“Welcome to the Head. What can I get you?”
“Bottle of High Life.”
The bartender nodded and Lars continued to take in the scenery. Nobody else in the bar seemed to notice him at all. When the bartender returned Lars admired the mother-of-pearl buttons on his western-style shirt. Seemed half the people in the bar, women included, wore the same style shirt. The other half in flannel. Lars fit in that way, at least. He’d dug out a ragged flannel to bring with him because he assumed Montana would be cold. Colder than Hawaii anyway. So far it hadn’t been too bad, except for the constant wind.
The bartender set the beer down in front of him, not bothering with a coaster. The bar top was chipped and worn from years of use, and more than a few people had carved their initials into the wood.
“Thanks,” Lars said.
“New around here,” the bartender said. Not a question, he knew it. “You working out at the Exxon?” One of the new shale fracking fields Lars heard about.
“Me? No. Came out to do some hunting.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your game?”
“Whatever you got.” Lars hadn’t done any research on what kind of animals lived around here. He hoped he hadn’t talked himself into a corner in the first ten seconds. “Deer. Elk. Bison, maybe? You got any of those around anymore?”
“A few.” The bartender smiled at him. “Do a lot of hunting, do you?”
You don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Lars knew better.
“Nope. Not much.” He took a light pull on the beer. Hunting, no. Time to do some fishing though. “In fact, I’m not going to do any unless I get my hands on a new rifle. Airline lost mine.”
“That right?”
“They make you check it, right? All this bullshit with the TSA and declaring firearms. I had to fill out a form, had to have a hard shell case for my rifles. Then they go and lose them. How’s that for you?”
“Sucks.”
Lars lifted the bottle and wet his lips. “So, you know where a guy could get his hands on a new firearm?”
The bartender let the smile slowly drip off his face. He sized up Lars, unsure but not unreceptive. A rube from back East, sure, but was there something more to this guy?
To keep playing his part Lars sat and took another sip of beer, not pressuring the guy. He concentrated on not lifting the bar stool and running screaming across the floor to slam it into the jukebox to stop the damn country music from playing. When he got back to the car he’d have to dial up some of the tunes Shaine loaded into his iPhone for him—some AC/DC, Steppenwolf, The Sonics. Like an antidote to this ear poison.
“What are you looking for, like a twenty-twenty? Thirty-ought-six?”
“I’m easy. Beggars can’t be choosers, right. Something decently long range. Medium-fire power, unless you still have some of those buffalo around.”
“You could do cash?”
“Cash, yeah. I’d wait it out on the airline, you know, but I’m only here a few days. By the time they get my case back from Miami or wherever they sent the damn thing, I’ll have missed my chance.”
“Where you out from? New York I wanna say.”
“Exactly right. Damn, do I still have my accent?”
“It’s slight. Say, what do you do for work?”
Lars knew he was in. The question was coded. If Lars was a cop, he’d have to say so, otherwise this was entrapment. “Retired,” he said.
The bartended rapped his knuckles twice on the bar like he was making a decision. “Okay, New York. Hang tight. I’ll go make a call.”
Lars raised his beer bottle in a salute of thanks and watched the bartender walk away down the bar. He swiveled on his seat and watched the other patrons for a while. Men and women hung on each other, then the women would push away. They all looked like tanned leather. Razors seemed to be in short supply around here. Beer was the drink of choice and when they stopped gabbing to take sips, half a glass or bottle would disappear in a single tilt of the elbow.
The music changed from one three-minute suck-fest to another. They didn’t even have the decency to play Merle Haggard or Johnny Cash—country music Lars could hang with for a short time. For the first time in his life Lars found himself actually wanting the sweet sounds of .38 Special or, God help him, Lynyrd Skynyrd.
“Hey, New York.”
Lars looked up to see the bartender waving him over. He left his beer and waded through the crowd.
Standing next to the bartender were two men in their late twenties. One went the flannel route, the other pearl buttons. Neither had shaved in a while.
The bartender pointed at the flannel shirt. “This here is Roadrunner.” He pointed at the pearl buttons. “And this here is Squirrel.”
Lars shook hands with each man in turn. “Are those, like, Indian names or something? I thought it was all Standing Bear and Little Hawk.”
Squirrel gripped his hand tighter. “We look like Indians to you?”
“No. You look white. I’m just asking.”
Lars didn’t squeeze any harder, but didn’t look away either. He knew this was his first test. Immediately he recognized the type of men these were. He’d dealt with their kind before.
Squirrel let his hand go. “What’s your name?”
“Call me New York. I’m feeling like I fit in around here already.”
The bartender backed away. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“What do I owe you for the beer?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get my cut in whatever you boys settle on.”
Lars said to Roadrunner, “Probably beats a three-dollar beer, I’m guessing.”
“Depends on what you’re in the market for.”
“Why don’t we see what you’re selling first and then you can overcharge me later.”
The two locals traded a brief look, then Roadrunner jerked his neck toward the back. “Let’s go then.”
Lars followed them, wishing he had a gun already on him in case things went the way he thought they might, but damned grateful to get away from the shitty music.
Click here to learn more about The Devil at Your Door by Eric Beetner.
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Second Story Man Page 30