The man frowned and then cackled with laughter. “No way, bro. Miguel was my grandfather. I’m Manny.”
“I’m Bones.” They shook hands. Manny’s grip was surprisingly strong.
“You’re going to stand out around here. There’s only two kinds of people in Quemadura: Mexicans and Mixicans.”
Bones frowned. “What’s a Mixican?”
“Mexican mixed with something else.” Manny cackled. “Except for the cactus, juniper, and chile, everything here is some shade of brown.”
Bones decided he liked the old man in spite of his annoying laugh.
“So, what brings you in today? I don’t imagine you drove here just to check out my knife collection.” He tapped the glass counter with a gnarled finger, the grease under the nail forming a black crescent moon.
“Truck broke down.” Bones described the problem and gave the make and model of his truck.
Manny clucked his tongue. “Should have bought a Ford.”
“I’ll debate you on that all day long. It’s ten years old and I’ve never had a problem. Until now,” he added.
“Consuela’s thirty years old and she’s been nothing but problem, but she still runs. Come on. We’ll get your truck.”
Consuela was a battered Ford pickup whose brown paint blended seamlessly into the landscape. Manny kept up a steady stream of chatter about the menu at the Blue Corn Grill where Mari worked. He recommended the cheese quesadilla, primarily because he had his doubts about the meat served up at the town’s only diner.
“You ever see a roof rat? Grande! Everybody’s got them. My place has got them. “The motor court’s got them. But Blue Corn? No roof rats. Think about that. Where do they go?”
“Into the burritos?” Bones guessed.
“Bingo.”
Bones vowed to stick to beer and chips until he got back onto the road.
Half an hour later, after towing Bones’ truck back to the shop and giving it a quick inspection, Manny delivered the news Bones had feared.
“You dropped your tranny, bro.”
Under a different set of circumstances, he would have turned that phrase into a perverse joke, but when it meant he had to pony up the cash for a new transmission, humor was in short supply. There went most of what he’d planned on spending in Vegas.
“How soon can you have it ready?”
Manny considered the question. “I can get the parts day after tomorrow. I can have the work done the next day, assuming my nephew’s sober enough to help me.”
Bones resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This was, after all, the smallest of small towns. “Looks like I’ll be hanging around town for a few days. Any suggestions on how to kill time?”
Manny shrugged. “I think the motor inn has HBO.”
Bones gathered his belongings, thanked Manny for his help, and headed off down the road toward the motor inn. The heat rising up from the asphalt shimmered, lending the town a surreal shimmer. One hour ago he’d been on his way to Sin City to reconnect with an old flame. Now he was facing three days of zero kicks on Route 66. Sometimes life sucked.
Chapter 2
The Blue Corn Brill smelled of burger grease, roasted chile, and stale beer. The afternoon sun shone through the dusty windows, casting dull beams on the warped wooden floor, stained by the spills of decades of tipsy clients. Three men in work uniforms sat around a table, loudly debating the relative merits of the Dallas Cowboys and Denver Broncos. When Bones walked in, they all gave him a quick glance. He raised his chin by way of greeting. The men returned the gesture, looking like baby ducks waiting to be fed, and then went back to their conversation. Mariachi music blared from an old jukebox. Bones smiled. Swap out the mariachi for some Metallica and he’d be right at home.
Marisol stood with her back to the bar, filling a pitcher with beer. Bones propped his elbows on the bar and waited for her to turn around.
“Oh my God, you scared me,” she said when her eyes fell on him. “What are you doing, stalker?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt you when you’re hard at work.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve got three customers. Four if I count you.”
“Why wouldn’t you count me? I’m awesome, and I’m a good tipper.”
She laughed at that. “We’ll see. Did you get checked into the motor lodge all right?”
“Sure did. Surprisingly, they had a ton of rooms available. I guess it isn’t tourist season.”
“It hasn’t been tourist season for as long as this town has been here. Hold on a minute.”
Bones waited while she carried the pitcher of beer over to the table where the football fans were still arguing. Embroiled in a heated Tony Romo versus Peyton Manning dispute, they hardly noticed her.
“So,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans, “what will you have?”
“How are the chicken fingers?” Bones asked, scanning the chalkboard behind the bar where the menu was written in a delicate, feminine hand.
“Frozen. Same as the burger patties. The hot dogs are awful. The locals usually go for the burrito or the huevos rancheros.”
Remembering what Manny had said about the burritos, Bones decided on the latter. “Huevos rancheros sounds good. Eggs over easy, if you don’t mind.”
Mari nodded. “Red or green?”
“What?”
“I forgot you’re not from around here,” she said. “Everything comes with chile on it. Do you want red or green?”
“Can I have both?”
“Christmas tree it is. What to drink?”
“Tell me you have Dos Equis with a lime. After the day I’ve had, I need one. Maybe more than one.”
“Dos Equis I have. No limes.”
“Good enough.” Bones accepted the ice cold bottle, chose a table close to the bar, and took a seat. He rocked back, stretching his long legs out, and gazed out the window. There wasn’t much to see outside, but Mari was the only thing worth looking at in here, and he wasn’t the kind to stare. He thought about his friends, Willis and Matt, arriving in Vegas tomorrow without him. Twenty four hours from now, they’d be living it up, surrounded by bright lights and beautiful women, while Bones would be here, surrounded by juniper. Not much of a tradeoff.
A few minutes later, Mari slid a plate onto the table. Bones’ mouth watered at the sight of the heaping pile of pinto beans, cheese, and green chile over two blue corn tortillas and topped with three eggs. You couldn’t get this at a Vegas buffet. He was just digging in when she sat another, identical dish on his table along with a steaming cup of coffee.
“I know I’m a big dude, but I can’t eat that much. At least, not if I want to keep my girlish figure.”
“It’s for Manny.” She giggled and playfully punched him on the shoulder. “He comes in at the same time every day and orders the same thing. I like to have it ready for him.” She glanced up. “See? Here he is.”
Manny bounded into the restaurant, greeted the customers with a wave and a loud “ola” and then took at seat across from Bones. “You saved me a seat.” Without further word, he dug into his meal.
The two men ate in companionable silence. When they’d both cleared their plates, they enjoyed their drinks and made small talk. Manny was an army veteran, and had a few tales to tell. Every one of them involved women and alcohol, not necessarily in that order. Bones was beginning to feel right at home when a new customer entered.
He was a tall, sturdily-built Anglo of about an age with Bones. He wore his sandy-blond hair cut short, and his beard and moustache were neatly trimmed. Despite the heat, he was dressed in khaki pants and a long-sleeved blue Oxford cloth shirt. As he passed the table where the football talk had finally subsided, he greeted the three patrons in an overly loud voice.
“Wish I could join you for a drink,” he said, “but I’ve got this book to finish.” He held up a laptop case and grinned. He turned and headed for the bar, the men at the table rolling their eyes and shaking their head as he walked away.