Judy Duarte: Under The Mistletoe With John Doe

When he spotted an empty table, he made his way across the scuffed and scarred hardwood floor. He’d hardly taken a seat when a cocktail waitress with bleached-blond hair approached. He guessed her to be in her late thirties, but it was hard to tell. Nicotine, booze or a hard life had a way of aging a person beyond his or her years.

She offered him a smile that failed to take the load off her shoulders. “What’ll you have?”

He wasn’t sure if a bar out in the sticks would carry imported beer. “Do you have Corona?”

She nodded. “You want lime with it?”

“Yes, thanks.” He watched her walk away, but not because he fancied her. Instead, he noted the way she rolled her shoulders as if her back ached.

When she returned, she set his drink in front of him.

“I’m looking for a man named Pedro Salas,” he said. “From what I understand, he was born and raised in Brighton Valley and had planned to retire here.”

“Is he an old guy?” she asked.

“About forty-five or fifty.”

“That’s pretty young to retire.” She glanced at Jason’s sports jacket, probably noting the expensive fabric, the stylish cut. “Well, unless he’s rich or something.”

For the first time, he began to realize his hunch might have been wrong, that Pedro might have stayed in California and found another job. But the last time they’d talked, he’d had such a yearning, wistful look in his eyes when he’d talked about ranches and horses that Jason made the assumption that he’d run home.

“He mentioned that his father used to work on a small spread in this area,” Jason added. “He grew up on the place and went to school here.”

She seemed to give it some thought, then slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell. And there’re quite a few ranches in these parts-both big and small.”

She could have left it at that, but instead, she hung back, as though hoping for an invitation to sit with him, to chat awhile longer, to rest her tired feet.

But he wasn’t up for company. And even though he wasn’t a loner or a drifter by nature, he’d just as soon finish his beer and then find a room for the night.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“Well, my name’s Trina. Just give me a holler when you want another beer.”

“I will.”

As she went on her way, he took a healthy chug of the ice-cold Corona and scanned the bar crowd, most of whom didn’t appear to have noticed him.

There was a part of Jason that just wanted to find Pedro and get a declaration that the attorneys could work with. But rather than flying home immediately after completing the task, it seemed a whole lot more appealing to hang out in a small town like this for a while, in a place where no one knew him or his family, where he’d have the peace and privacy to sort out a few things.

But he couldn’t afford to take the time away from the office long enough to lick his wounds.

He supposed Renee, his ex, had been right about him. He was too focused on business. But his family had always been important to him, and his loyalty ran deep. Of course, he wasn’t going to cry in his beer over the divorce-or the accident. Not here, not now.

Instead, he decided to make his way through the honky-tonk and ask people about Pedro.

Ten minutes later, he hadn’t learned squat. So far, no one seemed to know the man he’d been looking for. He wasn’t sure if his lead on Pedro had been false or if people had collectively clammed up in a small-town effort to protect their own.

Either way, neither the aspirin nor the beer had taken the edge off his headache, and he decided to call it a night.

He reached into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. After leaving it on the table for Trina, he got to his feet.

He’d no more than started for the door when a tall, lanky cowboy entered the bar, along with a short, stocky companion. Jason wondered if it was worth talking to either of them, but before he could make a move one way or the other, Trina approached the men.

When she faced them head-on, she slapped her hands on her hips. “Unless you two are carrying more than counterfeit bills this time, your money’s not welcome here.”

“You can’t blame that on us, ” the chubby guy said. “We got ’em right out of the ATM down at the filling station.”

“Yeah, right, ” Trina said. “Are you going to leave? Or do I have to call security?”

“You mean that scrawny old geezer you called last time?” The slim one laughed. “He couldn’t throw my ninety-eight-pound granny across the room.”

Chubby headed for the bar, clearly not listening to the waitress and apparently not worried about whoever provided security at the honky-tonk.

“I told you to get out of here,” Trina said, raising her voice above the din of music and all the barroom chatter.

Ignoring Trina’s words and tone, Slim stood tall and threw his chest out. “What do you care, baby? You don’t own the place. And that quarter tip we left after your lousy service was the real deal.”

Jason scanned the cowboy joint, looking for security or for a sign that someone would back him up, but the jukebox blared with a lively beat and the hoots of laughter continued. So finding someone to step up to the plate and take his side wasn’t likely.

When Slim grabbed Trina’s arm and gave it a jerk and a twist, Jason’s protective instinct kicked in and he made his way toward them.

“Why don’t you guys just back off and leave the lady alone,” he said.

“She ain’t no lady.” Slim released his grip on Trina and turned to Jason. “And who in the hell are you?”

“Just a man who doesn’t like to see women mistreated.” Jason preferred to use his head instead of his brawn, but that might not be an option tonight.

Fortunately, at that point, a big burly guy stepped in-a bouncer, it seemed.

And this one wasn’t a scrawny old man.

At about six-foot-six and probably weighing close to three hundred pounds-nearly all muscle-he could have taken on a couple of linebackers for the Houston Texans without breaking a sweat.

“I don’t want any trouble,” the bouncer said, “so you guys will have to take your squabble outside. Or better yet, go on home and call it a night.”

Slim mellowed right out and tossed the man a chipped-tooth grin. “We were just havin’ a little fun.”

The bouncer crossed his muscular arms, his biceps stretching the cotton fabric of his T-shirt to the limit. “Yeah, well, take your fun somewhere else.”

“Come on,” Slim called to his buddy. “Let’s go on down to Larry’s Place. The help is a lot friendlier there.”

Apparently, Chubby saw the wisdom in Slim’s suggestion, and they both headed out the door like a couple of docile pups, their tails tucked between their legs.

When they were gone, the bouncer turned his gaze on Jason, as though he wasn’t all that welcome here, either.

“It’s okay,” Trina said on Jason’s behalf. “This guy hasn’t been any trouble. He stepped in to defend me while you were in the stockroom.”

Jason wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from the bouncer-a thank-you, maybe. But he didn’t get anything.

He did, however, make a mental note to check out Larry’s Place tomorrow. He certainly wasn’t going to follow Slim and Chubby anywhere tonight.

“Do you know where I can find a motel?” he asked Trina.

“The Night Owl is a couple of blocks down the street.”

“Thanks.”

“It doesn’t look like much on the outside,” she added, “but it’s clean and the beds are soft.”

He didn’t ask how she knew that. Instead, he thanked her, then strode toward the door. On his way out, he reached into his pocket for the keys to his rental car and headed for the parking lot.