on me," I said. "Least I can do for you taking the time."