by Robena Grant
“So business is doing well?” a local man, who frequented her place, asked.
“Couldn’t be better,” Rachel said.
“Even in this economy?” he asked, as he took a swallow of beer.
“I’ve got nothing to complain about.” She smiled and moved on to take another order.
“Apple Martini,” a young woman, sitting three stools away, said while pressing up against the counter, her breasts almost popping out of her black knit top. The local guy’s eyes widened, and then he looked away. That same damn woman, Rachel thought, and huffed. She knew during the season the single women frequented her place to pick up wealthy tourists. She wanted to tell her to get a life, but she also needed the business.
“One minute,” Rachel said.
Where on earth did Manuel go? She manned the bar alone, and more people where filling up the area. Every table in the lounge was taken, and another waitress from the lounge added an order to the already growing stack. Rachel pulled the first order, and then filled the drink requests. Huffing with barely suppressed anger, she remembered the martini. Manuel should be in here doing this work, that’s what she paid him for.
Besides, her only reason for leaving Michael to his own endeavors had been to keep tabs on her senior bartender. How could she do that if he disappeared? He could be outside now, making a cell phone call to some bad guy. She needed to get at least one more full time worker, especially now that she planned to hang out with Michael. A lot.
She’d learn from him. She’d soon discover what had happened to Grandpa Henry.
Manuel strode into the bar area from the back room. “I’m restocking,” he said, putting a box on the back counter top near the sink, and immediately beginning to unpack the contents.
“Oh, of course.”
“Business has been great,” Manuel said, and grinned. “And this weekend there’s the golf tournament in La Quinta. I’m sure we’re going to be super busy by Thursday.”
“The place is already hopping.” Rachel turned away, and poured the martini into the glass. She couldn’t let Manuel know she’d completely forgotten that big event, or the fact that the liquor bottles didn’t refill themselves. She placed a coaster on the bar in front of the busty woman, put the martini glass on top, and placed a paper napkin next to it. “Tab?” she asked.
The woman nodded.
Rachel could pick them. She’d been doing this job for so long that she knew as soon as a customer took a seat, how many drinks they’d be good for. She cleaned up the area, removed the clean glasses, restacked the dishwasher with used glasses, and began to slice lemons. She’d already checked the containers with olives, maraschino cherries, and wedges of lime. She opened a new stack of cocktail napkins and walked the length of the bar, positioning them at quarterly intervals, as she always did. Her mind however, wasn’t on the job.
“Any news on Henry?” a little man with a pock-marked face asked. He sat on the last stool at the far end of the bar, and looked like a lonely old gnome.
Rachel shook her head. Manuel turned and looked hard at the man, then at Rachel. Could he be giving the guy a message to shut up, or did he look for her reaction to the guy’s words?
“Damn shame,” the man said, and took another sip of his scotch on the rocks.
Rachel nodded. She thought she recognized the man, but couldn’t recall where they’d met.
He shook his head slowly. “I went to school with your grandfather.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Crying shame. Had to die at the hands of some idiot. A drifter looking for cash. A bullet to the head.”
“We don’t know that,” Rachel said, feeling the blood drain from her face, and a chill run up her spine. She didn’t know the man well. He didn’t frequent her place. But now that she’d heard his doom and gloom voice, she remembered Grandpa Henry talking with him one day when they were in the hardware store. Grandpa had said he was an odd soul. Apparently he’d been injured during the Vietnam War. And then afterward, had experienced all kinds of tragedy in the loss of life: a wife, a child, and both parents.
“It’s the only answer.” The guy took another swig of his drink, and then slammed the glass onto the top of the bar. His eyes had a faraway gleam, and he nodded his head slowly, deep somewhere in his own memories.
Rachel felt sorry for him, and a surge of the familiar pain of her own loss swept through her. She rubbed at her chest, over her heart.
