long, cold swallow of the amber Mexican beer and wished he could wash away his melancholy. He planted his elbows on his knees and stared at the tile floor.
Got a cold one for me? A Bud for a bud? I’m dry as dust here.
Mack laughed aloud. He could swear he just heard George’s voice.
Mack was retired now, on an Arizona vacation that had extended from one month to eighteen and had morphed into semi-permanent residence in a modest adobe home among the chollas and the ocotillos. He placed the urn on top of a bookshelf in the living room. There were four shelves with a eclectic blend of tomes by the likes of Tony Hillerman, Kathy Mackel, Leslie Meier and David Daniel. On the wall hung a road sign from Route 66, a painting of a Hopi Kachina, a photo he’d taken of the desert in bloom and framed photos of kith and kin galore from back East. There was a television, usually off, and a computer, usually on.
Mack placed the urn on the floor next to the computer, wishing his black cloud would lift. George, he thought, I’ll show you some of the sights and then drop you off at the Grand Canyon. You’re gonna love it there.
You’re the boss, Mack. I’ll just sit back and enjoy the adventure.
The blast-furnace air eased up in the evening. Mack pulled his Dodge into the parking lot outside The Snake in the Grass, the cheapest bar on his side of town. Most of the customers looked half his age, studs wearing jeans and cowboy boots, with packs of Marlboros tucked into rolled-up sleeves, testosterone and smoke, good-looking women wearing halter tops and tight shorts and high-gloss lipstick.
Not my kind of place, Mack thought, which is why I’m here. He found a small table in a corner near the rest rooms and ordered a Jack Daniel’s, straight up. He told the waitress he’d like to run a tab, please.
The drink arrived, and Mack held it up to the light. Mister Daniel, he thought, we haven’t met. My name is Mack Durgin, and I’m told you’re an excellent listener.
Indeed, Jack Daniel had nothing whatever to say, proving to Mack that he had found one damn fine conversationalist. The side window reflected the green neon snake that coiled, rattled, and struck over and over to the bass line of some godforsaken excuse for music. The building next door glowed from distant lightning and then faded again to black. Now and then, patrons walked past him to use the rest rooms, close enough for him to smell the colognes, the tobacco, the skin scents.
“Hey, good-lookin’. Is there room at this table?” The stranger was gorgeous in her own cheap way, with a spectacular body mostly inside a pink vinyl miniskirt and a blouse designed to make men sweat. She looked great even through the bottom of Mack’s glass.
“For you there is. What’s your name and what’ll you drink?”
“Juanita. Juanita Lopez. I’ll have a Tequila Sunrise if you don’t mind. What’s yours?”
“Mack Durgin. And my friend here is Jack Daniel.” Mack turned and caught the attention of the waitress across the room.
Juanita waved at the glass. “Oh, hi, Mister Daniel. We meet again.” She primped her curls and wiggled into place in her chair. “You look very serious,” she said after they ordered a pair of Tequila Sunrises. He looked at her, saw four breasts, knew he was drunk.
“I saw an old friend today.”
“Um, that’s nice.”
“He was dead.”
“Oh my God! What happened?”
“No, I’d bore you. And I don’t want to bore a beautiful woman.”
Juanita’s breasts rose as she absorbed the compliment. “Did you report it to the police?”
“It’s not like that. He died some time ago. My parents had his ashes, and they just sent them to me.”
“Oh-h-h. Why didn’t they go to your friend’s family?”
“You have beautiful eyes.”
“Thank you.” She blinked, and Mack’s heart skipped a beat.
“George’s wife left
Got a cold one for me? A Bud for a bud? I’m dry as dust here.
Mack laughed aloud. He could swear he just heard George’s voice.
Mack was retired now, on an Arizona vacation that had extended from one month to eighteen and had morphed into semi-permanent residence in a modest adobe home among the chollas and the ocotillos. He placed the urn on top of a bookshelf in the living room. There were four shelves with a eclectic blend of tomes by the likes of Tony Hillerman, Kathy Mackel, Leslie Meier and David Daniel. On the wall hung a road sign from Route 66, a painting of a Hopi Kachina, a photo he’d taken of the desert in bloom and framed photos of kith and kin galore from back East. There was a television, usually off, and a computer, usually on.
Mack placed the urn on the floor next to the computer, wishing his black cloud would lift. George, he thought, I’ll show you some of the sights and then drop you off at the Grand Canyon. You’re gonna love it there.
You’re the boss, Mack. I’ll just sit back and enjoy the adventure.
The blast-furnace air eased up in the evening. Mack pulled his Dodge into the parking lot outside The Snake in the Grass, the cheapest bar on his side of town. Most of the customers looked half his age, studs wearing jeans and cowboy boots, with packs of Marlboros tucked into rolled-up sleeves, testosterone and smoke, good-looking women wearing halter tops and tight shorts and high-gloss lipstick.
Not my kind of place, Mack thought, which is why I’m here. He found a small table in a corner near the rest rooms and ordered a Jack Daniel’s, straight up. He told the waitress he’d like to run a tab, please.
The drink arrived, and Mack held it up to the light. Mister Daniel, he thought, we haven’t met. My name is Mack Durgin, and I’m told you’re an excellent listener.
Indeed, Jack Daniel had nothing whatever to say, proving to Mack that he had found one damn fine conversationalist. The side window reflected the green neon snake that coiled, rattled, and struck over and over to the bass line of some godforsaken excuse for music. The building next door glowed from distant lightning and then faded again to black. Now and then, patrons walked past him to use the rest rooms, close enough for him to smell the colognes, the tobacco, the skin scents.
“Hey, good-lookin’. Is there room at this table?” The stranger was gorgeous in her own cheap way, with a spectacular body mostly inside a pink vinyl miniskirt and a blouse designed to make men sweat. She looked great even through the bottom of Mack’s glass.
“For you there is. What’s your name and what’ll you drink?”
“Juanita. Juanita Lopez. I’ll have a Tequila Sunrise if you don’t mind. What’s yours?”
“Mack Durgin. And my friend here is Jack Daniel.” Mack turned and caught the attention of the waitress across the room.
Juanita waved at the glass. “Oh, hi, Mister Daniel. We meet again.” She primped her curls and wiggled into place in her chair. “You look very serious,” she said after they ordered a pair of Tequila Sunrises. He looked at her, saw four breasts, knew he was drunk.
“I saw an old friend today.”
“Um, that’s nice.”
“He was dead.”
“Oh my God! What happened?”
“No, I’d bore you. And I don’t want to bore a beautiful woman.”
Juanita’s breasts rose as she absorbed the compliment. “Did you report it to the police?”
“It’s not like that. He died some time ago. My parents had his ashes, and they just sent them to me.”
“Oh-h-h. Why didn’t they go to your friend’s family?”
“You have beautiful eyes.”
“Thank you.” She blinked, and Mack’s heart skipped a beat.
“George’s wife left
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