“I came here today to have one drink for Henry,” the man said. “Wish him bon voyage.” He gave her a sickly grin, showing a row of uneven yellowed teeth. And then he eased his old wizened body off the bar stool, and dug into his coat pocket for his wallet. It surprised her that he looked twenty years older than her grandfather.
Rachel’s heart cramped again. “It’s…it’s…your drink is on the house.”
“God rest his soul. And thank you.”
“I’m sure…I’m—” Rachel said, and stopped to take a deep breath. Her eyes stung. “I’m sure he’s missing—”
“Absolutely,” Manuel said, and moved to stand beside her. He held her elbow, and continued to glower at the old guy.
Rachel felt queasy, but was relieved to have Manuel’s help. She blinked a few times to prevent the tears from falling. He’d always gotten her back. And that thought made her feel guilty for spying on him for Michael. She watched the old guy, and frowned. Why did people mean well, but say such stupid things?
The man slid a piece of paper to her. “Phone number. Let me know when the memorial service is.”
Rachel wanted to scream, but instead her body shook. A lump that seemed the size of Texas formed in her throat, and she couldn’t swallow. Her knees went weak, and she feared she’d land on the floor, a mass of quivering jelly, a woman distraught over the loss of her one and only relative.
Manuel waved the guy away with the back of his big hand. “Get the hell out,” he hissed. “You’re upsetting Rachel.”
The man bobbed his head. “Sorry, Miss.”
Rachel nodded, but she could hardly see him. She stifled a sob, grabbed a handful of paper napkins, and headed into the back room, and then on to her office. Fancy someone coming here to have his own private memorial service. A sob rose in the back of her throat, and this time she let it out. She splayed her upper body out across her desk, and put her head on her forearms.
Manuel hurried in a moment or two later. He put a mug of steaming hot coffee in front of her, and slid the box of tissues closer.
“They’ll find your grandfather,” he said, and gave her two quick pats on her shoulder. “You keep thinkin’ good thoughts.”
She lifted the mug and took a sip. He’d put in cream. She took another sip. He’d put in sugar. Exactly the way she liked it.
“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling the coldness of the old man’s words dissolve when the hot, sweet liquid hit her stomach.
Manuel nodded, and moved back. He stood in the doorway his bulk almost filling the space. His dark features were set in a scowl, but his big brown eyes scoured her face and they were full of pain and concern.
“One of the waitresses is watching the bar,” he said, and hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve called in my roommate. He’d been scheduled for the next shift anyway. He said he can use the extra money. I’ve been training him. He’s good on the tables, but I think he shows promise with mixing drinks.”
Rachel looked up, half-hearing what he’d said.
“You should go home,” he said firmly.
She liked his assertiveness, and his kindness. “Yeah. Maybe.”
He’d always been her most capable employee. Seeing the concern on his face, she was more than one hundred percent sure that Manuel would always look out for her. He couldn’t be bad. Could he? She took another drink, and then put the mug down on her desk. “I have to teach dance tonight. It’s Two Step Tuesday.” She blinked hard again, and dabbed at her eyes with a cocktail napkin. Like that
would repair the damage.
“Can’t someone else do that for you?”
He looked toward the bar, ready to spring into action should he hear an impatient request for a drink, or an argument that got too heated. She’d seen him do that a thousand times.
“You really should take care of yourself.” He pointed over his shoulder. “I have to get back, but couldn’t Janie do both lessons?”
“Maybe. I’ll call her,” Rachel said, knowing she wouldn’t.
She and Michael had a plan. She’d do everything she normally did on a Tuesday. Everything. Thinking of Michael, and all that had happened in the last few days, she forced herself to toughen up.
“I’ll come back in and help you for a while. At least until you get your replacement. I really appreciate—”
Manuel waved her comments aside. “No problem, boss. We’re all here to help each other, like you always say. And that old guy…he didn’t mean nothing.”
“I know,” Rachel said, and stood. And she really did understand. “Grandpa always liked him, even though he’s odd. I know he’s harmless.”
She picked up her coffee cup and walked toward Manuel.
“Here, I’ll take that. You go clean up,” Manuel said, and then he winked.
Rachel nodded. She must look like a hairball the cat that hung out in the alley had coughed up. She wished Michael was here. He’d hold and comfort her. Warm that coldness that gripped her insides. She sure could use a hug, and a kiss or two, but she wasn’t about to hug an employee.
She handed Manuel the coffee mug, and he leaned down and peered into her eyes. “You sure you’re up for work?”
She appreciated Manuel’s kindness, but she really wanted Michael. She pressed her lips tight. She’d begun to think of Detective Michael Baxter Delaney in far more personal terms than she should. “In his own way, that man did what he thought was right and honorable,” she said, and patted Manuel’s arm. “I’m fine now, really. I’ll be back in the bar in five minutes.”
****
When Michael entered the Rabbit Ranch, or whatever the hell it was called, he couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears. A bar stretched the length of the room, there were hardwood floors, and scuffing up the boards were about fifty couples all doing some dance he couldn’t name. He slid onto a stool at the bar, and searched the crowd for Rachel.
His heart pumped as loud as the music, but he tried to stay calm. He’d had the young cop circle the parking lot at Cliffs. He’d seen her leave. They’d followed at a safe distance, and he’d watched her go inside the establishment. Then he’d hopped out of the vehicle and the cop had driven off.
He knew she had to be in here. Maybe she’d gone into the ladies room.
“What can I get you?”
“Bud,” he said, half-turning to the bartender.
The music played through a surround sound system. Couples whirled by, boots creating an interesting beat. Each couple faced forward with their bodies tucked tight together side by side, and the male’s arm stretched across the female’s shoulder, and her arm was raised, her fingers lightly touching his.
Michael turned away, faced the bar, and swallowed a huge gulp of the icy beer. Where could Rachel be? At the far end of the room a skinny middle-aged dude leaned into the microphone. His gray ponytail was short and bound with a strip of black leather. A banner behind him, read: DJ, Col Coyote, 106, FM, The Country Music Station.
“Next up, The Electric Slide,” Coyote announced in a deep voice.
From what Michael had read on the notice board out front, the dance was broadcast live.
He took another swig of beer. The dude had a great voice. There seemed nothing amiss inside the establishment. Nobody looked out of place. Not that that meant anything.
A couple danced past him and Michael looked down. Everyone wore boots, flashy boots. Some of the gals had a bandana tied around one leg of their jeans, or high on one bare arm. Others wore short frilly skirts and boots. The guys wore boots and cowboy hats. It was winter time and cold outside, but everyone had stripped down to tank tops and tee shirts, obviously because the dancing made them overheat.
He turned back to the bar. A woman beside him let out a loud, “Eeee haw. Hook ‘em horns.” Then she made the sign with her fingers. He watched her for a moment.
“Texas transplant, eh?” he asked.
“You betcha’.” She offered her hand. “I’m Candy.”
Michael shook hands. “Michael,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I love this dance. You wanta get up?”
“Ah, no. No thanks. Think I’ll watch for a while and see if I can get the hang of it.”
“Good idea.”
He watched more swirling couples, and then he noticed Rachel. She wore skintight blue jeans, and a lime green bandana tied around one thigh, cowgirl boots, and a white close-fitting shirt. Her red hair had been scooped up into a ponytail and tied with another matching bandana. She danced past him with some little dude with straight posture, and a puffed out chest. He wore black high-heeled cowboy boots, and Michael looked down.
Excellent footwork.
The woman followed his gaze. “Yeah, some couples take this stuff way too seriously. She’s good. She’s the instructor, but him, can’t stand the guy.” The woman whacked Michael on the upper arm. “It’s all about the boots and the hat, darlin’. You ain’t got no hat, no fancy footwork, might as well stay at the bar.”
Michael grinned at her. He’d be missing more than the hat. A big guy sauntered toward them. The woman from Texas sighed, and then she slid off her stool and took the guy’s outstretched hand. Not a word had been exchanged as they swaggered to the dance floor. She was a good dancer, but not as accomplished as Rachel.
Damn, Rachel’s hot.
About to remove his jacket, and join the crowd on the dance floor, Michael remembered his shoulder holster, and the gun. He listened to the music and hummed along, his foot tapping out a rhythm on the brass footrest of the barstool. He’d always liked country music. Maybe he’d include a couple of sets at the bar tonight. Rachel danced past again, and this time she looked his way, and winked. He couldn’t wait to get her home.
“All right ladies and gentlemen, listen up,” Coyote said into the mic. “Our very own Rachel is giving lessons during this next number. You can meet her up front.”
At a few minutes to eight Michael left the bar. He stood outside and to the left of the entrance canopy, like they’d planned. Shielded by several large plants he waited, noting the comings and goings of other people. Nothing out of the ordinary. A car load of four young Latino guys drove by several times. Michael stiffened and moved back further into the shadows. The dark blue Honda had been lowered and it had a noisy muffler. The windows were down, and the young men yelled comments and whistled at the costumed country western dancers coming in for the next lesson.
Michael watched the scene unfold, his hand inside his jacket resting on his gun.
Rachel walked past him, without looking in his direction, chatting on her cell phone. He called her name softly, not looking away from the car. She didn’t hear him. Her familiar scent, augmented by the warmth of her body from the dancing, floated toward him in the cool night air. He looked for the Honda; it had turned down between the rows of cars.
“Sorry, I have a date,” Rachel said.
Michael wondered who she spoke with. Another guy, some dude trying to hook up? A twinge of jealousy shot through him. She wasn’t his to be jealous about. He pushed away the thoughts and concentrated on the car. The Honda came toward them as Rachel stopped at the curb. She waited for the Honda to drive by. His whole body tensed.
She laughed, and said, “Debbie. Knock it off.”
The boys in the Honda slowed, whistled, and cat-called. Michael instantly went into alert mode, ignoring the happiness that she’d been speaking with her best friend, and moved closer yet still giving the impression they were not together. First sign of a weapon and he’d throw himself at
Rachel and knock her to the pavement. Rachel laughed again, and she waved at the young men. Good. She must know them. Maybe it wasn’t his guys. They did look young.
When the Honda had left the parking lot, Michael hurried over and slid into the passenger seat of the Mustang. He wanted to touch Rachel, to kiss her, but that would have to wait. He sank low in the seat and watched for the return of the Honda. No car followed them. They needed to swing by the PD where he’d left the plywood and supplies.
Twenty minutes later they entered the highway, headed back to Henry’s cabin. He shot Rachel a quick look. He hadn’t told her about the Honda. Maybe he should. He wouldn’t mention her potential date. The one she’d spoken to Debbie about. Could be him.
Her focus had fixed on the road ahead. Good. Maybe the Honda drive-by had been young guys out for a joyride. The mechanic had said Latinos in the area favored Honda’s. He took nothing lightly, and tonight he’d question Rachel.
Chapter Eight
Two hours later, Michael felt the heat of Rachel’s unspoken anger wafting his way. He’d stayed busy, taken care of the darkroom repairs, put up the window coverings, changed the door locks. It had been easy work for him.
“I think I’m done with everything,” he said.
She thrust the printed photographs at him with a thunderous look on her face. He took a quick look at the snapshots as Rachel stormed to the kitchen counter.
“I know him,” Rachel said.
The shots were all of Jack, the retired undercover agent. The guy he was trying to prevent from being killed. Why the hell had Jack gone sniffing around the old bait shop? If he had indeed retired, he should stay the hell away from the Suarez brothers’ hideout.
“Good. If you tell me everything you know about him, it could help me determine—”